More in our series following one man’s sometimes funny, sometimes fraught and oft-times harrowing journey through a 20-odd-year career in arboriculture.

JUNE 1–4, 2002.

For once I know the exact date something happened because it was Queen Elizabeth’s golden jubilee, celebrating 50 years on the throne.

All was well with my world, or at least all was normal. There wasn’t an excess of work, but an employee was suffering a prolonged and intermittent bout of illness.

This made it difficult to get anything done, because I never knew exactly when he might or might not show up. He seemed to have quite a number of random and unrelated problems. No sooner was one set of tests complete and proven negative (for anything serious), then up would pop the next illness.

I was sitting in the office trying to puzzle out what to do about this when the doorbell rang. Outside was a posse.

WANT MORE TALES? 

They weren’t traditional posse material – with cowboy hats and horses – but more of a parish council group, sporting clipboards rather than Colt 45s.

“Can you help organise the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations in June?” asked George, the ringleader.

There was no doubt I could and equally little uncertainty that I didn’t want to.

The village I lived in was beautiful. It had a river, stone bridges, a pub and a small shop. I lived in the centre and with my tree surgery business, couldn’t slip under the radar too easily. 

“What is it you want me to do?” I asked, not wanting to commit to anything but almost certain I just had.

There was a list, mostly involving carting chairs and tables about, erecting some marquee things and putting up bunting. Somehow I agreed.

“Also,” George added. “Can we ask you to organise the tug of war?”

And there was the thing. I didn’t want to organise the tug of war at all. It would involve controlling members of the community, children and belligerents. 

“No, you can’t ask me,” I said, definitively.

There was some humming and hawing, a bit of embarrassed shuffling, and then I remembered the parish council had a say in all my treework applications over three villages, all conservation areas.

“Oh, all right, I’ll do it,” I said, much to everyone’s joy.

I had three children by then. Doog, the youngest, was only about two, or maybe not. I’ve never really known and he’s out at work running the business so I can’t ask him. Daisy and Lily were excited and I suppose I was too, possibly even looking forward to the event which dawned quicker than anticipated.

I’d done my bit with the tables, chairs and marquee erecting, all jobs I carried out as best I could at times when other volunteers weren’t available. So on the day itself I was able to partake of refreshments, enjoy the sunshine and enter a few competitions.

“Could all entrants for the ‘Round the Village Run’ please gather at South Gate,” the tannoy announced. And so I did.

It was a mixed bag of competitors – children as young as four, mums, elderly men and a number of middle-aged types. It was a big field too, with possibly 30 competitors, and as we set off I immediately pushed to the front, barging through a group of youngsters and setting a cracking pace. 

“I’m going to hold back a bit, give the youngsters a chance,” gasped a Lycra-clad dad.

More fool him. I was now the front runner and tearing ahead of the pack. Several more men had eased off to make way for the children, one of whom was annoyingly fit and actually making ground.

I threw down my cigar and opened up a bit, digging deep as we entered the final 100 yards, but the persistent nine-year-old just kept coming.

It was a close thing. He nearly had me on the finish line, egged on by his mum and a group of do-gooders who wanted to see the youngster crowned as jubilee race champion, but I burst through the tape a couple of feet ahead. The crowd stopped cheering, but I picked up a nice prize – a freshly minted jubilee coin – which I’ve still got.

The egg and spoon race was easy. I collected my second coin and went on to win the raffle, picking up a doll in the national dress of Switzerland. I was held back a bit by my wife in the three-legged sprint, but eventually powered past the village nurse and her husband to take first place and coin number three.

It seemed there were plenty of advantages to being fit and healthy from a lifetime of outdoor work and arboriculture – and plenty of disadvantages, as I have now discovered in later life.

It was sunny, warm and convivial when the population of four villages from our end of the valley sat down for tea and cakes. I’d not done well on the darts tournament and one of the collies had let me down a bit on ‘dog obedience’, but I was still in good spirits.

“Well done on winning first place on fancy dress, Doog,” I said, loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. I added his coin to my own collection. He was far too young to look after it and the separate silver coins both daughters had been gifted by the Queen would also be safer with me.

With the meal eaten we cleared the newly named ‘Jubilee Field’ of tables and chairs and I was approached by George from the parish council. 

“Time for the tug of war when you’re ready, Dave,” he said, handing me a megaphone.

I’d almost forgotten, but the rope was duly gotten and I laid it out under the watchful eye of several hundred villagers, unaware that this – of all things – was the highlight of the day.

I tried to look official, tying a ribbon to the middle of the rope, measuring distances and marking lines on the grass. There was a sort of muted silence as I went about my work, a sense of heavy anticipation of which I was only vaguely aware.

I did know there was rivalry between the villages. The annual New Year’s Day football and rugby tournament was always a bit rough. I’d seen several injuries as old scores were settled and drink-fuelled competitiveness took over. All that was forgotten – by me at least – as the sun beat down and I picked up the megaphone.

I had a plan.

There would be male and female heats, the best of each village pulling for their team and then a mixed sex finale for the prize (which I’d completely forgotten to supply). I reckoned there would then be time for a few children pulls, possibly with some mums, but I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.

Nor had I considered what might actually happen if euphoric celebration was mixed with alcohol, village rivalry, poor leadership and last-minute organisation.

Someone had given me a whistle, so I blew it. This was to attract everyone’s attention, at which point I could switch on the megaphone and authoritatively explain the order of events. Using the megaphone was to be the highlight of my day and I was really looking forward to it.

The piercing shrill of my whistle cut through the expectant tension with no less effect than a starting gun. There was a charge, led by a couple of heavy-duty males who’d been lurking close by with pints of ale that were now discarded. The few chairs that had been left on the periphery of the field were knocked over, children shoved aside and housewives and husbands alike were scaling the drystone wall, clawing and tearing at each other as they ran.

And they ran towards me.

Valiantly I raised the mouthpiece and shouted into it, forgetting to turn the device on – my moment ruined in panic. “Just twelve men from West Overton and ...”

I didn’t finish. The rope, which was about as thick as a man’s arm was snatched up by the first on the scene and pulled. It was instantly taut and almost knocked me over.

“Stop! Just twelve each!”

It made no difference and I don’t think it would have helped if I had switched it on.

This was frenzy at its most alarming.

Within seconds dozens of villagers were facing each other and pulling violently.

There was no order, the inhabitants of each part of the Kennet Valley mixed into two baying mobs. And the noise was deafening.

I knew that this was going to end badly. As I turned to look for help I realised I was utterly alone – the parish council’s jubilee committee was nowhere to be seen.

Anything that happened now might be my fault. With the megaphone now switched on and at full volume, I begged for restraint.

“Stop pulling! We need smaller numbers!”

It was to no avail. Everyone was laughing now, not nicely but with an edge of deranged hysteria that made no sense, not least because the villages were so mixed that any result at all just didn’t matter. Not that anyone else seemed to grasp this error.

Someone yelled: “West Overton are winning! Quick, join the Lockeridge end!”

A large fellow lumbered over, grabbing the rope, acting as anchorman and prompting a group of previously uninterested over-60s to join the opposing team.

And then the rope snapped. It was always going to end this way. It didn’t take a tree surgeon to realise the limitations of any rope subjected to extreme abuse. There was a loud crack, a last wave of hysterical, screaming laughter and then a shocked silence.

Upwards of 100 villagers were sprawled in a long line, facing each other and still clutching their prize – half of the official Kennet Valley tug-o-war rope. I looked on in horror, megaphone dangling uselessly from my hand.

After a few seconds there was an outbreak of laughter, but it was accompanied by groaning and some bad news was already starting to become apparent.

“Derek’s broken his arm,” someone called.

“Please get off,” an elderly woman shouted. “Bob’s being crushed! He’s got a bad heart!”

“I’m a nurse, let me up,” a voice called. It was from a trapped lady I’d beaten in the three-legged race.

Slowly, the villagers got back to their feet, most still laughing but leaving in their wake a smattering of six or seven who were injured.

“I’ve got rope burns,” a man muttered as he limped past, holding a nasty-looking wrist with his good hand. I noticed a few bleeding noses, where backs of heads had banged into faces, quite a few ‘rope burn’ commentaries and the first murmured complaints about poor organisation.

I hung around for a bit, but when I overheard someone ask, “Who was supposed to be in charge?”, I decided to head for the beer tent.

There were quite a few qualified first-aiders and an ambulance on the way for Bob (who was fine in the end), so it seemed my work was done.

I’ve still got all my lovely coins, tucked away with memories of a (mostly) happy day. I never did volunteer for anything in the village again and a couple of years later moved to a farmhouse where I’m not officially in any of the four villages involved in that tug of war.