Have you heard of a TV show called Country Constable,
that popular TV crime drama, derided by some?

The villages of Sussex were favourite places, in which to set the series,
and I often watched them catch fictional villains, from my cottage in Pottle-Picklington.

My hit, Last train to Tangiers, a rare success during my singing career,
had enabled me to buy this bucolic retreat, hoping its quaint charm would encourage me to pen more hits.

But alas, fame brought with it many demons, and l hit the booze, occasionally appearing on TV panel shows, opening a succession of summer fetes, and even sang at rock ’n roll conventions, wearing winkle-picker shoes.

The latest Country Constable story involved a Big Muddy fun run, and in my younger days I couldn’t half shift, through fields and over streams, my spikes heavy with mud.
 

To sum up, I was quite good, county standard even.

But the assistant director looked at me, saying, ‘Old farts like you don’t fit the script.’

‘As a young lad,’ I pleaded, ‘I ran around the hills and fields of Lancashire,
and have always wanted to be in your much-derided cop drama.’

She gawped, ‘Are you serious?’

Getting pie-eyed in The Poacher and Pigeon, the landlady eyed me with concern,
as I lamented, ‘None of the runners in that show looked remotely athletic.

‘Is anything real on film, do the Daleks still squeak along, with kids screaming at the screen?

‘Indeed,’ my pub pal said, ‘HG Wells used his literary skill,
to let Martians run amok, though some outstayed their welcome,
flying to a desert in Nevada, where they set up a commune,
so some conspiracy theorist claimed on his television channel.

‘Why don’t you pop over there?’

I took her advice, and wandered in awe around the desert, where I was amazed to recognise that aging actor, Milton Mulverton,
the original Country Constable, who, doubtless needing a break from a plethora of corpses, was walking through the scrub,
and enquired what I was doing, staring at a cactus.

He laughed when I said I’d come on the advice of a landlady from my village.

‘Oh, they’ve replaced me with a younger man,’ he lamented.

‘The new director said I was past my sell-by-date.’

The chap suddenly looked embarrassed, and said,
‘I say, do you mind if I join you in staring at cacti?
A woman in an English village advised me to come here and revive my spirit.’

Together we developed a two-man show, with Milton talking about his acting career,
touring the Philippines with The Importance of Being Earnest, faux pa’s made in pantomimes, and even a failed attempt to climb Mount Everest,
during which he claimed to see that mysterious ape called the Yeti, while I embarked on a new aspect of my vocal talent – singing Lancashire songs – like The Rawtenstall Annual Fair and Uncle Joe’s Mintballs.

We went down well among some American audiences, apart from the Bible Belt,
who didn’t like the latter song, thinking it was rude.

It actually refers to a boiled sweet made in the English town of Wigan,
not to what my Irish aunt, who was a right ol’ prude, would call ‘Donegals’.

One clear night, dozing among the cacti, we were woken by a meteor crashing to earth.
It left a fiery trail, spelling in its wake, ‘You will rise again like the mythical sphinx.’

The next day I spotted that sci-fi director, Stephon Spelligan, who recognised Milton from a B-movie, in which he’d played a creature called a Polloflesh,
and remembered his alien impersonation with fondness.

In the midst of their reminisces, he looked at me curiously, and asked, ‘Weren’t you a slim, Brylcreem boy singing about a train to Marrakesh,
back in those heady days of Beatles, Stones and Kinks?’

‘Yes, but it was actually Tangiers.’

‘Of course, apologies, I recognise you despite your baldness.’

‘it was fortuitous that I met you both, as I’m looking for two guys of your age and theatrical ability, particularly one who can sing,
in the accent of an English county called Lancashire, but look like he’s had too many beers.

‘This chap claims he’s seen aliens and UFOs, and is arrested by the village bobby.
That’s you, Milton.

‘I assume an actor of your talents can do an appropriate accent.’

My stage partner stood up and delivered that music hall monologue,
Albert and The Lion, so reminiscent of Northern England, made famous by Stanley Holloway, who I believe was a Cockney.

‘Will I be a constable?’ He asked.

‘No, a sergeant.’

‘Ah, a much deserved promotion.’

‘We’ll film in the UK,’ continued Stephon, ‘where I have a magnificent Georgian house, in the village of Pottle-Picklington.’

But his assistant said, ‘Apparently your estate manager let that TV show Country Constable use it as a murderer’s weekend retreat.’

 ‘Oh, we’ll soon kick them out,’ laughed Milton, ‘that show’s past its sell-by-date.’