'Hi, its Willow and Josh here, out braving the cold, damp, mud and shite so you don’t have to!'
'Can we say “shite”, Willow?'
'Well you talk it all the time Josh! Hahahah! Only kidding. Anyway, what’s big on our radar this week Josh?'
'Oh it's a packed programme this week, Willow. We’ve got all the usual tripe about little brown birds nobody cares about...'
'Apart from that Besley chap, Josh.'
'That’s right Willow, he does, doesn’t he? Takes all sorts. Then we’ve a fascinating piece about Fawcett’s Longnosed Woodlice which are making a welcome comeback in the uprights of Wigan Pier whilst our Man of the Wilds, Ivan Lentil has been trying to convince Kill Bill Baxendale that fenceposts do not give cows T.B. Over to you Ivan....'
'Josh, thanks. Yes, Kill Bill and I have been looking at some interesting data from somewhere or other which seems to prove conclusively that fenceposts are incapable of carrying T.B.on account of them being made of wood and dead. Bill was clearly deeply affected by this information and said to me, “But Oi killed ‘undreds ‘o those boogers. Yo mean to tell Oi they is innocent?”
Quite why Bill was using that accent I don’t know, what with him being from Glossop. But he perked up no end when I told him that the latest theory is that cattle get T.B. from wandering poets and arty-farty types who do tend mince about the place during the summer getting inspiration from daffodils and bunnies and other soppy things. Bill knows nothing of the Art scene, so is ignorant of the fact that artists and poets and the like do tend to favour T.B. as their disease of choice, so its not surprising they spread it when they go sneezing all over Bill’s cows. Anyway, he’s away up on the high meadow now looking for anybody with a pen and a funny walk.'
(Background FX, I wandered lonely as a... BANG!)
'Ivan, thanks. That really is good news, and well done you. Bill’s not easily convinced about anything. And I think that’s about it for this week Willow....'
'Yes it is Josh, but not before I take a second to acknowledge the hundreds of letters we’ve had objecting to our humorous use of T.B. We got them. Get a life. Byeeee...'