Brian Worthington switched on Yaxley Farcett's television and settled himself in the Drainage Inspectors comfy armchair. 'Are yew comin' over The Skaters later to watch the Cup Final ?' he asked. 'Johnny's got a big screen in 'cos his old lot are playing The Arsenal'. Farcett, who was still holding on to his sink and leaning in like an animal looking at it's reflection in a puddle, replied 'Uhh yeah yeah...probably. I've got a few things to do.... Like solving a murder' he added a little rattily. 'Don't yew worry bor' said Brian. 'Yew asked me to help and I hev been. While yew've been snoring in here I've been down the Drove with John and Darren and loaded up them pigs. We were down there at har' pust five.' Farcett turned round in surprise. He hadn't been looking forward to the pig moving session. He took a chance. 'I don't suppose you had a chance to get a sample of saliva for me to send off to the lab to find out what the pigs have been eating did you ?' Bunter beamed a smile wider than the Ouse. 'Better than that. We got some spittle in a bag and John got 'ol 'Prescott' to piddle in a milk bottle. We got the pigs back to the farm and took the samples over to Sergeant Stumpsfield at Ealham station. He's gonna get the boffins in Cambridge to check 'em and give yew a ring later on your cordless mobile telephone'.
Farcett was so impressed at this display of efficiency that he almost forgot to feel awful for a minute. 'Brian, what can I say ? Thanks very very much'. Worthington smiled again. He knew that all possible steps must be taken to clear the way for football. 
As Farcett began to return to normality, Brian told him to sit down and he took over kitchen duties. A strong cup of black coffee was made and placed in the Yorkshireman's hands. 'Git that down yew. I'll nip to the shop and get a few eggs and some bacon. I like a fry up on a Saturday morning'. Farcett sipped the coffee and did admit that he could just squeeze down a small plateful. As Worthington was disappearing out of the door he shouted '..and maybe some black pudding if they've got some'. It must be one of the finest traits of the English, that we can consume huge platefuls of greasy, cholesterol raising, artery hardening Cak even in the face of adversity and self inflicted illhealth, thought Yaxley before returning to the sink. After another 'purging of the soul' he sank down into his armchair and turned on the radio that stood on the mantelpiece.
An overly enthusiastic presenter was inviting listeners to call into the station to comment on a variety of topics. 'Keep it tuned to Gasbag 109' he advised. 'You know the number !' Having said that, he then read out the number. A task he would perform over fifty times in the next hour. In fact if the constant repetition of the station phone number and adverts were taken out, there would be virtually nothing else. 'Ok, you're through to Gasbag' said Sidney Prince' 'What have you got to say ?' Yaxley Farcett pricked up his ears as a strange voice came on the line. Not so much a 'voice' as a sound. It was synthesised in the same way as Professor Stephen Hawking. 'I have a confession to make' the voice told Cambridgeshire.....'I killed Reg Dixon !!'
