THE scarecrow festival in Thornton Hough, Wirral, at the weekend was for me a special kind of torture.
There was a bouncy castle at the village green fete for one thing. Hundreds of screaming children, some with snotty noses. That was my idea of Hell.
The rest of the scarecrow fete was like something out of Midsomer Murders, without all the serial killers and secret Satanists.

On second thoughts, let's reserve judgement on the Satanism.
You start off with a village community in ecstasy over the making straw-stuffed effigies...
Next thing you know someone is sacrificing goats and virgins on the common.
For the record, I thought most of the garden scarecrows were third-rate efforts. If I'd been judging the competition I would have refused to award a first and second prize.
The third prize I might have condescended to give to an entry called Scary Crow Of The North, a fairly imaginative reworking of the iconic Angel of the North sculpture near Gateshead.
There has been a lot of talk about just what is Middle England recently. Well look no further than Thornton Hough.
You wouldn't know it is in the north of England. It's more like southern village - and if ever Middle England deserved a curtain-twitching capital this is it.
I went there on an outing with the New Brighton Massive. In the gang on Saturday were Tallulah Swells, Billy Bustimes and the Barcardi Queen from Hell's Waiting Room.
Plus the BC's boyfriend, Curly Wurzly, her pal Angie and Angie's teenage daughter, Srilanka.
After a frustrating bus journey from New Brighton - seemingly going to all points of the peninsula on the useless modern bus "services" we suffer in Wirral - we arrived hours later like bedraggled pilgrims on the edge of Thornton Hough.
As we walked up to the green, my heart sank. I really don't like English country fetes, with all their folklore-ish codswallop.
This scarecrow festival has only been in existence since 1999, for heaven's sake. There is nothing traditional about it.
Now, I know local organisations benefit from the associated fund-raising, and that is great, but I hope the organisers don't expect everyone to enjoy such olde English fayre-type events complete with olde worlde tea shoppes etc.
The scarecrow festival is so yesterday. So out of tune with our culturally dynamic country. So dreary, actually. Some of the stalls were not what you'd expect at a day dedicated to "fun".
I wasn't temped by the Clatterbridge Cancer Campaign stall, however admirable their campaigning might be.
Nor did the effort of the Egremont Eco Club satisfy me ... Recycle, eh? The possibilities are endlessly tedious.
Maybe posh people just don't know how to enjoy themselves - and Thornton Hough is certainly posh, though not quite as posh as Caldy.
My gang certainly found the pub in the centre of the village to be lacking in atmosphere ... compared to Hell's Waiting Room anyway.
We sank a few while we watched England's familiar quarter-final rollercoaster ride to penalty shoot-out misery.
I don't think Sven should take all the blame. The players let us down.
All the money those lads earn (and blow, on haircuts and moisturiser), yet try to get them play as a team and show some guts and all you get is another bitter failure, plus girlie tears and tantrums on the park when they get knocked out.
Save it, fellas. We are so bored with the heroic failure, showbiz-style routines.
Having said that, Ronaldo is definitely off my Christmas card list.
When he gave that sly wink, after helping to get Rooney sent off, Tallulah Swells yelled out: "He's evil, he is!"
She fair shattered the decorum of the Thorton 'Huff' pub regulars, I can tell you.
Dispirited, the Massive headed back to New Brighton to drown our sorrows in The Shallow Cutting.
While there I remember talking to ex-British soldier Seamus, who was out with his poet wife Debsie, but I doubt if I said anything coherent to him because I was well cidered up by then.
For last knockings we went over the road to Hell's Waiting Room.
About what happened later, I can't reveal too much, but it involved us spotting a young women sleeping flat out in her garden in the early hours.
At first we thought she might be dead and we discussed that as a distinct possibility ... while looking over the garden wall at her.
But it was OK because she lifted her head slowly and told us, plainly, but in a slightly slurred way: "I am not dead." Well, that was a relief to hear.
She was in a right state though, emotionally.
But we managed to get her safely into her home in case anyone is worried...

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