In Whiffleton lived Harold Pumpernickel, 84, whose legacy was an arse louder than a fog horn.

One afternoon, Harold ambled to his favourite bench and sat nice and calm.

Then a noise—somewhere between a deflating paddling pool and an irate tuba—rippled through the park.

Harold rose and declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Wind Symphony!”

The blasts of wind made the pigeons leg it. Bellows set off a car alarm. People ran.

Mayor Bluster appeared. “MR. PUMPERNICKEL! This is not a Carry On film!” Harold tipped an imaginary bowler. “Better out than in!”

The bench never recovered. Nor did the pigeons.