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The minute badger baiters gathered outside the entrance to The Flange. Raising their rusty trombones to the leaden sky, they blew the sacred hymn known to all as “Gather ye, lest ye gather not”. From deep within the dark folds came a small twinkling. Then, without warning, a blinding light as a pork 'bishop-baiter' of unparalleled magnitude made itself clear to view. It was like an exhibitionist clown. Running around the town with a bid red nose, and a long hairy chin. Father Christmas looked particularly bald for that time of year and so he resolved to shave more of his sheep, as he had a few acres of farmland.
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