Griselda never used a broomstick. In her view they were old fashioned and anyway, the stupid thing was always breaking down. So that evening she dressed in her grooviest black satin dress, stripy tights, pointy hat and shoes (with buckles on, of course, but since they were evening wear, with slightly higher heels) and materialised outside the Halloween Club; only to find it squashed under 4 million tins of spam.
Oops.
Everyone was amazed and the Mayor kept his promise, although not his composure, as he ate his hat. Griselda opened the nearest tin of spam and selected the spoon blade of her Noopian Army penknife.
“Anybody like to try some?” she asked but they shook their heads. Silence fell as she put the spoon into her mouth and tasted the spam.
“Yuk!” she said and in a flash of inspiration, invented Deed Poll.
Now Griselda the Spam Eating (But Only Sometimes, And Only Then, As Fritters) Wench of Noop had one small problem. She had three million, nine hundred and ninety nine cans of spam to dispose of. The Mayor suppressed a burp – his hat was repeating on him terribly – and suggested that perhaps, in the light of the Halloween Club’s recent fate, the remaining cans could be used as bricks to build a replacement night spot.
So that’s how, in the ruins of the Halloween Club, Spam City was built and Griselda the Spam Eating (But Only Sometimes, And Only Then, As Fritters) Wench of Noop became the most successful, rich and trendy night club owner of the history of the Noopian nation.
Perhaps you are wondering what happened to the wizards who had been turned into three slabs of edam cheese. Well, unfortunately, despite Griselda’s good intentions to change them back to their original shape, she discovered, when she came to do so, that the Mayor had eaten them. It was a great shame, but as he explained, there is always a silver lining to every cloud; they did take away the taste of his hat.
If you’re very observant, you may also have noticed a small group of suddenly wealthy ex supermarket employees on that list of unfeasibly rich people which the Sunday papers publish. If you have, you know it’s nothing to do with the Lotto.