An avant-garde post for a Sunday evening...
I don't know what got into Adam Henson, Countryfile's farmer, this week. [Pause]. He was walking across Dartmoor, watching sheep by day whilst listening to Radio 3's magnificent Radio Beckett...[Pause],...when suddenly he burst out, silently, in Beckettian poetry (or so it seemed to me)...[Pause]...on prime-time BBC One. [Stagy look of horror from Ian Hislop]:
All is still.No living soul in sight.There is no one to ask.The world is feeding.The wind scarcely stirs the leaves and the birds are tired of singing.The cows and sheep ruminate in silence.The dogs and hushed and the hens sprawl torpid in the dust.We are alone.There is no one to ask.
He then went to Widdecombe Fair to watch ladies rolling on the floor [BBC inserts footage of Trump], and dogs gripping onto things at a dog show. [Pause] He laughed [Pause], and laughed [Pause], but I could tell his soul was dissolving into nothingness. [Pause] Nothingness. [Long pause].
And then John Craven plugged the Countryfile Calendar for the millionth time. [Pause. All goes dark. Only Adam's mouth is visible. He screams....Very, very, very long pause]