The Curmudgeon

And for our sins, we tend to take with us Owd Tom, who otherwise rarely gets out of Beggarsdale since he let his son, Mid Tom, take their stock to the auction mart.

Now this is not one of life's great pleasures because, now that he is not driving, Tom likes to pop into the Faded Glory for a "quick gill" - which usually turns out to be more like half a gallon - while I sit there fiddling with a couple of shandies.

But that is not the worst bit. The worst bit is in the supermarket itself, where Tom - having packed his trolley with a month's supply of frozen dinners - invariably makes for the butcher's stall and proceeds to create holy havoc.

The cause is always the same: the price of lamb. Even worse, at this time of the year, "fresh Dales lamb" is just going onto the shelves.

And this week, it sent Tom into virtual apoplexy.

"How the bleepin' 'eck they can gerrawa wi chargin' this much ah'll never know," he cried, startling not just the butcher and his staff but a large group of housewives queuing up to buy the stuff.

"We live in an area surrounded by the bleepin' things, ah get paid buttons for lookin' after the stupid beasts 365 days a year, and these places charge more than gold dust for a joint that woudna feed a Beggarsdale tick."

He stopped, glared at the lady shoppers, and growled: "An' thee idyits 'r daft enough to buy it."

By this time, the manager was pushing a hurried path across the store. The butcher was reflectively fingering the sharp edge of a cleaver, just in case. But Tom was ready.

He spun on his heels at the manager finally took his arm and shouted straight into the poor man's face: "An' it's not just me and other Dales farmers you're ripping off. What about the bananas then?"

Now I had to admit that we watched this spectacle from a safe vantage point behind the baked beans aisle. We don't want to get banned, you see, even though we agree with Tom wholeheatedly.

As he was escorted out to the car park, he was still screaming "What about the bananas then?" We finished our shopping pretending we had seen and heard nowt.

But in the Faded Glory, I asked him what the hell he had going on about bananas for. As is his wont, he pulled from his pocket one of those crumpled newspaper cuttings he collects like small boys collect string.

"Read and inwardly digest," he snapped, as this were all my fault. "It's not just us British farmers that get ripped off by them there supermarkets."

And there was a story about the so-called Fairtrade operation, under which supermarkets sell food produced by small growers and farmers in the Third World who cannot compete with the huge multi-nationals on price.

These foods - bananas being one of the key items - are naturally much more expensive but good-hearted people have been buying them to help out poorer nations. And guess what? Of these huge mark-ups, some of the supermarkets - all of them huge national chains - are pocketing two thirds in extra profits for themselves!

Is there anyone, anywhere, in British business today who recognises words like integrity, honour, compassion, or even simple honesty when there is a cheap and nasty way of boosting the bottom line? Or can you believe anything you read in the newspapers these days?

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.