The population of a village in Gloucestershire was concerned and mystified this week when a street in Bamfurlong was named as the slowest for broadband internet, according to an annual survey by uSwitch. The study said that homes on Greenmeadows Park averaged just 0.14 megabits per second (Mbps).
The editor forced The Spoof's IT correspondent, G. Poxley-Quaint, to come out of his bedroom and to don wellies to take his life in his hands by visiting the muddied highways and byways of Bamfurlong, which is only one mile from secret government snoopers GCHQ.
It was a strange experience (writes Poxley-Quaint) being out in the freezing open air with the grey leaden sky above me and my nostrils being assaulted by the aroma of what I think might have been pig shit. There was no-one to be seen in the street. It was like one of those zombie apocalypse films where everyone is out of sight until you round a corner and are confronted by flesh-eating crazies. I trod fearfully, now and then avoiding a fresh cow pat, until I came upon a small thatched cottage festooned with Union Jacks and bearing the sign "Bamfurlong Village Hall: OAPs' Tea Dance every Thursday." Ha!" I thought as I entered "this must be the archetypal Brexit land".
Once inside I heard the strains of Vera Lynn singing "White Cliffs of Dover" coming from an ancient portable record player and I was approached by a dishevelled, bearded personage who told me that he was the Mayor of Bamfurlong, Mr Albert Worzel-Gummidge. He smelt of cider and mucking-out and was unsteady on his feet but nevertheless he consented to a short interview.
"So what's it like having the slowest for broadband internet in the country?"
"What's that then?"
"You know: the internet, world wide web, email, Facebook, all that stuff."
"No idea what yer on about. Yer one of them metropolitan elite ain't you with yer new fangled namby pamby ideas. We don't put up with that kind of stuff 'ere in Gloucestershire. We're too busy milking the cows and inseminating our pigs."
I could see that I was flogging a dead horse, to use the local vernacular, and I thanked Mr Worzel-Gummidge for his time.
As I stood up to leave he asked me "Aren't ye goin' to stay fer the OAPs' tea dance? There's one or two right goers 'ere. They're always up for a noggin of cider and a bit of rumpy pumpy in the barn out the back."
In the true tradition of The Spoof journalism, I made my excuses and left.