Rural Concerns - Select One's Escapade LIVE from The Bill Murray

Episode Date: November 4, 2025

From the Patreon archive - the full bootleg of the Select One's Escapade from The Bill Murray back in February 2025. If you like the sound of that and want to see things at the same time as hearing something very similar, the boy oh boy are you in luck! We’re performing a Rural Concerns live show in Manchester on 22nd November 2025! It’s going to be a heady mix of slander, skits and choice-based adventure gaming! Grab your tickets here.  And if you want access to The Creamery and a whole bunch of other bonus episodes like this, join us on Patreon. For less than a fiver you can get bonus episodes and access to our Discord community, The Creamery. If you have a Rural Concern you can send us an email to [e-mail]. We promise we’ll be very kind!  Our artwork is by Poppy Hillstead, our music is by Sam O’Leary and our legal due diligence is by Cal Derrick, Entertainment Lawyer. Rural Concerns is edited by Joseph Burrows and produced by Egg Mountain for A Lovely Time Productions.

Hello everybody. It's me, Chris, speaking to you from Under a Duveh in Whitby, which is where Frankenstein's monster first, you know, made land fall for the history buffs. This week, we have officially ran out of road in terms of our hectic schedules. Sunil's been away. I've been away. James has been on holiday. It's all change.

It's all change. We'll fill you in next week. But basically, this is an episode from the archive. We did, we recorded in London that we haven't put out on the main feed, which we thought would be a laugh. And if you like this, well, you can get. tickets to our live show on the 22nd of November in Manchester. I don't know why I've sort of got a bit hollery, but that's week before you,

isn't it? You know, we've just been here. It's golf weekend. Clock the tail end of golf weekend. Go on this at least. Oh, is this my new mic? You've got a new mic. Oh, perfect.

And you're having a beer? I'm having a beer? Yeah. Oh, can I have a beer? Cheers. Cheers. Cheers, everyone is having a beer. Cheers.

Cheers. Cheers. Cheers. Okay. Now, this, I highly suspect that this, what's about to happen, will not go out as a main podcast. I highly, right, I've basically written a brand new, choose your own choices quest. This has consumed more of my week than I would have liked. It's, I looked at the last one that we did, and it's seven pages.

And this one is running hot at 28. Jesus Christ, Chris, this is insane. This is ridiculous. It got too big. In fact, also, last time after we did one of these, someone in the Someone in a Patreon Discord community pointed out that the only female characters that we had

in the piece wasn't really an active character and you might even say that all she really did was have big naturals. So to help us redress a balance, can I please go around and a pause to Nicola, my wife. I'll put it on this microphone. Are you gonna sit?

I don't know, where do you want to? Sit there and then we'll pass it to you. Sorry, strangers. Oh, you're double fisting and you're gonna need two microphones. Oh my gosh. So now, could you pass that microphone from behind you? Right, yes. Does you have the paper script?

I put it on your chair. Have you sat on it? I've sat on it. He sat on it. And this is this one? This one needs to get some Nicola. Nicola. Nicola.

there we go thanks James you're very welcome right then is everyone happy okay yeah this is

oh no you need this one as well let's just crack off you need that one as well could you be a mic stand that's an audio professional one for the recording one for the room guys

I've worked this all out in my mind's palace and then they got here and it wasn't my mind palace. It was a real room. Guys, this is the feast of the digging a trip. Chapter one, the train. Oh, wait, wait. I have a question. You're doing all the...

Yeah, but when do I use, which mic? Do I use? Is this the same one? That one's for the recording. So just this. What's your name? Adam. Adam.

Thanks, Adam. What are you waiting for? To get ready, hold on. You need a better filing system than this? I do, it's alphabetical. Everything's alphabetical, and it's within other things. But what you should call it is like R-C-L. See, what happened now?

I was looking for train. I've called it Chris Train. Yeah, because I might do a train as well. Yeah. What kind of at the end is the last prompted, yeah? Tug-a-chug-chug-o. You wake up with... I'm just having my fun.

This is for everybody's fun. This is it, this was... I'm going to say it, it's a full working week. So, you wake up with a wince on a steamer train, hurtling through the night. You're perfect... And don't mind before we get started. mind before we get started.

The aim of these games that we play, the meditations, the Choose Your Own Adventures, is exclusively to educate Sunil about the countryside. This is, for you, this is to put you... We did a whole one about social media promotion as well, so it's not just

about the country side, isn't it? Sonnell doesn't have any empathy. So this is like, it's basically everything that we've learned on the podcast over the last year, This is a test. All right, great. You're perfectly round and big in an average head.

Strobs with the hangover, you hope to sleep through. Your mouth is dry. Your eye struggled to focus. By the beard of Archimedes, I got properly shitted last night. That's good. I'm not giving notes, but try to bring it off the page. You are not alone in the compartment. Across from you, a huge man snores.

He's wearing a shirt of a football team and has the underbite common amongst the working glasses. He's surrounded by tinnies and the carcass of a meal deal. The sleeping oaf is cradling a loose scotch egg. You are suddenly ravishingly hungry. Ravenously. Yeah. Let's take that again without you laughing, please.

No, we haven't got the time. It's going in. Like, choice, do you reach for the Scotch egg, turn to 39? Or do you leave the giant undisturbed and go hungry? Turn to 122. We are pressed for time. should I get I reach for the scotch egg you reach for the scotch egg

you delicately reach across the table whispering to yourself come here to me eggy just as your fingers are about to graze the egg's delicious crumb the giant's eyes suddenly snap open he begins to pull the scotch egg away

from your longing grass am I the giant or is next to the joint no you are No, I'm adjourned, okay. But, yeah, yeah. Do you have designs upon my egg? No, it says normal voice, honey.

That's my acting voice. Sir, I find myself out of sorts and in dire need of nourishment. I'm sorry to hear of your predicament, stranger, but I had to sacrifice a great deal to acquire this crumbed sphere. Sadly, I cannot just give it to you. You sink back into your seat,

dejected and ravenous We haven't got time for you to laugh but how about I give you a chance to win it? Oh, your interest is piqued as the giant produces an object

from his pocket. What's that? I said it, you do the lines. It's a D-12. That's the bad. It's a beautiful, beautiful dye. I just roll it now, then. Roll the D12.

What are you are? Two. If you roll between one and nine, the giant opens the window and flings a scotch egg out into the room. You're still totally starving. Okay. Turn to one, two, two.

You, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Where do we go now, Chris? Just fall in apart. Is it chapter two? We just chill out, we don't go to chapter two. It's nothing to do. Wait a minute. Resigned to hunger, you look outside of the window. It's not immediately clear where you are.

The ink-black darkness only confirms that you've long since left behind the permanently lit capital, and it's Moorish nocturnal delight. Fucking hell, that's a sentence. You notice something tucked in between the cushions of the carriage. It's a D12, you quickly pocket it. You need a D12 for later. It's right to keep the D12 here. He's only got one D12, all right?

One continuous D12, yeah. Sudden width. A sudden whiff of stale pipe smoke combined with the sound of the train's monstrous combustion engine. We don't have time. Monstrous combustion engine jogs your memory of last night's merriment. You spent last evening celebrating in the members' bar of the King's Anthropology Guild. You tried to recall the particulars, but only fractured glimpses remain.

Your memory is largely redacted by a potent cocktail of top-shelf spirits, forbidden powders and tiger blood dick pills. dick pills. You remember waggling a 50 at a waiter. The waiter had pristine skin that wobbled like a pan of cotter. Fortune has finally shone upon me, lad. I simply must be allowed to do cocaine off the table. Before telling the other esteemed members of the guild exactly what you think of them.

You're an idiot, you're an idiot, you're an idiot. I know why. You're the biggest idiot of all. There you go. And there was the sound, and you remembered a distant sound of a bell. Adam, could you be a bell for me, please? Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. Excellent. There we go. I thought that was an actual bell. I thought Adam was. I think he's got a bell in his mouth. You shall be cold on twice. Your remembrance is suddenly interrupted by a knock on your cabin door.

Oh, yes. Drive school. It's a train's conductor. Tickets, please. Thank you. Thanks. You look down at your crotch. Your referee has inspired a dangerous life.

had a dangerous looking lump in your amphipogical your better issued cords. You feel a sheen of embarrassment. Choice, do you jump in front of the moving train to avoid your shame? Or do you stay on the train and presume the ticket pex inspector has seen it all before?

And much worse. I jump from the train. You're open. the carriage door, not hearing the conductor's cries. It's not that big, it just looks like a small corduroy plate. You poke your head out to see what you'll be jumping into and I instantly decapitated by the 946 men like to London. You are denser, the end.

Oh, 25 more minutes to film. Yeah, it was worth a clap, actually. I'll give you a bit of a do-over because, again, you're not using your verbal concerns podcast analytical brain. What do we always say?

Keep the story going. Don't say that, Chris. Never be ashamed of an event. Okay. That's the general rule for this story. Just, yeah, just just try to use your brain. Okay.

So let's go. All right, I'll stay on the train and presume the ticket inspector has seen it all before and worse. You produce your ticket for inspection. Excuse me, how far are we off lower titly? Well, that's our next stop, but I wouldn't recommend stopping there. Oh, so? There's an agricultural festival this weekend, and it's closed to outsiders. That's exactly the purpose for my visit.

I've been invited to witness the festival personally by the village alderman. Ah, so you're the Dignetrain. Yes, I've been granted a special pass which allows me to observe the festival on behalf of King's Anthropology Guild. The Kings. Well, you didn't write with that, Ken, you don't know? You root around in your satchel.

It's a huge honour. It always is. After a moment, you find what you were looking for, an invite, you still feel excitement seeing the Elderman's golden wax seal. Excuse me, but there's no chance you have some sort of snack try on board, is that I'm completely famished. We'll be... I'm so sorry, one second.

We'll be pulling into lower titly shortly. You'll want to save your appetite. Oh. Farshad away. Chapter 2, the older man. No, no. Sorry. As the train pulls into the station, you see that the platform is full of people.

A bit more than that. It feels as if the whole village of Lower Tickley has come out to greet you. There are little children waving flags, now old elders smiling, and you're even getting winks from beautiful rural ladies. As you step off the train, the crowd lets out a cheer. Wray! You are struck by how happy they are to see you, a far cry from the averted gazes

of those hacks at the King's Anthropology Guild. A high-pitched whistle emanates from the train, signalling its departure. Sweet. Chug-chug-chug-choo-choo-choo. You turn around and briefly catch sight of the conductor. You note the profound look of sadness in her eyes as the train chugs the way out of you. But your attention is drawn back to the crowd of well-wishers.

Everyone is wearing vibrant autuminal colours and carrying handmade banners featuring different foods. Several of the banners feature a pig wearing a crown of wicker. Others feature what looks like a hairy goblin bearing its... horrible teeth. You whisper to yourself. This is exactly the sort of mad regional shit that the socio-cultural quarterly would lap up. A photograph would surely land you the coveted front-page spot. Do you reach for your camera or do you let the moment pass and hope to gather evidence later? Camera.

Camera. Camera. Yeah. Okay. You pull out your camera with the intention of photographing the possession. zoom in on a little lad banging a drum with a prick, get a big strata. Mental.

You whisper to yourself. The front page is surely mine. Bye-bye Indigenous lady, tooting on a Marlborough light. Before you can take the picture, the camera is batted out of your. hands and smashes on the floor. You turn around and are startled by what must surely be a vision from hell, the terrifying specter of a creature with hundreds of eyes, each one charged with pure malice.

After a moment, you realise, what's the noise for that? I thought there'd be a picture. I thought you drew a picture. Oh, it's a pause. After a moment, you realise it's only a mask being worn by a village. He's wearing a blood red hood, tunic and leggings. You also know a wooden baton poking out of his waistband. Your mast assailant continues to glare at you and it feels as if it's going to kick the F off. After a moment, you realise the platform is dotted

with several of these many-eyed enforcers, each wearing a different coloured tunic. Luckily, the standoff is interrupted. Who did you say you want me to play this as earlier? I said like Rory Keney. Rory Keneer. But a woman version, right? Mary Keneer.

Roretta. Just like a regional, I mean this gives her a story, but a regional dairy farming magnet. Probably gold topping waitrose. Yeah? Yeah. Just do it as middle age man. Never been directed.

Okay. Leave him be. Please accept my apologies. My constable is scrupulous but perhaps a little overzealous in the duties. I'll reimburse you for the camera. That's actually bang on love. Meeting the older. Your saviour, who turns out to be a woman wearing trousers.

What will this screwy century for us next? You okay? I'm sorry. Sorry, yeah, sorry, okay. Sorry, where are my manners? Welcome, Dr Patel. My name is Joe Saltzbrush and the alderman of Lower Titles. Ah, Joe, I assumed you'd be...

Not man? Sorry to disappoint. I'm a female character who's actively making choices. Wait a minute. Guys, let her speak. And just happens to have big naturals. You can have it all. you have a cheeky glance

I'm sorry no I gave you a tour of the village do you accept the alderman's request and take a tour of the village which reeks of heavy exposition or would you decline the alderman's offer

in favour of seeking out your lodging are doing your own research. Right. Well, yeah, I'll accept. Let's do an... I'll accept the Aldermans request. Come on. Hop aboard.

I'm sorry. The directions actually add a lot of... Just say it then. Just say it. The alderman lead you to a nearby quad bike. She climbs a board, puts the key in the engine.

Come on, hop a board. You climb aboard the quad bike behind the album. She tinkles a small... Olderment, hold, ma... She tinkles a small bell. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. The crowd instantly parts. She's clearly got these bunkings well trained.

With a rev, the quad bike tears away from the platform. Mimimim. The acting degree, it's just paying for itself. One quarter at Mime School, three months of Mime School for that. You zip, you have to do a bit more of this. You zip through the countryside at some speed. Mim, mhm.

The alderman clearly knows the tight country roads at the back of her hand. She shouts back over the engine. Mim, mhm. Thanks for accepting your invitation, Dr. Patel. It's a huge honour to help you as our guests of honoured. That's very kind, although I have to confess, I was surprised to receive your letter. Surprised? You're a visionary.

I read all your work and found your paper on curing short-sightedness with eye exercises to be illuminating. This babe had clearly done a research. Thank you. I'm excited to learn as much as possible. The Lower Titley Festival has been long discussed in the King's Anthropology. Guild, but nobody has been able to gain entry. I have to say, I feel incredibly special. I'll mark my words, Dr. Patel. You're about to experience something that will change you forever.

Before you can ask her what she means, the alderman suddenly takes a corner, and it feels like the quad's about to flip over. Me, me, me. You begin to climb a steep hill, and after a moment, the thick roadside hedges give way to reveal a brilliant view of the valley, which houses Lower Tickley.

She stops the quad by an ancient oak tree and turns off its engine. That's Lower Tidley. You're presented with the very image of an Arcadian adil. A small village of fat cottage roofs nestled in luscious green fields, England at its finest. The village is dotted with small smoking chimneys.

You also notice a building. building which must surely be a church as well as a larger hole-like structure in the centre. The surrounding area is dotted with several small farms as well as one larger, clearly commercial outfit. You take out your camera to document this sunlight vista. How many people live here? Last time we did the register around 700. And what do they do for work? Well, Tittley's always been an agricultural community and these days the majority of the village works for my farm.

It suddenly dawns on you who you are speaking to. Ah, you're Salt's Brush Dairy. Yes, I took over the running of the dairy farm for my late father. And it wasn't easy, and of course sacrifices had to be made, but I significantly expanded the business. I'm well aware. They've recently started stocking your products in Michael Marks and Thomas Spencer's Grocery. I love your luxury butter, the one that's full of salt crystals.

If my numbers came in, if my numbers came in, I'd love nothing more than to fill an empty swimming bath, fill it with it and dive right in. I'm sure that can be arranged. The festival's always been my family's way of celebrating tradition as well as rewarding the town for their hard graft. Did I really have some issue with shareholders a few years back? Yes. It was somewhat of a revolt when I took over from my father.

I proposed a radical overhaul of turf them out. I wanted to invest some profits back into the business, not have it line the gullet of some pigs in London. Sorry, I've not seen this before. Babe, it's called a cold reed. Don't, babe, me. Not have it lying in the gullet of some pigs in London. I believe that sacrifice is essential

if you want to ensure that the whole community rises. Don't you agree, Dr Patel? Yes, of course. You're not really paying attention. It's certainly dawns in the unit you are still famished. Would it be possible to get something to eat? Of course. must be a far missed.

The alderman looks at her pocket watch. It's nearly time for the feast. Come on, hop on board. You climb back onto the quad. What's on the menu? I have one question for you, Dr Patel. The alderman starts the engine. Mim, mim, mhm.

Do you eat, and would you normally eat trifle? Okay. Am I going to be made into a trifling? Before you can point out, that's actually two questions. The chord shoots off down the hill towards forward tickle. Naming, mhm, mhm, me. Naming the outskirts of the village, your eye is drawn to a mysterious set of buildings. It's clearly a farm of some description, but it's surrounded by a 12,000. foot dry stone wall.

You think to yourself it was more like a fortress than a premise of agriculture. What's that? Not everyone shares my love for the old ways. The owner of that farm is pursuing methods

that sit at odds with our principles. Promise me you'll stay clear of the exiles farm. That's the one place I cannot protect you. Perhaps unconsciously the alderman accelerates

slightly as you pass the farm. Mim, him, mhm. In the distance, you see a figure of a farmer, he stops feeding his swine to look in your direction. His face obscured by the brow of his flat cap. Who could this make? The quadrime drives it to the distance. It's the same as my Bob Dylan impression, but I. Chapter 3, the Feast of the Dignatry.

You check into your room with the the pig and fissile, a lively pub with a great selection of local hails, hand pulled by the landlord's daughter. Your stomach is now roaring, but she confirms the kitchen has closed for the feast. You get the key to your room and head towards the stairs. Perhaps there'll be a tea station with a little packet of biscuits to someone, you know. A coconut ring you can practice French kitten or. You make your way towards the stage as you're naming the door, a dart flies right past your head. Funk.

This is you. Oh yeah. What's this for? What's it? All right, Thick-O-Villiger. Thick-O-Villiger. I got this. I had a Devon sort of away at someone, you know, like that, no, no, not. Just happens to sound thick from Devon. This one. What, you're a big boy?

Oh no, well, man, I've lost. I've gone up, I'll go down. Shall I fill? Can't have too much to do. Do you want me to read? So here it is, look, it's right in front of you here. Oh, yeah, it's just, I'm sure screaming at me. You spin around in the direction of the dart.

It missed your head by a millimetre. You are greeted by the smirking face of, the local village fickle he's flanked by another few rural yorkels they've got calloused hands and they're wearing tracksuit bottoms outside the house you must pick your moves your next moves very carefully do you swallow your masculine energy to placate the fickle when he's going or do you let loose and give this lummox and his and his goons what for I think, yeah, fight him. You fighting him?

Yeah, why not? That's good. I don't want to spoil the story, but if you'd have chosen to suppress your masculine energy, you would have got too much testosterone in your body and you would have died. It really is a message running through this, isn't it? The message is that the boys are back in charge.

Have you heard that there's only boys being born? No, that's not true. We've talked about this. It's not true. The only boys are being born. We just need to run out the clock and then we're back on top. Right then.

The villager looks you in the eye, clearly thrilled with himself. You give him what for? Listen, Dickhead, stop fucking about or I'll have you up by the neck. The thicker looks rattled by your defiance. Like old bullies, he doesn't like being spoken facto.

Oh, the dignitary fancies himself an ard man. You puff out your chest and address the rest of the group. And if any of you soppy tits try anything, I'll beat you until your balls re-dropping. That last bit didn't really make any sense. But he seems to have done the trick, full of swag, and with balls...

And with balls as big as watermelon. You saunter upstairs to your room You whang a cheeky wink at the landlord's daughter Masculent energy prevails Although your stomach is now roaring You feel human again Thanks to a quick shower On your bed you find a package from the alderman

There's a note Dear Dr Patel Please find enclosed your ceremonial dress The feast awaits Thank you for your sacrifice This is good writing. You open the package and look inside. The material is very colourful.

You've made it a habit to never be seen without a tailored suit. But you understand the only way to earn the trust of these common people is by respecting their culture. You squeeze yourself into the costume and sit on the bed. On the coffee table you know. but you noticed a couple of books. You're pleasantly surprised to see your most recent paper entertaining with one set of

cutlery. But your eyes drawn to the book it was hiding. How to placate a rampant baboons. Do you read the book? Turn to 201. Or do you ignore the book? Turn to 203.

It feels like I should read the book. I'll read the book, yeah. You quickly peruse how to incapacate it. I'm so glad you find you. I've got it. You quickly peruse how to incapacitate a ramp up at the boom. You open it at the first chapter. Tug it off quick as you can.

Oh, that's interesting, but I hope it's never something I need to genuinely think about. Your reading is interrupted by the sound of a bell. Tinkle, tangle, tinkle. It's finally dinner time. You leave the tavern and are greeted by a cheer from the villagers. Yay! They guide you to the square where a magnificent table is laid out with fantastic looking food.

The alderman appears at your shoulder. Please, Dr. Patel, take your seat. She guides you to the head of the table. Your ceremonial dress is beautiful, but so tight it's restricted your movement. I hope you're hungry. You are. Vavenos? No time for that.

Come on. And your attention is drawn to the food. There are trays of lasagna, bowls of trifle, cottage pies, tiramisu, shepherd's pies, Benopi pies. They're all the same thing. And much like this story, lay it. The Oldman rings a bell. I lied at him.

Tinkle, tinkle. Dinner time. You start to chow down. It's delicious and you can't stop yourself. After a few minutes you realize that nobody else is. eating, you look up and realise that everybody's just watching you. And not only now, they're now all wearing masks. What's happening? I thought you agreed, Dr Patel. Sacrifice is important. You're giving us a great gift with which, you're giving us a great gift which the ancient

agri-gods of the valley will reward you with full udders and, sorry, one second, reward you with full udders and really tall corn, okay. You were reading it right. What do you mean? You're distracted by a terrible, animalistic roar. You've seen that village fickle is next to a cage. What's in there? The alderman rings a bell. I'm so sorry, yeah. Tinkle, tinkle.

The fickle releases the door and a baboon comes screaming out of it. Which is a type of monkey, it's not on air. Comes screaming out of the cage. It instantly claps eyes on your colouring. Buffalo Sue and goes fucking mental. It charges towards you. You turn and run as fast as you're delicately to London, like smoke, have you?

Unfortunately, you're basically fit to burst in, full of layered delicacies. You attempt to slip the baboon down a side alley, but the thicker blocks your way. Not this way, Mr. Eminem's world. The fico pushes you down with a shove onto the ground. And a part of you just wants to give up, but you realize you've never been much of a quitter.

You summon all your energy and pull yourself up screaming. For anthropology! Back on your feet, you desperately look for alternative through the baboon sounds like it's right behind you out of the corner of your eye you spot a small basement window which isn't blocked by a villager you launch yourself into the opening and land inside with a foot you're in the buttery of the pig and fissile which is where to kick the wet foods cheese milk's wines you're surrounded by barrels wheels of cheese and boxes of scampy fries you feel

nauseous you're sick you're full of adrenaline you'd be chased by that fucking baboon. You hear the baboon, he's outside the window, you look around the room for something you could use to incapacitate it. Do you remember what you read in how to incapacitate or do you just improvise something? Well, we've got two minutes, so we've got time to wank off this monkey.

I mean, finish us off. Yeah, I read it. Yeah, I read it. Let's go to 49. I know what to do. what to do. The baboon flings itself in terrifying velocity. You lock eyes with a wild animal and feel a primal affinity. You know that the only thing, you know not only one of you will be leaving this basement, it's time to take a stand. You remember the information from the book. The baboon launches itself in your direction. Now, roll the dice. 10. If you wrote between 10 and 13, you just about managed to take the baboon.

spoon in hand and test about whacking it, it said, sir. You chugged the baboon off. Is this all right? But you can tell it's not super into it. It takes ages and your wrist hurts, but eventually, Eventually you clean the baboon's lines. It's a bit awkward. Yeah, so maybe I'll see you around.

The baboon pulls out, it's little sicky. It turns it over to sleep on a wheel of bouncy cheese. It's using as a post-coital mattress. You make your way up the stairs and up into the main bar area of the pig and viztle. It looks like all the villagers are outside looking for you, but out of nowhere, a dive, punches into your shin. Get fucked.

It's the fickle villager. Here you are. If you've managed to defang the baboon, I'll end you myself. You've had enough of this big wanker. You stand staring at each other. Who's going to make the first move? Me. Okay. You charge the fico. Come on then. You run full pelt towards the fico, but he dodges you easily and you hit the wall with some first.

Force. The fico picks up a billion who are lumbers towards you. I'm gonna run you through with this, like a shish kebab. Then you'll be dead. You're surely done for, but suddenly you remember what's in your right hand?

Monkey spunk. Quick as a flash, you bang a brimming handful of monkey smug at his eyes. I'm blinded by Smelly Viscuit's monkey, sir. You sneak up behind the blinded fickle and smash his head in on the bar. The Vico's body slumps against the floor. Only name do you notice the landlord's daughter is cowing behind the bar.

She points at the door titled Staff Only. The door leads to a garibs containing yet another quad bike. You jump on, turn the key and rev the shit out of there. Mim, me. The quad growls as you burst out of the pig and fissle. The noise of the bike attracts the attention of the villagers who are clearly furious. who are clearly furious to see that you're still alive. Luckily, they're unable to keep up as the quad

tears out of lower tickley. You give them all the fingers as you pull off into the distance. Scyonara, dickheads. The villagers are still in pursuit, but they're losing ground fading in the distance. You'll happily rag this quad all the way to the train station, but then it's a first class ticket to London and you'll be back in the booby bars of Soho.

Like nightfall. Mim, mim, m m m m m m. You look down, alarmed to discover that the fuel gauge on the quad is showing it's empty. The splutters and slows down. The mob starts to get louder. All your hope will leave your body. You will surely die in Louis-a-Tickley,

eaten by people who don't know about Houston's secret hotel shock around. The quad vibe comes to a stop. Shit! You look up and realise that perhaps all is not lost. You are 100 foot away from the Exiles' fortified farm. It's a big steel door swings open

and a muddy arm beckaged you inside. Surely this is your one chance of surviving. Do you take make for the Exiles farm or do you go for the tree line? Yeah, let's go to the farm. I think I know what's in there. You run towards the Exiles farm. It sounds as if the mob is nearly upon you.

You lunch for the muddy outstretched arm. which pulls you inside the compound and slams the door shut behind you. The villagers sound disappointed. You catch your breath. They're trying to kill me for something to do with the sacrifice, which, if I'm honest, doesn't feel properly flashed out. I owe you my life. What's your name, stranger? Heyo da!

My name is farming, budge. I don't defy me. I'm there's a farmer, the milk, eh. And you look like you can do it with a mug of sweet brouillard. Sorry? Do you want a cup of tea, you fake, quunt? Oh, yes, that'd be lovely, thank you. How'd you take it?

Just with a bit of milk. Semi-skimmed, if you've got it? I don't. I only have one type of milk, and it comes directly from deteat. Farmer Buckerton passes you a mug of hot tea, fully curdled. You glug it down, eager not to insult your eccentric saviour. Thank you for taking me in, Farmer Bugerton. I take it you don't celebrate the festival or the rest of the village.

I don't see eye to eye with the out of the endemant. She's a lady in trousers and it just doesn't write. And she doesn't approve of my studies. Oh, what studies are they? What are you asking, boy? Are you wanting to steal me secrets? I meant no offence. Farmer Bugerton, who remember canonically is for more.

Leicester. Eyeballs you suspiciously. You notice he has a big damp patches around his nipples. You put the teeth down. What is it you farm here? Mushrooms. Oh, that's interesting. You realise the rummuring is full of colourful mushrooms.

Do you do chestnut, shittaki? No, I cultivate rare specimens. How did you get into that then? I used to be a dairy farmer. It's a good life. You can have a bang on a teeth whenever you would like. But then my lovely wife, Marginine,

died in a horrible agricultural accident. I was very sad, but then I heard about a rare type of mushroom they found in Cumbria that can give you a full head of hair and a brand new set of teeth. Is that real? Yes, it's real.

There are only three a year. It's very rare. Mushrooms can give brilliant gifts but they come at a terrible cost. It was then that I devoted all my time to study in my silium networks in the hope of bringing my dear margarine back from the dead.

Right, well, thanks for the tea. I'll sneak out the back. You'll not get that! They've got the place surrounded, lad. I've been digging a network of tunnels under my farm, which will take you to the country-county line. I'll show you it away,

but you have to eat one of my mushrooms. Alternatively, they could just live here, but you have to wear the dress and you will henceforth be known as Marjorie. Do you eat the mushroom and escape via the tunnels or do you become Falamabuggeton's loving wife Marjorie?

I will eat the mushrooms, thank you. Okay. You eat Farmer Buggeton's strange looking mushroom and enter the cato combs under lower tickle. After a while, you begin to feel strange and pass out, and you wake up later in an underground cave, lit by the bioluminescence of mushrooms. There are mushrooms everywhere.

On the floor, on the ceiling, they're even coming out of your skin. But you don't feel any pain. You're happy to be finally home as part of Farmer Buggeton's Massilium Network. The end. Have you got to be. Very good. Thank God.

Have you learned something? What am I supposed to learn from that? What one thing could I learn from that? I still have so much work. I guess we'll just have to keep going. Guys, that's our time. We've got to go. Thank you so much for coming.

It's the first time we've done a live show. First time we've actually done it together. ever, to be totally honest with you. So it's been very special. And just thank you for listening, because started it a year ago, I was having, I would say, like a full mental breakdown. And honestly, I don't think it's got any better.

But it's nice to know I'm not alone. So thank you very much. This has been Rural Compton. Thank you very much. Thank you for Kate the Quimittances!