02 March 2017
The VAPID Award Chaos
Local produce show mix-up causes red faces.
By Lynda Goetz
On Sunday the ‘great and good’ of the county of Debdonshire had gathered for their annual village award (Village Awards for Produce in Debdonshire) ceremony in the county town. This, as all in the county know, is a long-awaited event in the rural calendar and provides what are effectively the ‘finals’ of all those village produce events which take place throughout the year. The time and effort which has gone into producing marmalade, plum jam, Victoria sponges and so on is rewarded for those successful few in this gala event. In addition to the fancy (or sometimes not-so-fancy) card announcing ‘1st Prize’ and the few pounds awarded (small recompense for all those entry fees) there is the chance for far greater glory. Not only will your jam-making or cake-baking skills be recognised in the village, but throughout the county. A larger, more impressive, more important trophy awaits. Indeed you might even be able to increase the price for the items sold in the village shop.
The women in their long dresses (probably not designer, although a few might have been lucky enough to find something in the dress agency), enjoying the chance to be out of jeans and Wellies, try hard to ignore the pain being caused by those elegant shoes they found at the back of the wardrobe. The men, some awkward and some resplendent in DJs and bow ties, wonder idly when this will all be over so that they can get back and check the sheep or, better still, when they can sit back and enjoy a beer rather than thimblefuls of fizzy stuff. Others, uncomfortably aware of their waistband, remember the days when they wore this sort of outfit as uniform for chucking undesirables out of clubs. The polite clapping for ‘The Best Baker, Cupcakes’ dies down and an expectant hush descends for the truly important prize, ‘The Best Baker’.
John Smith and Susan Green of PMP (Pete & Milly’s Potatoes), who have for many years had the honour of counting votes for this prestigious event and handing over the envelopes to those (usually past recipients of the awards) chosen to read out the winners and then hand over the trophies, are in the wings. Mr Smith once said in an interview, “It doesn’t sound very complicated, but you have to make sure you’re giving the presenter the right envelope.” Precisely. Well, somehow or other on Sunday night the right envelope was not handed over. Tim Wright (who definitely looks like a Tim) looked slightly startled for a few seconds as he looked at the card, but handed it without comment to Trudy Williams, a past ‘Best Baker’ and now a parish councillor for Oakbeare.
Trudy seemed briefly puzzled, but knew she was not there to use her judgement, simply to announce, loudly and with clarity, the name on the card. The fact that it was the same as the one on the previous card, was not impossible – after all it was frequently the same people who won these things again and again. The large, jolly-looking lady in the red dress, who had only just stepped down from the podium, returned, smiling broadly. She shook hands with Trudy Williams, accepted the golden trophy in the shape of a tiered wedding cake and took the microphone. “I am so thrilled” she trilled, in a voice that somehow seemed at odds with her size, “to receive this award.” She continued in similar vein for almost a couple of minutes before Bob Bailey, the event organiser, appeared on stage, flanked by stricken-looking pair, Smith and Green.
To her credit, Ruby Johnson, who had indeed won ‘The Best Baker – Cupcakes’, but sadly not also the coveted Best Baker, ceded her place to the red-headed, rather effete-looking young man who had bounded up the steps with almost indecent haste to take her place. Mark Roberts was the young man’s name (rather too thin-faced possibly to be a true Mark; I might have guessed a Tim again) and he couldn’t believe his luck. The assembled audience, once they had recovered from the embarrassment and mortification on stage, seemed delighted that for a change it was a youth who had won the prize. Not only that, but it was a youth of almost indefinable gender – a win on almost every front. Even those in rural Debdonshire have a feel for the way the wind is blowing.
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