There was a pig. It was in the cellar. I was listening to a record by Paul Weller. He sang “Tales From The Riverbank”. I looked at the pig and my heart sank. I looked at the pig and our eyes met, The Jam song deafening on my Dansette, a very old record player if truth be told. The cellar was gloomy and damp and cold. So I lifted the needle off of the disc, I filed the record back under Misc., and I unlocked the door with a big iron key, and I climbed up the stairs with the pig beside me, and we ran outside into the battering sun, and down to the riverbank where we had fun, the pig and me paddling, splashing about, with voles and otters. Then I heard a shout. A fellow was waving from the opposite bank. At first I thought he was some kind of crank. But it was Paul Weller, to my amaze, dressed as he was in his Style Council days. Now the pig liked The Jam, it was that kind of pig. It had never gone near a Style Council gig. It grunted and trotted off back to the cellar. So was my pig/river idyll marred by Paul Weller.