In Whiffleton—a place so twee even the pigeons wore cardigans—lived Harold Pumpernickel, 84, whose main legacy was a bottom capable of clearing a park faster than a dodgy prawn sandwich. His digestive system, livelier than the parish council on bin day, had once disoriented a vicar’s Labrador and routinely sent mothers clutching their oat lattes.
One deceptively tranquil afternoon, Harold ambled to his favourite bench, creaky as a church raffle, and settled in with the satisfaction of a man who’s remembered where he left his dentures. Alas, peace was fleeting. A hush descended, then a noise—somewhere between a deflating paddling pool and an irate tuba—rippled through the park. Children stopped mid-chase. A dachshund nearly fainted.
Unfazed, Harold rose and declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Wind Symphony!” What followed was a performance so creatively flatulent even the pigeons legged it. Squeaks, bellows, and a jazzy solo set off a car alarm. Children howled; mothers recoiled.
Just then, Mayor Bluster appeared. “MR. PUMPERNICKEL! This is a park, not a Carry On film!” Harold tipped an imaginary bowler. “Where there are clowns, there must be an audience!” The mayor snorted.
Harold became a folk hero. The bench never recovered. Nor did the pigeons.