Funland In The Big Field- part 2

The day after the piss up, hangover biting hard, was the eve of yet another Funland.  This time it was the PTA Fun Day, a misnamed event if ever there was one.  A smaller field was the venue for this fun, which at least meant less chance of the Great Unwashed descending on it.  On the downside, apparently I was supposed to organise it.  I have organised too many of these 'Fun Days' and my enthusiasm for Hook A  Fucking Duck, Hoopla and The Cunting Cake Stall has waned ever more each year. 

This time, the weather forecast threatened a variety of delights, depending on which runes you looked at.   If you went with the prognosis of the Local Character, who puts forth his wisdom via a Facebook page, has no meteorological credentials at all, but whom everyone seems to think infallible, despite his predictions almost always being wrong, then we were in for showers of frogs and plagues of locusts and various other epic torments of a biblical nature. 

If however you looked at one of the many useful apps now available, or indeed simply relied upon the British Broadcasting Corporation's forecast, light rain was predicted, after lunch. 

Despite this, the others of the PTA clung stubbornly to the Great Floods and Pestilence predicted by the Character.  Radar pictures were dismissed as White Man's Magic, for Lo, the Character had spoken. 

Thus it was, that several of them converged on me in the playground on Friday afternoon, wittering about the Bouncy Fucking Castle, and expressing a desire to cancel it.  As I was a) hung-over to fuck, and b) no longer actually gave a shit about the Bouncy Fucking Castle, I declared the Bouncy Fucking Castle Dead To Me and stalked off home to attempt to bake cakes for the Cunting Cake Stall and hope a little G&T eased the terrible pain in my head.

Miraculously revived by the healing powers of gin, I produced many cakes, dug out my special PTA box containing the bunting, the string, the sellotape, the blue tack and the scissors that are invariably needed at every single PTA event and that no one else thinks to bring and that I have written 'CASSANDRA' on in indelible marker so no other fucker can steal them, and had several more gins to get me through the Friday night joy of the DC catching up on his gardening programmes.

The next day dawned, as I had said it would, bright and sunny.  Arriving at the Slightly Smaller Field, I was met by the PTA Deputy Chair, in a mood as thunderous as the storms the Character had predicted, having a proper paddy about the lack of the Bouncy Fucking Castle.  All I need say about the Deputy Chair, to explain his character to you, is that he is an estate agent.  SUCH an estate agent. 

I pointed out that he was one of the wittering bastards who had wanted to cancel it, and if everyone had listened to me then there would still be a Bouncy Castle, but he was not to be placated.  I imagined ramming the 46 plastic yellow ducks for the Hook A Duck up his smarmy estate agent's arsehole and felt a little better.  As he had been such a twat, I put him on the candy floss machine, as it is a bastard of a job, involving getting sugar stuck in places where sugar should not be stuck.  Or yellow plastic ducks.

So there we were, our sullen, resentful little band, the ducks bobbing merrily, awaiting their hooking; the cakes listing to starboard, ready to be purchased for a sum completely out of proportion to their crappy rustic appearance due to being 'homemade'; the coconuts shying and the smell of burning sugar and flesh drifting over it all on a cloud of expletives, as the Deputy Chair burnt himself on the candy floss machine again.

Shortly, many feral fiends arrived to partake in the Fun, by bleeding their parents dry.  At some point the DC arrived and thrust the Beast at me, before setting off to walk the Terror. This meant I was also bled dry, as I thrust pound coins at The Beast and sent him on his way, as I fished another blue and gasping toddler out the Hook a Duck pond, and refused them a prize as falling in and semi drowning was Against The Rules. 

The Fun ended at lunchtime, hurrah, and I dashed home, all bunting, sellotape, blue tack, string and scissors accounted for; realised I had forgotten the Beast, dashed back, scooped him up, bought his silence with a lollipop I found in the glove compartment (best before May 2012) and finally returned home to find the DC looking pale and traumatised and the Terror looking slightly battered but wearing that expression of smug bliss which means some other creature has been brutally dispatched by his bloody paws. 

It turned out to be a weasel.  A fucking weasel.  Unlike the rabbits and pheasants that are his usual prey, the weasel had fought back quite hard.  The poor DC had been in a quandary, wondering which was worse: to attempt to intervene between a small but vicious dog and a weasel trying to kill each other; or to run away and pretend it was nothing to do with him, and then face my wrath when I returned home to find he had abandoned my poor dog to his fate! 

The Terror had solved the problem by ripping the weasel's throat out, and then proudly presenting the limp, twitching remains to the DC, blood dripping from his fangs, and a gaggle of Swedish walkers approaching over the horizon, about to be witness to the carnage.  The DC fled, towing an indignant Terror behind him, livid that his lovely present had been so summarily rejected. 

I was a bit livid too, The Terror has never given me anything he has killed, he keeps them for himself, but he has a bizarre crush on the DC, who he seems to regard as the Alpha Dog.