Watson's Time Team

Here's a question for you, how can a new dress and a small boys' first day on his paper round lead to bomb scare on Dartmoor? The answer is quite easily if any of the events have anything to do with Watson Wannacott. Firstly it will be necessary to explain the first two events and then the tale will become clear. Mother Wannacott had put her name down for the local church outing which always necessitated a new dress. So, last Sunday she caught the bus into Exeter and bought herself a huge, flowery garment from Primark. Having returned home she tried on the dress and went in search of Watson to get his opinion on the garment. Now this would be akin to getting David Blunkett to write a review on a new art exhibition at the Tate gallery. Watson was finally tracked down to the byre where he was busy trying to untangle fifty yards of twine that had wrapped itself around his baling machine. As you can imagine, this was not the best of times for Mother to interrupt the proceedings in order to get an opinion on her new dress. After twirling around a few times the only forthcoming response was:

'Makes ee look like a bliddy gert sack o' poppies', Watson grunted.

Mother made a tactical retreat to the house and took off the dress when she then realised she had forgot to ask for the coat hanger when buying the garment. After an exhaustive but fruitless search for a spare hanger she spotted the wire one sticking out of the back of the TV. This, however, was not any old wire coat hanger, no, this was the main aerial for the TV which Watson had rigged up. Regardless of this fact, the old woman ripped out the hanger and neatly draped her new 'gown' over it, tied two moth balls to the hook and carefully hung it up in the old wardrobe. Ok, now the chain of events had begun.

A few hours later Watson stomped into the kitchen, his knuckles were all scraped and bleeding and clearly he had not been successful in removing the tangle from the baler.

'Cup o' tay an' a craim and jam sandywich', he growled. 'an' I u'll be watchin' the telly'.

A wry smile came over mother's face, 'yuo'm be lucky', she whispered.

Thirty seconds later a demonic howl emanated from the lounge, 'were be me bliddy aerial,' Watson yelled.

'In the wardyrobe wi' a bliddy gert sack on poppies draped over 'n', Mother spitefully replied, further adding, 'an' that be where un's bliddy stayin'.'

Watson knew that tone of voice was a dare to take the discussion further, he declined the offer and started shifting the TV around the room. Having tried every angle, height and direction possible the only channel on which he could get anything like a picture was Channel 4. Right, now everyone knows that at 5.30pm on a Sunday afternoon is when The Time Team is broadcast, the chain gets a couple more links.

Monday morning saw Keanu Culvert (pronounced Culverè by his mother, but nobody else) embark on his new career as the local paper boy. Obviously it was a momentous occasion for the young lad and one which naturally made him nervous, especially when he realised that it is actually light at 5.00am in the morning. But by 6.00am he was trundling off on his skateboard the papers to deliver. Apparently for his first day he did quite well, only mixing a few deliveries up, one of which was Watson's who got the added bonus of the latest edition of British Archaeology along with his Sun. Now the other chain of events had begun.

Having watched the previous nights episode of Time Team, Watson deemed himself and archaeologist and therefore decided that this pristine copy of British Archaeology would enhance his new found understanding of the topic. Accordingly, once he had checked his livestock he settled back in the seat of his Land Rover and began thumbing through the pages. Now both chains of events have united and Watson is the anchor on the end.

Last night I was sat in the inn with Casanova Stubbs, ok maybe that needs some explaining. His real name is Tom Stubbs and he earned his nickname not as you may think. Casanova drives a huge, yellow JCB digger for a living and whenever he is sat in it and a woman passes he always quips:

'Oi, maid, bet I kin make the earth move for ee'.

Hence the name 'Casanova', but strangely enough he has had numerous dates with girls after using his famous chat up line. Sadly they have never lead to anything romantic, probably because what he does not explain is that his JCB is like a company car and he uses it for personal use. A few have climbed up into the greasy cab and embarked on a night out but by the time they reach whatever town most of the pubs and clubs are shut.

Anyway I digress, Casanova and I were sat having a quite drink when Watson slithers in with a simpering smile on his face which can only mean one thing - trouble.

'What's on, Watson?'

'What's on bouys?' Watson replied in a whisper, 'treasure 's what's on, that's what'.

'Oh yes', Casanova grunted, which in other words meant that he could see storm clouds a gathering over the tors.

'Yes, an' you bouys be exactly who I needs vur me Time Team', Watson revealed with great solemnity.

Then the chain of events became clear, Watson had watched, and been impressed with Channel Four's Time Team, especially the bit with them using a JCB to excavate the trenches. The old man was also taken with how the team were looking for 'lumps and bumps', which would indicate the possible presence of a burial site. With his newly found expertise in archaeology he had then read the British Archaeology magazine with particular attention to a gentleman who had found a golden goblet buried in a Saxon tomb. Now, in his small newtake that edges onto the open moor there are numerous 'lumps and bumps' and an old menhir - this being the final link in the chain.

So the old boys' theory was as follows; because he has bushy sideburns, wears 16 lace-hole paratrooper boots and knows how to use a shovel he was going to be the equivalent of Phil Harding. Casanova's role was easy, he was to be the digger driver and because I am apparently always, 'harping on' about lumps and bumps I was delegated to, 'thik, feller who be always rollin' around in the graas'. Here I presumed he was referring to Stuart Ainsworth the Landscape Detective. Our mission was to go up to his newtake, and dig up all the 'humps and bumps' with the JCB and then drag out all the buried treasure which would then be sold for a vast fortune. The first question came from Casanova:

'Zounds fine to I but 'ow much be ee gawin' to pay I?'

Watson looked slightly bemused, 'Why nought yer daft bugger, ee u'll get a share of the spoils'.

With that the digger driver downed his pint and strolled out of the bar, he was last seen chugging down the lane in his great big yellow, 'earth mover'.

Watson looked at me quizzically, 'us kin always jest dig the lumps with a spade'.

I downed my pint and went home to mow the lawn which was a much less onerous task on a muggy May afternoon.

The next day, no sooner had the sparrows farted than 'Posty Pengelly' spotted Watson trundling up the stroll with his wheel barrow laden with pick axe, spade, mattock, sieve, bar iron and an old potato sack. After he had delivered the mail Posty Pengelly apparently noticed Watson madly swinging a pick axe in the newtake high on the ridge. The field looked as if it had a bad case of the measles as everywhere it was pock-marked by huge, gaping holes with vast mounds of black peat piled up besides them.

That evening Watson was noticeable by his absence at the local inn but Posty Pengelly had reported his sightings of the day and so everyone assumed that the old boy was busy on his archaeological dig. It must have been about 7.00pm when the white truck with its flashing blue lights was seen bouncing past the inn. Everyone dashed out to see what was occurring and noticed splashed over the back of the disappearing truck the dreaded words, 'RN Bomb Disposal'. Five minutes later a convoy of Land Rovers roared up the lane, heading the charge was the police followed by the fire brigade, ambulance, doctor, vet and the park warden. Now the last time there was this much excitement in the parish was when 'Docker' Daniels' pony got stuck in the mire so it was not surprising that we all dashed up the lane for a gawk.

Sadly by the time we reached the bottom of the stroll the police had taped it off and were allowing nobody to pass. But we could see the white truck weaving in and out of the numerous holes and mounds of peat towards the end of the newtake. Luckily 'Gadget' Greerson was in the crowd and as his name suggests he just happened to have a pair of miniature binoculars in his pocket. so he was able to give a running commentary. Suddenly he spotted a figure sat on a gigantic pile of soil who was menacingly waving a shovel at the approaching bomb disposal squad. Greerson fine tuned the bins to get a clearer view, 'Why, it's Watson', he announced, ' and he's sat on the mound behind his upturned wheelbarrow.' Now he's threatening the bomb disposal team with his shovel and the police are trying to calm him down'.

Ten minutes later the police Land Rover came back down the hill with Watson securely restrained in the back. The last we saw of him was his pathetic looking face pressed against the back window as it sped off to Tavistock. The calm of the moorland evening was suddenly interrupted by an ear shattering boom and the whole of the ridge erupted into a shower of peat and tussocks raining down on the newtake - that heralded the end of the show.

Later that evening the lads from the bomb squad called in at the inn for a pint and it was then that the full story came out. Apparently they had recieved an emergency call from a Mr Wannacott saying that he had found a, 'huge gert bomb with a swastika painted on it'. He then asked that if he put it in his barrow and brought it down from the newtake would they come and pick it up. The operator then demanded that the bomb should not be moved and that Mr Wannacott must vacate the scene immediately. This he refused to do because the bomb was in his archaeological excavation and that it was lying on top of what appeared to be a priceless, 'heartyfact'. Hence the reason for the emergency call out and the police, ambulance, fire brigade, doctor, vet and park warden were summonsed for assistance should the situation turn violent. It seems that this was exactly what happened and why Watson was cuffed and led away. The old boy had crouched down behind his wheel barrow which according to him was acting as a blast proof shield and from his bunker he was repelling all oncomers - including the bomb squad.

Where did the bomb come from you may ask? Well, according to the bomb disposal experts the German pilots used to jettison any surplus bombs on the way back from raids on Plymouth. This particular unexploded device was probably one such bomb and due to its age and the acidity of the peat it had led in for the past sixty odd years it was necessary to detonate it in-situ along with Watson's, 'priceless heartyfact'.

Later that night, having recieved a stern caution, Watson returned to the inn with a very dejected look on his face. Two or three bottles of sherry soon saw him back to his old self. To this day, Watson will swear on his family bible that just peeking out from under that bomb was the edge of what looked like a shiny, gold brooch. Obviously we will never know whether it was a priceless relic of some ancient age because along with the World War II bomb it is now blasted to bits across Dartmoor.