Councillors and fellow members of the Planning Permission Committee, herewith my report on the recent events occurring in Tamworth Lane:
There had been a complaint that three plots of land had been illegally occupied by itinerant swine, and unlawful habitations erected thereon. I was instructed by this committee to inspect the properties. I attended there on the fifth of this month. I discovered three small houses had indeed been built on three plots.
I attempted to gain access to the residence at Number One, a house built entirely of straw. It was obviously unfit for habitation, a cursory inspection proving that no attempt at securing the joists or to install load-bearing walls had been made; a strong wind was all that was needed to bring it down.
I knocked carefully, several times, and attempted to make myself known to the occupier, a Mr Little Pig, by calling out, ‘Little Pig, Little Pig, let me come in.’ I am afraid to say the occupant was incompliant and hurled abuse at me through the walls; at first I thought he was speaking Pig Latin, but then I made out his words: namely, ‘No! Not by the hair on my freakin’ chin.’ ‘Excuse me!’ I replied; ‘I am just a wolf at the door.’ Rather annoyed, I huffed and puffed a bit and, letting out a long sigh, I was shocked but not surprised to see the straw house collapse in front of me.
I dialled 999 and then attempted to ascertain the extent of Mr Pig’s injuries. He appeared dazed and was, I think, suffering from severe hay fever. I helped him to a seat but, somewhat befuddled, he began to scream that he was bleeding glue. Squealing like a stuck pig, he ran into the road just as the ambulance arrived, and was hit by it; you should have seen how that swine flew. He was hospitalised and treated for his obvious mental illness and is now, happily, a cured ham.
I proceeded to Two Tamworth Lane: a house made of sticks and occupied by a grocer, a Mr Lidl Pig. Again, I knocked carefully, and attempted to make myself known to the tenant by calling out, ‘Lidl Pig, Lidl Pig, let me come in.’ Mr Pig was as rude as his neighbour, replying, ‘No! Not by the hair on my freakin’ chin.’ I wondered if they were in some way related.
Just then, a bee landed on my nose. I am embarrassed to admit that I am afraid of bees and wasps, and I froze. When the bee at last flew away, I realised I had been holding my breath the whole time and I expelled it in relief. I was horrified as the habitation before me collapsed around Mr Pig. I immediately called 999 and ascertained the extent of Mr Pig’s injuries. He was covered in splinters but coherent, but there was a lot of pork scratching going on. He swore at me and ran off. I believe he has now joined a porcupine colony.
Finally, I attended Number Three. I asked the second ambulance to stand by, just in case. I was rather apprehensive at this point, but decided to go the whole hog. The illegal dwelling was built of brick, and well built at that. As I walked around the premises I could hear a violin being played inside. I tried the front door and called out, ‘Fiddle Pig, Fiddle Pig, let me come in.’ When the same reply came back: ‘No, not by the hair on my freakin’ chin,’ I began to suspect a conspiracy. At this point, I admit, I was ready to turn tail and run; it was past my home time and I had a hot date lined up with a real babe. However, I felt it would be unethical of me to put girls before swine, and I decided to finish the job.
I am a nervous man, Councillors – some might say a sheep in wolf’s clothing – but I know my duty and I had a warrant to enter the premises. During my initial survey, I had noticed a ladder leading up to a hole in the roof. Eager to get inside to get this horrible day over, it did not occur to me until it was too late that it might be a trap. I did not know that I was, in fact, climbing into a half-built chimney stack. If I had thought about it at all, I would have assumed that pigs are averse to smokey bacon cribs.
Councillors, I shudder to relate the last part of my tale. It was ghastly. Halfway down the chimney, I began to sweat. Unbeknownst to me, Mr Pig had set a pot of water to heat on the fire. The sweat made me lose my grip and I slipped. Fortunately for me, my trajectory was feet first: I kicked the pot out of the way and leapt over the fire. If Mr Pig had not jumped out of the way, let’s just say it would have been boiled ham for dinner. As it was, he fell into a large vat of cola unaccountably standing in his kitchen, and drowned. A pig in a coke is not a pleasant sight.
The subsequent Police investigation concluded that the illegal houses were built in an attempt to lure me to Tamworth Lane and murder me. You may remember that last year I was going about my lawful business, carrying a large case full of blueprints, when I was set upon by Little Red Riding Hoodie and the Granny Gang. They came screaming out of nearby woods, demanding of me, ‘Big bag, wolf! Big bag, wolf!’ I refused to give up my case and I was able to see them off with the aid of an obliging woodcutter who happened to be walking home and heard my yelps for help. He maimed several of them with his axe. It appears Miss Hoodie wanted revenge against me. She did some time in the pen and met the three pigs there; she employed them to assassinate me, paying each of them £1 and one shilling each. They seem to have been willing guinea pigs.
This concludes my report, councillors, but I would like to close by tendering my resignation. Working in health and safety has become too dangerous, and I have decided to pack it in. I have therefore accepted a commission as an amphibious scout in the American Navy, and I am off to become a wolf in SEAL’s clothing.