Reports are a little sketchy at this point, but it is believed that something happened in Droitwich over the weekend, and the locals are deeply concerned.
One resident, standing guard on the driveway of his semi-detached residence told reporters that he wasn't quite sure exactly what had happened, but confirmed that a Farcebook 'friend' had advised him that there had indeed been some kind of event.
"I'm taking no chances," the concerned resident stated. "You never quite know where you stand with events. So I chose to stand on my driveway. Just in case."
Other local residents, sharing the opinion of the first resident were also adamant.
"I'm not budging," a man who was sitting in a yoga position on the roof of his Toyota Corolla, declared. "At least, not till this 'happening' or event, or whatever you call it, has moved on. Strange things is events and happenings - you just don't don't know where you stand with 'em. A bit like cryptic crossword puzzles really - just totally different. Right pain in the arse they are."
One local resident reportedly took cover in a bunker by the ninth green on a local golf course. He declined to answer any specific lines of questioning, but did say:
"Go away! Just bugger off will yers! I'm not comin' out of here 'til it's gone. Roight?"
Indeed, it seems that Droitwich has been in turmoil all weekend, with concerned citizens preparing for some kind of 'event,' with citizens on the alert in scenes not witnessed since the days of the salt shortage riots.
"It's a bit scary," one admitted, as he hid behind a post box. And refused to come out until the danger had passed.
"I'm not fucking surprised they're paranoid round here," visitor Martin Shuttlecock, who lives in Hampshire opined. "We were staying at a local hotel, where we'd booked B&B, a double room, and a free wi-fi service. We got a twin room, half toasted toast with two dollops of baked beans, two vegan sausages, and scrambled egg that would have done the Michelin Rubber Corporation proud, and the free wi-fi wasn't even available in-room, just at the bar. Where they didn't even sell proper beer. Just that four percent shite. At nearly four squids a pop. I was hoping to file some copy with that Bolivian geezer, the Lancaster computer whizz, Peregrine Tripp or whatever the fuck it is they call him, and the French bloke with the tube. But then the Worcestershire young farmers came in, pissed up to the eyeballs and put Simon Cowbell's bastard X-Factor on the telly in the bar. So I fucked off to bed. I hate these "young farmers" - the women all look like horses and the chaps are all knobheads. Anyway, getting back to where something happened...I doubt that. Take it with a pinch of Droitwich salt. Carrot crunching bastards."
More as we get it.