Long and wretched was the night, and I cast about in the darkness in desperation, hoping against hope that somewhere in the wilderness I would find the object of my desire. Fifteen years I had been searching; over mountains and across deserts I had come, and now, here in the tangled vines of the Forest of Dean, I was sure I'd locate my quarry. Yes, I was foolish, but I cared not for the judgements of others, for I had come for the greatest prize a man could ever wish for.

I was beginning to give up hope when, by chance alone, my hand, grubbing around in the blackness, lit upon something harder and more unyielding than the slime of the forest floor. Could it be? I grabbed the object and lifted it up to the turgid moonlight. Yea, God be praised, I had found it! Never in my wildest dreams had I actually believed I would ever be so fortunate! The bitter struggles, the battles against my self and the endless loneliness of decades had paid off! Jumping around and hugging my prize to my chest I wept with joy. After all these years I had found it, the August 1998 copy of Cotswold Life magazine was mine!

I rushed from the forest, heedless of the slashing barbs of the brambles which tore my skin. No pain or torment could bring me down, for I had a recipe for miniature cheese scones that would rival even the bakers of Scunthorpe in their exquisite flavour. I knew now how to wear a Barbour jacket with cream jodhpurs and what kind of Laura Ashley floral print curtains would go best with my deep aubergine pile. Such glorious times lay ahead of me, yet as I drew into the car park of the local Tesco, I became aware that I was being followed. Thrusting my hard won booty into the front of my britches, I turned to face my pursuers. Emerging from the light of a flickering street lamp came Alan Rickman, George Best and yes, you guessed it, Tilda Swinton.

Terror rose up through my body like an enraged python. In my minds eye I saw them knocking me to the ground and cruelly wresting the new found treasure from my bloodied fingers.

"Hand over the merchandise." said Swinton, the hatred boring into my skull from her wicked eyes.
"Never!" I hissed.
"Oh, I hoped you'd say that!" grinned the wicked temptress, and the three of them closed in on me. Rickman bore a frozen haggis which he thumped menacingly against his paw. George Best brandished a toilet plunger which gleamed viciously in the yellow light, and from her beer soaked pockets Swinton withdrew the largest turkey baster I had ever set my eyes upon.

I tried to run, but in a moment they were upon me, plunging, basting and haggissing with all their might. I cried out in pain as I saw my life flashing before my eyes. How could it come to this, after all my trials, to be beaten down in the car park of a leading supermarket? But then I remembered a promise that had been made to me some fifty years ago on the banks of the Nile by a one legged antelope herder named Francoise.
"In your darkest hour," he had said to me that summer's eve, "when you are sure you are about to perish, call out these words and your salvation shall come charging upon the back of a great steed.", and he whispered to me the words that I shouted now, screaming up at the heedless night.

"Milkybars are on me!" I wailed, my voice bursting out from the fray. Nothing came, and my assailants continue their onslaught, guffawing and jeering as they beat me harder and harder. But then, I heard a sound so sweet it brought tears of joy to my eyes. The sound of a warthog snuffling in the dirt came to me across the cold air and I knew that my saviour had arrived. All of a sudden my attackers were pinwheeling through the air as the mighty tusks of my hero's steed jabbed and tore at the enemy. When they had been thoroughly routed, I stood and looked into the face of my benefactor sitting proudly upon the hog. There he was, my old friend Jeff Goldblum, naked but for a pink bra and a child's hula skirt. I wept with joy as I hugged him in gratitude, and then I turned to the vile beasts who had descended on me. They cowered beneath us, horrified by the fury with which they had been dispatched, yet Jeff and I were benevolent. We allowed them to flee with their lives.

For now, the tale must end, but join me again when we'll discuss the 1904 shoe tree whittling championship, the victory of which I was pipped to the post by none other than Malala Yousafzai.