‘There’s another world beyond Ambridge,” as Ian, the heartbroken chef, said. Ian is Irish and knows stuff like that. Sometimes, when all hell is breaking loose in that other world beyond Ambridge, someone, leaning on a passing pig, will drop it awkwardly into the conversation. It is always as startling as if the pig had spoken. A pithy pig with its finger on the pulse. Just the sort of pig you would avoid if you dropped in to The Bull for a pint.
However, in the case of the US election, The Archers’ producers, running their fingers through their frenzied hair, say frankly that it is difficult to think of any topical comment that would be both balanced and believable. Or balanced. Or believable. Nevertheless, watch out for the talking pig.
Life has been humdrum in Ambridge lately, unless you are a hen. Two hundred high-class hens have suddenly found themselves homeless. These common-or-garden birds were scratching a living when the Fairbrothers, newcomers to farming, rebranded them as posh poultry, purveyors of eggs to the clergy and gentry. At a premium price, of course. For a dizzying while, the hens lived like royalty, laying upper-class eggs for the upper classes. Their taste was admired. Their jokes were funny. Then the Fairbrothers fell out, the venture folded and now the hens are out on their ear again. Assuming hens have ears. I have not heard a word of sympathy for these blameless fowl, but it is a tragic tale like King Lear with added feathers.
Rob Titchener stalks the village, seeking whom he may devour, and in the meantime biting large lumps out of his tormenters. He is widely ostracised (“Nobody talks to him except Hilary Noakes”; and Hilary Noakes is one of Ambridge’s permanently silent characters). So you can imagine. Rob is clearly enjoying himself, like a fox in a henhouse. He has criticised Adam’s bottom wheat, Shula’s horsemanship, Brian’s marksmanship and has even seen off the vicar (“I’m beyond redemption. Ha! Ha!”). That saintly man promised to pray for him but, from the tone of his voice, with little hope of success.
More disturbingly, a Borsetshire Blaster, the piece de resistance of Ambridge’s firework display, vanished on bonfire night. Of course. Who else? Stand back for blasting!
A Month in Ambridge returns on 6 December
