Read me a Story

When Nightwatchman was younger he used to read to the kids. All sorts of stories, witches, goblins, tales from the sea, fables. Their favourite though, for a long time, was a series written, I think by Roger Hargreaves, called the Mr Men. Fascinating ditties about this peculiar tribe of driven men who regularly made their distinctive mark upon the world.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that they live. Not only that, but they’ve moved to Sutton. And making their presence felt. It feels like a reunion. Just wait till the kids find out.

The acknowledged leader of this bunch is a portly balding bloke with rather an insecure command of the English language.

He’s called ‘Mr Don’t know What to Do’. He earns two livings. One as a more or less respectable member of the Sutton Coldfield earners and spenders but the other as the head of an extremely busy group who all sail under the same colours.

These guys, and there are a couple of gals as well, spend an enormous amount of time and an enormous amount of our money zipping around town not doing.

It isn’t hard to pick them out. They wear a common expression somewhere between humble concern and querulous puzzlement. Most of the reason for this is that they are time poor. It takes a very long time.

Not to do – which they don’t

But to explain in mind numbing detail to everybody why it is they haven’t. Leaving out the principal reason. Which is they don’t know what to do.

Now most of the time this is a minor affliction treated with bland indifference in the Town. There is an affectionate attraction for the slightly impaired, mild enthusiasm of the type endured through the many long seasons of ‘Last of the Summer Wine’. Their presence could reasonably be compared with the British Summer.

Windy, wet and its nobody’s fault.

There is a certain feeling of inclusion to be in on the joke. To feel that – they might be rubbish, but they’re our rubbish. Blues fans will know exactly what I mean.

So it’s very sad to relate that the comfortable world we knew and loved is showing unmistakable signs of stress and strain.

Mr Don’t know What to do has actually suffered a fairly serious accident.

He has fallen down a very deep hole.

Its called Mere Green.

The whole tribe can be seen blundering around in the gloom displaying all the distressing signs of their affliction.

A saviour, you will be glad to know is buckling on his scimitar, his horse is ready, his lance awaits his manly grasp.

His name is Mr Blame Somebody Else for the Time Being.

He won’t get the hole filled in. But hey, he might stop them digging.


Nightwatchman