They just didn�t seem right together. It is often said that opposites attract, but this was more than chalk and cheese. It was dead crustaceans put under intense pressure and milk which has had special microorganisms grown in it. If a child was asked to put down the two most opposite things they could think of, they went down more often than not.
Certain people in my neighbourhood have taken it upon themselves to delve into the pasts of these two oddballs. Rumour is rife, varying from the sublime to the silly. For instance, if rumour were true, they were dropped off by aliens on a round trip to the planet Quaarrgghh, whilst simultaneously being the product of little gnomes from inside the earth. I have to admit both of these came from a man named Bob, however, who was quite possibly under the influence of something, probably from his back garden, of which there are legends to tell.
The rumour which seems most believable is that they had both come from Leicester after nasty arguments with local sculptors. Apparently they were too abstract in their thinking for the local sculptors, and I could quite believe this.
I can�t really quite grasp what is wrong with them � it is quite off putting, I never feel quite right in their presence.
They are damn fine creations though � who�d have ever thought someone could sculpt a mouse out of cheese and an elephant out of chalk?
Personally, I quite liked the pair of them. Whenever I felt depressed I would go and visit them, and I realised I wasn�t the most pointless of things in the world. They were.
Anyhow, it brought tourism into the area, an unheard of before phenomenon in our region. Some of the other locals objected to this, but I welcomed the revenue for our local industries. Gift shops with postcards of the sculptures appeared. Quite where the gift shops came from is a mystery to me. I have a theory that all gift shops, like hot dog stalls, have little space-time continuum traversers, or possibly giant four mile long legs, so that they can appear where and when they are needed most, or more importantly where than can get the greatest profit at any one time.
My opinion seemed isolated, however. One day down the pub I had this conversation with a chap. (I don�t know his name, but these people all seem to be called Bob, so for clarity�s sake that�s what I�ll call him).
�I don�t trust them Southern Lackeys,� said Bob,
�Pardon?� I said � I was making an important decision at the time � whether to have dry roasted or honey coated peanuts, one of those life-consuming decisions meaning I was quite unable to concentrate on other things.
�Those bloody foreigners comin� in all swanky panky,� was Bob�s explanation.
�What?� I said, with what I thought was a bemused frown but probably came across as either a condescending stare or a lustful glance at his trousers.
�Those posh gits with noses up their arses.� Was Bob�s reply.
�You mean tourists?� I thought I was catching on.
�Aye, them foreign pansies.� Was Bob�s curt confirmation.
�What�s wrong with them?�
�They�m up to sommat.� Said Bob with a flourish.
�I really don�t know what you�re talking about.� Was my reply as I attempted to finish my beer and run for the door at the same time.
�They statubes bring nowt but ill wind, you mark my words.� Was Bob�s parting remark as I ran out of the door, wandering what the statues had to do with flatulence. I didn�t believe a word of it and wanted to escape before he launched into his speech about how everyone who didn�t live within a mile was plotting to bring down the country.
Whether Bob was right or not, I�ll never fully know, for the statues weren�t there much longer.
One day I was looking to cheer myself up near my favourite pair of oddballs, the mark of human pointlessness, and they were gone. All that was left was a small crumb of cheddar and a white chalk mark.
The argument as to where they had gone raged for an age in our local area, a region where someone buying a woman�s magazine makes the local paper, and is still an unresolved mystery. Various Bobs put forward various theories, from the aliens taking them back to Southern Lackeys nicking them for their own ends.
Personally, after finding a massive lump of chalk with stumps where bits had been hacked off left in a ditch alongside a small, yellow, mouldy patch of slime, I assume someone had an attack of good taste and removed them.
What I do know is the gift shops have left. I examined the floor where one had been. It winked at me.
I rescued the remains of the statues, and have them in my shed, just so as to not spoil the debate by letting a Bob find them. It would be cruel to deny them their rumours.
That was the most exciting thing to ever happen in this village. We now have a gallows where the statues used to be, �Just in case�.