A chill March wind scours Framlingham village green as I observe a line of locals gather around the coconut shy. I look pitifully upon a row of dry, hollow husks, devoid of life – evolved for tropical climes but stuck here beneath a dull Arctic breeze instead; an embarrassment to their ancestors. Also, there are coconuts.

I’ve been sent by the Files to review this desolate affair. Dreary people gather around dreary stalls to whittle away an hour or so of their dreary lives. The leaflet promised ‘family fun’, but there is none to be seen in this wretched place.

A few of the stalls offer provincial English treats – marmalades, ‘artisanal’ breads, cured meats. Half as delicious and four times as expensive as those offered by your local Tesco.

To excite the proles the fete masterminds have contrived various ways to disguise degenerate gambling as a wholesome jape: guess the beans in the jar, take a punt on the creaking tombola. Gather round children, and give us your money. You’ll get nothing in return, or maybe an out-of-date jar of honey if you’re lucky. Welcome to the real world.

To make things worse a gaggle of Morris dancers have turned up. I’m sure their gaudy dance is in some way racist but I don’t want to waste my time figuring out why.

Here’s one of them now – Ken Chesley, village councillor. Probably a tory.

“It’s wonderful to see all the community get together for a day like this”, he lies. The only light flickering within his black, porcine eyes is hatred – hatred for poor people, some of whom had the cheek to turn up today in their second-hand George rags.

I’m told there’ll be a bonfire tonight – hopefully I’ll be strapped to it.