BBC Radio 4/BBC World Service
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EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
British (England - Cockney, Estuary, East End) British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the king stands proudly on the stage high above his adoring people, his thick beard stirring in the mountain breeze, a crown perched regally upon his furrowed brow. He surveys the lands he once saved from rampaging British hordes and gives thanks for another year of life. Later, on our king, my butt, his head against a fence or have a chew on his leash. He could, even as he did a few years ago, relieve himself on a fiddle band below, drenching them as they play on in his honour. For this is no ordinary king of man but a goat, a noble goats king heralded each August by the people of Kill or Glynn to give thanks for the occasion over 400 years ago, when a male goat careered into town, chased by a mob of Oliver Cromwell soldiers. That goat, known here locally as a puck, alerted the townspeople that an army was coming, allowing them to arm themselves on repelled the invaders. Every year since before Puck Fair, Ah, wild goat is crowned king, an actual crown adjusted for his horn, head and everything. He stands on a platform above the square for three whole days and nights after being coaxed and cooed down from the mountain by a goat catcher Frank Joy, a man who spends months scrambling around the carry undergrowth looking for the finest specimen, the animal rights charity. Peter calls the festival a terrible ordeal for the goat dragged down from its beautiful mansion home for this ludicrous rain before being turned loose again. I couldn't find anyone in Kellogg Lin, who agreed. Taxi driver John Twists Ah, former police detective, leans over the steering wheel to Eulogise about the fair's magical power to unite people. Locals will tell you that the parks checked over by a vet each day and given a few weeks in human company to condition him. He's also trimmed a manicured to remove the years of man's in weathering, suddenly alone on his stage, he's blond and blue Fong, a strutting leader of men. Of course, every king must have a queen, and so a local girl has the honour of marrying him Each year. It's a great coup to be the girl who got the goat like being prom queen in small town America, and she sits aboard, afloat in full ceremonial dress, surrounded by jealous ladies in waiting. One former pop queen tells me about her experience of being betrothed to a goat in her early teens. While it was a proud moment, not least for her family photo album, she admits that being cheated into photographs with the wild goatees kind of smelly. The first of three days of the fair used to see hundreds of horses let loose on the tight streets on their way to be sold. But those days have disappeared. The clattering of hooves on stone is still heard during a smaller cattle fair, though it's more often drowned out by the sound of drinking and carousing. There's free music everywhere, as bands and singers perform constantly for all three days. One, Dr Fox's old timey string band, once played 11 geeks in three nights. We almost died afterwards, says the singer. But on any weekend, no bar ever really closes. In kill Auckland. The gentle rhythm of chatter hums along behind shuttered windows long after the fiddlers have finished behind doors swirls of smoke hanging around the drinkers who were determined not to go home where once he repelled them, the goat king now welcomes invading hordes. Coach loads of tourists take self is near the statue of a park that's still guards the town's gates. They were always surprised to discover the figure, some five feet high stood on its back. Legs is actually to scale. Yet the area is still under attack in another way, the starkly beautiful Ross Bay beaches, vanishing with millions of tonnes of sand, lost to erosion. A storm in 2016 destroyed tarmac roads and footpaths and deposited an old wrecked ship on the shore. Kill ogling clings onto its history as the goats platform is hydraulically raised. Local singer Sean O'Shay trolls out the and poke our boiler on Ode to the Pox Heroics. It's very hard to read goat body language apart from the occasional bleeds, but he simply stairs majestically towards the mini mart window. As he rises, a poem from Kill Ogling goes Harar for the parks so *** for he's the powerful fella. Wind and rain don't touch his tail, for his thick hair is long and yellow, bemused by humanity but placated by Cabbage King. Puck will reign for another three days, Andy Jones, and that's all from us today, but we'll be back with more from our correspondents on Saturday morning. As usual, Do join us goodbye