THE CATS OF UPPER MINSTER: PART 13 – UNLUCKY FOR SOME

The other week, as an amusing one-off , Tim Matthews wrote a silly short story spoofing some of the more ridiculous exploits of various self-styled big cat researchers over the years.

It was so popular that he wrote another one and now - by public demand - it has become a serial. Every few days will see an episode of Timmo's new Fortean soap opera The Cats of Upper Minster. And having read the first few episodes I can confirm that it is bloody smashing and highly amusing. "I'll carry on until it stops being funny" says Tim, and you can't say fairer than that!

“You should have seen it, Frieda,” said Ellie to her best friend. “I cannot believe you got me involved like this but since you helped me with my mum I have been so tremendously grateful and I love you very much. But I can tell you,” she continued, “that being involved with those loons has made me determined to help you more."

They were sitting outside the Minster Cricket Pavilion – built in 2004 by way of a grant from the Regional Development Agency – drinking water and eating sweets. Frieda gave Ellie a hug. There may be boys, Frieda thought, but Ellie was her best friend ever and loved spending time with her. Now, of course, things had got more serious and there was a lot of madness descending upon their home so they needed each other more.

Just then, the girls saw Jenny Pearman, their friend from the Minster Pub. Jen was now being called “Cat Girl”; a poor ‘in joke’. All the locals knew her utter horror at her involvement in the ongoing saga of mystery cats in the village for it was she whose loose talk – well that’s the way she now saw it – had been overheard by glass collector Tony East. From there, things had got out of control in a couple of days.

Now the weekend was approaching and stories in newspapers – from local rag to the Daily Mirror – an internet awash with stories, counter stories, hype and speculation and the god-forsaken efforts of Channels X’s Jeremy and Fawcett had made Upper Minster the place of choice for the curious, the uninitiated and the hardcore. The whole village was dreading it. Tonight there would be a special meeting in the Village Hall on Main Street to discuss matters and everyone would be there. Called by members of the Village Trust, this promised to be the highlight – some said the lowlight – of local affairs for many an age.

The last time anything similar had happened was in 1990 when a number of impressive crop circles had appeared in nearby barley and wheat fields. These were said to be ‘revolutionary’ as they broke the mould of simple circles and avenues that had appeared previously across the southwest. An ungodly host of pseudo “experts” had organised a CornCircleFest at the Hall. It turned out, much to the locals' glee, to the annoyance of landowners and to the utter contempt of those who insisted that the formations could only be made by a higher intelligence, that the culprits were a group of teenagers, including Jenny’s older brother James. James was a practical joker and budding artist and he had perfected the art of corn swirling. He had encouraged a few friends to join in the fun and they called themselves Team Sodom. They’d even let off helium balloons painted silver to suggest UFOs above the fields they were working in. Years later they were still at it. They’d made a lot of money making crop formations both at home and abroad and one of their designs had ended up on a beer label used by a famous brewing company. They’d made a lot of money but James’ mum Marcia still hoped he’d get a proper job and do some growing up.

Jenny, Ellie and Frieda discussed the latest excitement and whilst they detested The General – and all the more so since learning more of him and his crazy followers – they had to admit that they were looking forward to having fun at his expense. More than anything, though, they wanted to protect their way of life from outsiders and invaders, as they saw them. “When you go to London or Bristol or somewhere like that they’re soulless, selfish places,” said Ellie. “I go for gigs and music stuff there sometimes but I’m always so glad to come home here, and to you.” She hugged her friends and said, “I tell you, this man is mad and this weekend perhaps thousands of people are coming here because of him and that awful tart from the TV station. You should see them fawning all over each other, it’s truly sad.”

“One thing,” she continued, “your brother was talking about making a film about this for the internet. I am quite happy to take my make up off, tie my hair up and wear one of your pretty Laura Ashley dresses to appear as nice as pie and describe the extremity of their views and their excesses on camera. I could also mention the total lack of scientific method on site, and the way they try and recruit young girls like me. Can you believe that The General had the gall to call me a wayward kid, a rebel, someone needing direction in her life? Then he put his arm around me. I almost died. Vile man!”

“Good Lord, he is a pig,” declared Jenny. “You should have seen him in the pub with Terrible Tony and his acolytes last night. They were all drunk and being obnoxiously loud. Awful creatures. The General even said, after several pints of Stella, that he loved being the leader because it “got him women”. So much for mystery big cats, heh?”

“The women must be desperate,” added Frieda.