When Beavers Attack

The mystery of Fred Talbot's disappearance deepens.

Judy was hanging out her newly-washed triple-trussed safety brassieres this morning when she saw something grinning at her from the bushes that run alongside the rear patio. Naturally, she gave a scream and fainted there on the spot. When I ran out to see what was wrong, I found our beaver lurking in close proximity to her left leg, a morbid grin fixed across its wet, salacious lips. I saw immediately what had happened. From somewhere, the poor creature had unearthed an object that looked remarkably like a human jawbone. The object had become stuck on the beaver’s oversized teeth and were preventing the beaver from going about its normal business of making a documentary for the BBC down at the lake.

Still feeling a little cautious about how I handle an animal owned by TV license payers, I immediately rang Bill Oddie who jumped on his bicycle and peddled around. Together we managed to lure the beaver back down to the lake where we penned him against the bank for a closer inspection.

‘This isn’t a jawbone,’ squealed a delighted Oddie once he’d prised the grin from the beaver’s mouth. ‘It’s the upper half of a set of dentures.’

‘Dentures?’ I said, reaching for them. ‘And what would a beaver be doing with dentures?’

Oddie looked to the still, dark waters of the lake. ‘And you’re yet to be convinced that Fred Talbot’s not down there?’

‘Impossible,’ I replied and looked at the smile in my hand. Could this really be the same grin that had welcomed in many a warm front and warned of overnight ground frost from a floating map moored to the Albert Dock? There was only one way to find out.

‘We need to get these dentures checked out by an expert orthodontist,’ I said as Bill began to frolic in the mud with the beaver. ‘We need somebody to confirm that these teeth match Fred the Weatherman’s smile.’

There is, of course, only one person we know who has the medical training to make such a identification.

‘I got here as fast a human legs and diesel engine could carry me,’ said Stephen Fry, jogging down to the lake. He was wearing his Oscar Wilde had and favourite green cape, while in his hand he carried a shooting stick with the large handle in the shape of H.G. Well’s naked buttocks. ‘Might I enquire, Dick, why your lady wife is currently lying on the patio?’

‘Ah,’ I said, no doubt blushing a touch. ‘That’s because I completely forgot about her in all the excitement. She fainted when the beaver reared its grinning head.’

‘The same beaver with the teeth you want me to inspect?’

‘The very same,’ I said, handing him the dentures.

‘You are indeed fortunate,’ he said, inspecting the teeth. ‘I spent my last Whit holiday taking all the qualifications required to work as an orthodontist. Do you know I fixed Jade Goody’s underbite last year?’

I gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Working for the enemy, Stephen? That’s not like you.’

‘It’s hard to say no when one has the chance to wire that woman’s mouth shut.’ He turned the teeth over in his hands. ‘These dentures are well worn and have the distinctive bite characteristics of a man who speaks with his mouth full and gets overexcited at moments of even mild stress.’

‘That could easily be Fred,’ I said, remembering many a meal when his enthusiasm for a cloud would get the better of him.

‘I need to compare it with pictures of the man.’

‘I’m sure we have a few of those tucked away,’ I said and gestured up to the house.

On the way back, I got Stephen to help me lift Judy from the cold patio and into the conservatory where she’d be warm as she slept off her shock. I then took Fry and Oddie into my study where I keep the chest containing all my old souvenirs of my days on This Morning.

‘Inconclusive,’ said Fry half an hour later. He sat back and let the magnifying glass fall to his knees. ‘These teeth could easily have belonged to Fred but they could have also belonged to one of a number of men with strong jaws and slightly erratic natures.’ He looked toward Bill who was curled up asleep on the rug. ‘For instance, these teeth could easily have belonged to Bill.’

Bill gave a quite mutter, no doubt dreaming about chasing owls through a semi-deciduous forest.

‘Well that means that mystery only deepens,’ I said as I lay the teeth on my desk next to my unfinished Airfix model of Crown Prince Willem Hendrik.

‘Indeed it does,’ said Stephen. ‘If only you could find the bottom set, we might be able to make a positive match. Until then, there’s little more I can do.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied, patting the Great Man on the knee. ‘Fancy a game of Scrabble while the babes are asleep?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Stephen as I stepped lightly over my little bearded friend.

‘I’m afraid the excitement of the morning had come too early in the year for him,’ I explained to Stephen as we softly closed the study door on the sleeping Oddie. ‘If he doesn’t get a good four mouths of winter hibernation, he can be so irritable come the spring.’

The Sting of Winter

Today I was stung by a winter bee.

What’s that? Did I hear you say there's no such thing? Nonsense. I swear it was a bee, though one well lagged against the winter chill, which here in the South West is a rather balmy twelve degrees measured by the Madeley elbow. There was also an air of premeditation about the attack. The bee had been hiding among the grow bags in the garden shed, readying itself for the right moment to strike. And strike it most certainly did, at ten thirty this morning; lancing its mortal barb straight through my shirt, between the weave of my string vest, and deep into my chest.

Given the intense pain – I am, you should note, mildly allergic to bee stings – I ran into the kitchen to inform Judy that poison was pumping its way into my system and I might pass out at any moment.

‘You can’t have been stung,’ she said, applying pastry topping to a pie. ‘It’s winter. Bees don’t come out in the winter.’

I proceeded to demonstrate that they most certainly do come out in winter and they can sting a man by collapsing on the kitchen floor.

The next thing I remember was feeling a pleasurably erotic sensation about my right nipple.

‘Stephen?’ I muttered as I opened my eyes and saw a grey head bent over me.

‘Got it just in time,’ said Bill Oddie, sitting up and wiping spittle from his lips. ‘I’ve got all the poison out. He should be fine now.’

‘Bill,’ I said, reaching for those soft downy cheeks of his. ‘You’ve saved my life… And… And you’ve been suckling at my right teat.’

‘Lucky for you I was on my way around,’ said Bill. ‘I've had expert medical training so I always know what to do with a sting. It is a bit early in the year for bees. I’ll have to make a note of this for our annual Springwatch survey. You’re probably the first person to see a bee this year. Global warming is clearly having an effect and I’ll be saying as much in my letter to the UN Climate Commission. I hope I can get a quick picture of your right nipple for the report. This might be the evidence we need to prove that the world is indeed warming up.’

‘Snap away, Bill,’ I said pulling open my shirt and turning my wounded areola towards my saviour. Oddie played with his Nokia, snaps were taken, and then we all retired to the living room for coffee and some chat.

‘You know,’ said Bill, after we had all calmed down, ‘your nipple has give me an idea.’

‘Has it Bill?’ I asked. ‘And what idea might that be?’

‘Well,’ he said, gently stroking his beard as he does when thoughtful, ‘you know that I have my own line in bird feed? I was wondering if there might be a market in bees.’

‘Bees?’

‘They are our natural pollinators. H.G. Wells once said that if the bees die out, so does mankind.’

‘Did he?’ asked Judy, balancing her cup on her knee. ‘We’ll have to see if we can get this Wells on the show. He sounds like he'd make an interesting guest. Don't you think so, Richard? Has he written any books?’

I gave Bill the look to tell him to just smile.

‘He did,’ said Bill who moved on with an admirable deftness. ‘Now, the problem with bees is that it’s very difficult to attract them to the average garden. They are put off by all sorts of things like the signals from computers, household chemicals, and the general artificiality of modern living. And that’s where I think your nipple comes in. There can be no coincidence that the bee was attracted to your nipple.’

‘So much so that it stung me and died in the process,’ I pointed out.

Bill waved aside my argument. ‘Nonsense. You tried to brush it away. A bee will always sting when attacked. They’ve got the personality of Gordon Ramsay. Sting first and ask questions later.’

‘With all due respect,’ interrupted Judy. ‘Gordon Ramsay does not leave his back end sticking in his victim.’

She had a point, if only one devoid of all sense.

‘Look,’ said Bill, ‘all I’m saying is that Richard’s right nipple might hold the answer to the nation’s bee problem. I could get some scientist friends of mine to have a look at it. See if we can’t extract whatever chemicals Richard produces that attracts bees.’

‘He does attract lots of bees,’ agreed Judy.

Which is true. I’m something of a bee magnet in the summer. I once fell asleep on one of our touring holidays in France and woke up with a full beard of bees. It took two days before I was rid of them. Two long and lonely days...

‘I suppose if it’s for the good the country’s bees,’ I relented, ‘I’d be happy for scientists to look at my breast. But I warn you now, Bill Oddie: if there are profits to be made from this venture, I’d like a fair share of them.’

‘Of course,’ smiled Bill, draining his coffee. ‘In fact, I think this could “bee” a very profitable buzzness indeed.’