If Boris, the landlord of the Boilermaker's Arms, had one weakness - and the clientele of the boozer would actually point to many of his foibles, such as his unfamiliarity with the modern invention of deodorant, his penchant for singing I Will Survive at the pub's weekly karaoke nights and his inveterate cheating at rummy - he would say that he could never resist a bargain.

Which was why, when The Scribbler popped into the Boilermaker's for an enervating pint of Old Enraptured Ragamuffin and to commiserate about the recent poor weather with the very same people who had been complaining about the sticky heat just a few weeks ago, he found the snug floor-to-ceiling in rustic wooden boxes that gave off a rather pungent pong.

"It was rude not to, at the price," Boris was saying to Exeter Montgomery Cashew, the ebullient owner of the Boilermaker's, and Daphne, the venerable barmaid. "I thought we could perhaps use it in the sandwiches."

EMC was peering into one of the small crates which had been prised open by Daphne's not inconsiderable French nails. "But cheese?" he said. "Slovakian cheese? Made from goat's milk? With use-by date of just one week hence? We're going to have to shift a lot of sarnies in that time, Boris."

"And we'll have to provide pegs for people's noses," added Daphne, holding her own impressive conk. "It hums. Who did you get it from again?"

"Vlad the Impala," said Boris. Everyone groaned. Vlad was a Ukrainian who could often be found selling dodgy goods from a suitcase on Ivegate, and who had earned his nickname for his ability to shut up shop and sprint off into the distance in the manner of a very fast animal of the gazelle variety at the first sniff of anyone with a uniform turning up - even if it was just a burger flipper from McDonald's walking past.

The Scribbler used the blade from his Swiss Army knife to slice out a small cube of the sallow-looking cheese and then utilised that tool that was meant for getting stones out of horses' hooves to spear it and pop it into his mouth. After he had drained his full pint of Old Muff and spluttered to Daphne to pour him another one, quick, to get rid of the taste, he finally felt able to give his verdict.

"It's absolutely awful," your humble correspondent gasped. "You'll never flog that in a month of Sundays."

Boris put his head in his hands. "I knew it was too good to be true," he moaned. "And I spent all Saturday's takings on it as well."

EMC gaped at the errant landlord. "You used my money to buy this rubbish?" he said, amazed. "Well, you'd better find a way to shift it all before next week or it's coming out of your wages, Boris."

Just then Graham the Gasman sauntered in. He had been called out to a pensioner in Idle whose boiler was on the blink. "It only needs a screw tightening," he confided, tapping his nose. "I've told her I've got to nip out and get a part so I'll have to leave it a good hour before going back to get my four hundred quid's worth."

Everyone frowned as he started to drink his pint, then he added: "By the way, I saw a poster for that International Market that's running in Bradford city centre next week," he said. "They're selling all sorts there, you know."

A light bulb slowly flickered into life over the collected heads of Daphne, Boris and EMC...

To be continued.