St Lawrence Fair

Carl always looked forward to the St Lawrence Country Show. The weather was just right - not overly hot, and with a cool breeze. He turned off the motorway onto the long road that lead to the town. In his head, he rehearses the pieces he was going to perform at the evening’s Battle of the Bards competition, when a bright red Porsche Carrera overtook him, horn blaring, and the two occupants screaming and whooping. Carl was suddenly very angry, but what could he do? All he had was his Honda Civic. His pride and joy.

He calmed down by the time he reached the showground.  He parked his car in an adjacent field and strolled into the show. He walked past the marquees and gazebos with their hog roasts, tombolas and games of skill to the main performance tent, situated strategically beside the drinks tent.In one corner of the tent was a desk, and behind the desk sat Angie, the organiser of the Battle of the Bards.

“Hi Carl, are you competing this year?”

“Of course. I might have a chance at winning. Can I sign up?”

“Well, two lads from Oxford put their names down for the last places half an hour ago.”

“So, I’m too late?”

“Of course not, silly. I’m only teasing. I reserved you a place.”

Carl bought himself a pint of Springfield’s Old Rocker, served in a plastic mug. There was loud laughter from the other end of the tent. It was the two from the Porsche. He decided to be friendly.

“Hello, lads. That’s a fine car you have.”

“The Porsche? That’s just something Daddy gave me when he got his new Ferrari.”

“Still, smooth lines and a good turn of speed. I’m Carl, by the way. That was my Honda you overtook”

“Tristram, and my friend is Hugo. Can’t say I remember your car. We drove over to take part in the Performance Poetry.”

“You mean the Battle of the Bards. I won it three years running, but I lost last year. I’m hoping to regain my crown, so to speak.”

“Oh, so you’re the enemy, then. We go around to all these kinds of things. We’ve won eleven competitions between us so far this summer.”

“You do know it isn’t just poetry, don’t you? It’s poetry, story or song, and you can’t do any more than one of each.”

“No probs. We’ve got superb singing voices.”

Out in the Display Area, local children were demonstrating their dressage skills, then prize-winning livestock and pets were paraded. Time passed. The Showground’s day visitors left, and people began to gather in the performance tent.

Angie took the mike, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to this year’s Battle of the Bards. This will consist of three rounds, during which the competitors may recite a poem, read a story, or sing a song. Each piece must be the performer's own work and last no longer than four minutes.

“We have a panel of five judges. For each round, they have ten points to distribute amongst the performers.

“We start with sixteen performers for the first round. Eight will be eliminated, then four. The remaining four will compete for the first, second and third prizes.

“Now the boring part is over, here are the prospective bards. Let battle commence.”

It was no surprise that Tristram, Hugo and Carl got through the first round, and Carl had to admit that they were good. Tristram was an excellent singer, and Hugo put amazing voices to the characters in his story. Carl’s story was received with loud laughter throughout the tent.

After a break, the remaining eight were called together for the next round. Tristram was about to sing again, when the judges reminded him that he could only do one song, so he read it as a poem, and very effective it was, too.

It was Hugo’s turn to sing. His voice was almost operatic, and his choice of song got everyone clapping along.

Carl did a song as well.  He sang of heartbreak and love lost. When he finished, the tent was silent for a minute or two, then there was thunderous applause.

The three got through to the final round, together with an old man who specialised in songs and stories about cows.

For the final round, Tristram read a story, Hugo, Carl and the man all read poems.

There was a hush as the marks were totalled up, then Angie took the mike.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. The final scores are these; Hugo McLaren, twelve points. Tristram Baxter, thirteen points. But, with twenty five points, Carl Newman is, once again, crowned Bard of St Lawrence.”

The contestants congratulated one another. But Carl could not resist a dig at his rivals.

“I got as many points as both of you put together, You know what that means, don’t you? A bard in a Honda is worth two in a Porsche.”