It's 1992. The Doomsday Clock is the furthest it has ever been from midnight. It's the safest, most peaceful and contented time planet Earth has known since the invention of atomic weapons. But not everywhere is as safe as everywhere else in the world . . .

Here we are in Hobsick. Population: 2,001. A secluded village located somewhere just south of the north of the midlands. Seven miles to the east, a busy dual carriageway barely acknowledges that Hobsick exists, pointing any potential traffic down a sinister, unnamed B-road. To the west of the village sags the overgrown, potholed remains of twelve miles of another dual carriageway, as good as severed from civilization by a landslide in 1967. Between these two bypasses, shrouded by dense, ancient woodland, dismal bogs and bracing moors throngs Hobsick: a flabby smudge of pebble-dashed pubs and draughty prefabs, red-brick terraced cottages adorned with gaudy window boxes bursting with fresh nettles, a well-tended allotment, a filling station with a selection of horror film videos to rent for 40p per tape per night, two competitive chip shops, and a newly refurbished community centre with a reclaimed asbestos roof. People stare at each other from behind net curtains, mend tractors, prank-call one another, attend boiled egg painting classes, start turf wars and enjoy a thriving thrash metal scene.

But certain aspects of village life entangle the place in mystery . . . historically the village was established centuries ago on the site of an ancient village of the same name . . . the surrounding woods aren't safe because they are full of lions (last estimate: 80 lions) . . . a higher than normal proportion of men have the first name Keiron . . . hedges get trimmed at the wrong time of year by ghostly gardeners who shout "Stan!" at one another . . . cigar-shaped space alien crafts have been sighted on at least several occasions by local residents, closely followed by ash tray-shaped unidentified flying saucers, and pursued by scotch bottle-shaped military jets . . . space aliens have even been seen in the Cross Keys trying to pay for large rounds of drinks with pre-decimal currency . . .

But the most persistently challenging mystery of all is Sir Bernard Moore. What is he? For twenty years he has treated Hobsick as his playground, and suffered the consequences: mangled in a tricycle wreck joyriding in 1973; shot in the head in 1977 whilst stealing buns; thrown off a dam by visiting Texas Rangers in 1980; swallowed whole (and evidently regurgitated) by Mandy the village anaconda, September 12, 1990 . . . witnesses have seen him drowned, struck by lightning, mauled by pigs, run over by a bin lorry, crushed under a car-port, washed out to sea locked in a chest freezer . . . he has been known to consume buttered stones, a pint of sand, rancid scampi, a massive bee and watch batteries. How do the people of Hobsick cope with this unemployable, misunderstood, drunk, gobby zombie? Despite all the tethers and tranquilizer darts, electric fences and curfews, arrests, threats, car chases and court appearances, he has continued to blunder and shapeshift his way into their lives. Did he need sectioning? Did he need counselling? Did he need packing off to a yoga retreat in Chesterfield to 'find himself'?

No. It turned out all he needed was a portable tape recorder, a microphone and a sense of purpose.

A down-to-earth, heartwarming and feel-good action adventure show, with a generous sprinkling of credible, one-dimensional unsavouries, and where the good guys always tend to win!

Join Sir Bernard Moore on this incredible journey of a person in a place doing things with other people in the area.

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.