17 Duck race

There’ll be no duck race this year, after last year’s fiasco. It was Brian, the landlord of the Farrier’s Arms, who first suggested a duck race, and the idea quickly caught on. Even after learning that no real ducks would be involved, the pub regulars were happy to muck in. They bought three thousand yellow plastic ducks from a place that specialised in bulk sales of yellow plastic ducks; it’s amazing what you can find in the Yellow Pages. Sales were as bouyant as the ducks themselves, thanks to the terrific prizes donated by local businesses (first prize: a free appointment with a visiting chiropodist).

When the big day arrived, crowds lined both sides of the River Whim, in eager anticipation. The water level looked low, after a dry spell, but no one was overly concerned about that. A net was stretched taut between the stanchions of the bridge - the finishing line - to catch the ducks as they completed the course. Two hundred yards upstream, where the road crosses the river, a tipper truck full of ducks was backed over the parapet. On an agreed signal, three thousand yellow ducks slid from the back of the truck and hit the water simultaneously.

The event, as a genuine race, was over there and then. The breeze, though light, was still stronger than the river’s sluggish current. Instead of rushing pell-mell downstream, in the approved manner, three thousand yellow ducks closed ranks - in a jaundiced armada - and sullenly refused to move. The breeze quickened, pushing ducks to the water margins, where they got stuck in the branches of overhanging trees.

A few spectators decided they had better things to do with their time, and left. Little kids, blessed with a low boredom threshold, demanded chips and ice cream. People started to throw stones: some to dislodge ducks, others out of mischief. Stewards in yellow tabards waded into the water and tried to hurry the ducks along. They fell over and got drenched; spectators laughed; words were exchanged. The ducks remained stubbornly uncooperative, their identical expressions no longer cute but mocking: Stepford Ducks.

A few ducks eventually crossed the finishing line, but only because they’d been thrown there. “It’s a fix”, shouted the few onlookers who hadn’t already drifted away in disillusionment. “That’s the last duck race we’ll ever go to”.

The following week the Gazette and Advertiser printed this statement from an ashen-faced duck race spokesman, who asked to remain anonymous. “It is difficult to know what to say about the shameful events of last weekend. We are stunned. The entire duck-racing community is stunned. We have witnessed many sporting disasters over the years. The abortive Grand National of 1993. Mike Tyson chewing Evander Holyfield’s ear off. Derek Pringle. But these are as nothing compared to the debacle of Whimsey’s duck race. The river level was low, making the going firmer than we - or the ducks - would have liked. Some of the spectators suggested the ducks weren’t trying, though random drug tests proved negative until we started on the crowd. After all, it was their boos and catcalls which disorientated the ducks and made them swim around in circles. I am not making excuses; no-one comes out of this fiasco with much dignity. There will be a steward’s enquiry. Heads will roll. Thank you”.

Beneath this terse statement was a display ad: “Almost 3,000 plastic ducks for sale. Nearly new. No sensible offer refused”.