Chapter 6

Professors Arnold Potts-Johnson, Joachim von Hatzendorff and Hiram P Hackenbacker from England, Austria and the United States respectively, were nearing the end of their allotted task of drawing up the agenda for the forthcoming Anthropological Congress to be held in a couple of weeks time at University College, London. Most of the work was complete and it only remained to arrange the field trip. Part of the purpose of the forthcoming Congress was to study vestigial ancient customs in the developed world, England in particular, since this was the country favoured with the task of hosting this year's event.

Professor Hackenbacker spoke in his rich baritone voice.

"I hear that there is an ancient fair held each year in a place called Little Sprodwell. This is a festivity which has roots going far back into the pagan and pre Celtic past of this country where each year is re-enacted an ancient pagan sacrifice of a young maiden as an appeasement of the fertility gods."

"Bollocks!" said Professor Potts-Johnson in his reedy and querulous tones. "And the full name of that one-horse arse hole of the universe is Little Sprodwell under Fosse - God help us all!"

"I beg your pardon, Professor, but I have this on the very best authority. The trouble with you locals is you can't see the wood for the trees. You are blind to the treasures to be found in your own back yard."

"Bollocks, if you will excuse the repetition, Professor! This particular shindig is as phoney and ersatz as it comes. Believe me, I know! The presiding genius is a relative of mine - the black sheep of the family and a total charlatan to boot! But, what the Hell? It'll be a nice day out and a goodly display of female flesh can be practically guaranteed if I know anything of the Colonel, the disgusting lecher - bless his rotten old heart!"

Professors Johnson and Hackenbacker looked at their silent Teutonic colleague. This learned and weary Viennese gentleman shrugged his acquiescence - the first indication on his part for some time that he was actually awake. A visit to the Fete by a coach load of learned anthropologists from the four corners of the globe was duly pencilled in. The three then happily adjourned to the Lamb public house in Lamb's Conduit Street, Holborn.(I strongly recommend it to all visitors to London -author)

Mr. Harry Fenton-Jones, travel agent, entrepreneur and sometime jailbird was finalising the arrangements for a party of visitors from various parts of the New World. He had five Australians, three new Zealanders, four Canadians and twenty Americans to take care of for a week as they visited the land of their ancestors and breathed in the atmosphere of Olde England - or so they fondly believed. The usual weary round of visits to the Tower of London and Shakespeare's Birthplace and all that old hat had been arranged, but there was still the Saturday to take care of. Once again, he read the letter from his Aunt Jenkinson in Little Sprodwell under Fosse.