Once upon a time there were three pigs who went to seek their fortune, but in today’s financial climate – with no qualifications, work experience or opposable thumbs – they struggled to find gainful employment and instead had to hustle on the mean country lanes for building materials to sort out their first pre-requiste: shelter.
The first little pig was a feckless, new-age star gazer; with a goatee beard and a penchant for ‘concept’ albums and whole foods. He pictured himself living off the land, weaving his own clothes and picking up life’s little luxuries at the bi-monthly farmer’s market. So what better to fit into this carbon-neutral lifestyle, he thought, than a house made out of straw? After quickly Googling thatching on the internet he set to work. But, being a feckless, new age, star gazing, goateed pig – with no opposable thumbs – he made a complete tits of his straw house and like all amateur self-builders he righted his wrongs with gaffer tape and silcone sealant.
Then, who should walk by, but The Big Bad Wolf. Now, the Big Bad Wolf was a bad-ass, crazy kind of wolf who liked to beat on people for fun and fridays. He saw this straw house and the Grand Designs fool sitting on his rush-matting outside and thought: it is high time for a bacon sandwich. The pig saw the Bad-Ass, Crazy Wolf and got himself inside and latched the door quicker than you can say lettuce and tomato. The Wolf rapped on the door.
‘Hello little piggy, it’s the gas board!’ grinned The Wolf.
‘I don’t have gas,’ stammered the pig, ‘I live in a self-sustaining, carbon neutral dwelling off the net…’
‘Open up little piggy, or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff and then I’ll blow your house down!’ yelled The Wolf.
‘You can’t,’ stated the pig, ‘this is a self supporting structure, based on the designs of millennia – it can’t be blown over!’
‘But,’ sighed The Wolf, ‘I have matches…’ The Wolf lit a match. The pig froze. ‘Listen,’ reasoned the wolf, ‘either I have crackling for breakfast or you come out and I’ll make it quick – I promise.’
The pig emerged from his straw house holding a jar of apple compote, ‘it’s organic,’ said the pig, ‘I want to leave this world righteously…’ The Wolf ate the pig in one big gulp and had to agree that the compote added a certain something to the dish.
Meanwhile, the second pig considered himself an artisan; a craftspig. He was going to build a chalet – from wood – hewn from the finest oak, that he would chop himself; a hog equivalent of Paul Bunyon. He would dove and tail each log and slot them together with doweling pegs, in the finest traditions of carpentry. He chopped one tree down, a small one, and muttered to himself: ‘sod this for a game of soldiers…’ and went down to Wickes. Like all amateur carpenters he revised his designs and eventually decided that the playdoh qualities of MDF would be better suited to his vision, his carpentry abilities and his lack of opposable thumbs. Sadly, the pig overestimated even his rudimentary woodcraft skills and ended up creating a sorry lean-to held together with nails and PVA glue. He also forgot to seal the MDF and his ‘house’ sagged after the first spring shower and so he looked and lived like a pikey without a caravan.
Just as the pig was swearing and waving a stick at people who weren’t there, the Big Bad-Ass, Crazy Wolf came sauntering by, picking pork out of his teeth with a match. ‘Well, what do we have here?’ he muttered. The pig dropped his stick and scampered inside.
‘Open up, little pig,’ roared The Wolf, ‘it’s the social!’
‘Feckoff!’ yelled the pig in his best Pig-English.
‘Open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and…’ the Wolf shook his head sadly. ‘Listen piggy, a cat could fart and knock this over – why don’t you just come outside and I’ll make it quick?’
‘Feckoff!’ replied the pig. The wolf flicked the ‘house’ with his little finger and the lean-to collapsed, like a house of cards.
‘Ewww,’ grimaced the wolf, ‘ you dirty. Go and have a wash in that stream and I’ll make it quick.’ The Wolf ate the pig in one gulp and decided today was a good day.
While the other two pigs were constructing their ramshackle dwellings, the third pig went job hunting. She got a job as a waitress at Bodeans. Despite messing with her moral compass and making her feel like a piece of meat, it enabled her to rent a small, neat, brick house not far from the other pigs. Knowing that the Big, Bad-Ass, Crazy Wolf was a local resident she contacted her nearest Crime Prevention Officer who helped her fit deadbolts, window locks and motion-activated exterior lights.
The Big, Bad-Ass, Crazy Wolf happened to walk by as he was on his way to Argos to buy some jewellery for Mrs Big, Bad-Ass, Crazy Wolf from Elizabeth Duke and saw the pig planting some roses in her garden and thought: I could buy the Missus a 9ct gold chunky neckless and hang it round the neck of that spit-roasted pig…the wife’s birthday? Sorted.
The pig saw the Wolf coming and rushed inside locking the door and the windows. The Wolf was at her heels and sensing that he’d missed his chance, banged on the door.
‘Open up little piggy!’ yelled The Wolf, ‘I want to make you a model!’
A second floor window opened up and the pig leaned out holding a stick. ‘G’wan Fido,’ she laughed, throwing the stick ,’fetch!’
The Wolf, despite himself, went for the stick. ‘Argghh!’ he hissed, turning back, ‘I am not a dog!’
The pig smiled, and holding a trotter up – which was seemingly designed for this gesture in mind – and said: ‘whatever…’ and shut the window. The Wolf was speechless, such was his rage, and tore at the windows and the doors like a lunatic. He desperately searched for an ingress and glanced up at the chimney. ‘I’m having bacon tonight!’ and scrambled up the drainpipe and shimmied down the chimney.
The pig, meanwhile, made herself a cup of tea and switched on Desperate Houseswines for she had bricked up the chimney weeks ago to make way for an Aga. The Wolf landed in a heap at the bottom of the chimney and no amount of clawing, howling and biting would free him. He eventually died of hunger and his mouldering carcass created an awful stench that would hasten a visit from environmental health, a subsequent eviction by the letting agent and hefty bill for making structural alterations.
The homeless, pennyless pig was forced to sell herself – portion by portion – at Bodeans where she finished her days as a plate of ribs labelled ’employee of the month.’
(I have been in hibernation, somewhat, as I have been extremely busy with my ‘real’ work and have not been able to pen a word. Normal service will be resumed…)