WELL, it took a long time, some bitter arguments, and not a little of what the Americans call "pork barrel politics."

If the European Union could operate in this way, the people might even vote yes. Eventually.

The longest, bitterest and most amusing feud in Beggarsdale is over. Owd Tom has won, Maggots Money-Grubber has won and - God bless us all - so have we lesser locals.

It came about on Monday night in the upstairs room of the Beggars' Arms as Tom brought down his ancient gavel (nicked from the old school house) to declare in session an extraordinary general meeting of the Beggarsdale Association of Fly Fishermen, Ferrets Fanciers and Ale Suppers.

Tom had, as is his wont, kept the cause of the meeting secret but no-one was at all surprised when into the room came a nervous looking Maggots Moneygrubber, who has been yearning to join BAFFFFAS since the day he moved into the Old Vicarage.

Membership, you see, is the final vote of acceptance as a local rather than an offcumden. Maggots had not made his accession any easier by banning Tom from the stretch of the River Beggar whose fishing rights he had picked up along with the vicarage. To add insult to injury, he was known to fish for wild trout with (shudder) grubs and even worms, hence his name.

However, things changed when Maggots, our wealthiest local businessman, bought the old quarry and turned it into a rainbow trout fishery, providing several local jobs.

And then he was spotted, at the crack of dawn, having secret fly casting lessons from ... his sworn enemy, Owd Tom.

Now Tom, who could have taught Machiavelli a trick or two, did not know that we knew about these early morning assignations and was no doubt expecting to bounce the foregathered into accepting Maggots as a new BAFFFFAS member.

But forewarned is forearmed, as they say, and we had our own demands ready. For a start, we wanted to know what Tom was getting out of the deal. And could we ordinary members to benefit too?

Tom, he admitted, was to be given free fishing at the trout farm on one day a week - and access to the private stretch if the Beggar whenever he liked.

Then the bargaining really started. But, after some serious discussions, helped along by not a little Rams' Blood (for Tom) and a few large brandy and Cokes for Maggots a deal was thrashed out.

Whether it was Tom's bartering, honed for some 60 years of haggling at Mar'ton auction mart, or simply the booze, we shall never know.

Maggots got his BAFFFFAS badge and we locals got one day's fishing (midweek) free at the trout farm plus a daily rota on the Beggar (also midweek). We still have to pay, however, for any fish we take home from the quarry.

So, that night, having generously helped Maggots with his celebrations, I wandered home to Curmudgeon Corner feeling pretty pleased with myself. Mrs C was in the kitchen waiting for me, one of those blue airmail letters in her hand.

"It's the Curmudgeonlette," she said in one of her silky, persuasive tones. "She's having a baby and wants us to go and see her." A reasonable enough request, for sure. Except our daughter and her husband live in Perth in Western Australia!