The Story of Haughley Park Farm’s Lost Mutton

I’m pacing up and down in a wet field at Haughley Park Farm, on a desperate quest to locate Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s latest venue. ‘Just head straight on in there,’ PJ, the emcee, instructed (ordered), ‘and follow the ‘Competitors’ sign!’ What he neglected to inform me about was that, in order to compete, I’d need to be donning my best Sean the Sheep costume.

This is no comedy venue – I’m at the Suffolk Sheepdog Trials and the rain’s chucking it down! But, in spite of the downpour, I’m sure that no cats have ever been near the place, and the dogs – the dogs? Where are the sheepdogs?

In one sense, the lack of a canine presence is a positive – at least it means that this particular piece of lost mutton will avoid the stockpot long enough to tell the tale (thus avoiding a nasty confrontation with the emcee PJ, for missing yet another blog post deadline!). But survival aside, if there are no sheepdogs, or even any sheep, then what about the punters? Where are all the punters? And where indeed is the comedy tent? Is it just me?

Am I all alone in this world? No, there’s a great black beast of a cow in a flimsy-looking enclosure checking me out – is it a cow! Or a bull? When in doubt, seek out the familiar!

I head for the Portaloo cabins.

Further investigation ascertains that there are only two of the sit-down variety, one situated either side of a free-for-all urinal cabin. It is clear to me that farm folk, much like teachers, don’t ever go for a s***! They don’t go for a s***, because they don’t have time to go for a s***! And my suspicions are further verified when, even though it is now dusk, and the bulk of the traffic has been and gone, the toilet rolls are still intact – no-one has even ripped off the first piece! And the squidgy-disinfectant dispensers are full to the brim. The punters have not only been and gone, they’ve taken their s*** home with them! And why not make good use of economy by-products, by reserving them for home territory?

Still, I can’t complain. The seats are actually clean enough to park my backside upon and there’s a beautiful smell of lavender in the air. I’m feeling all relaxed and comfy, and it’s dry in here. I could stay for …

But, alas, an incensed PJ enters my neural pathways, and I am called to duty. Somewhere, somewhere out there amongst the damp bales of hay, my bidders await. Okay, so perhaps no-one’s interested in putting in a high bid for a piece of lonely old mutton, but I’m here on a mission. I have a purpose. I exit the health spa and refocus.

I spot my destination and it’s not a tiny comedy tent. This is no token effort – this is mammoth! It puts the O2 to shame! No wonder I couldn’t find it before. I set the bar too low. Suffolk Punch Comedy Club has made the big time – this time it’s really happening!

And a possy of my followers await. There they are, waiting for me, huddled up a corner, looking tiny, and clinging on to each other for warmth. Although all blue-tinged and more-closely resembling the Smurfs than a bunch of up and coming comedians, I manage to identify a few – there’s Chris Norton-Walker, Ali Warwood, Carl Denham, Paul Merrick and my all-time favourite, Janet Garner. And, there, in the centre of the scrum, a red-faced PJ! Poor PJ – all hands are on him – and it’s not his fiery furnace they’re after – it’s his money!

And Carl Denham, the blood-sucker, is close to his goal – he’s going to bleed him dry!

It’s okay, PJ, I’m here! The Blogger is here; she’s hidden the collection pot, and she’s coming to the rescue!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2017

If you enjoyed this post, please follow me, and read on to find out more about the antics of your favourite Blogger (and, of course, as a little aside, some of your favourite up-and-coming and even some-who-are-already infamous comedians!)! Then take a visit to The Brewery Tap, East Street, Sudbury, Suffolk, on the first Wednesday of the month, and drop a generous ‘voluntary’ donation into our charity pot – all in aid of Prostate Cancer Research – before hanging around for a lot longer to enjoy the show!

Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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