There's a lie in my soap

'I mean, is she in a soap opera? All those Bristol flats and everything! So unlikely! And the way she came out and did her piece to camera'

"The thing about The Archers," said the man with the pint, "is that even if you never listen to The Archers, you know someone who does, or you've someone in the family who listens, so in some strange way you seem to know what's happening, by osmosis. So this week, when the Archers were actually in the headlines..."

"The Archers are never out of the headlines," said the lady with the purple hairdo. "Even when he's in prison, he's always in the headlines."

"Not Jeffrey and Mary Archer!" said the man with the pint. "The soap opera on Radio 4! The Archers!"

"Jeffrey and Mary Archer are a soap opera," said the purple lady stoutly.

"All right, all right," said the man with the pint. "They're a soap opera. But this week they've been pushed out of the news by Brian Aldridge's adulterous carryings-on in The Archers, and what I am saying is that even if you don't follow The Archers, you do, in a funny sort of way, know what's happening. I have said to people that old Brian Aldridge is in real deep manure this week, and they have understood what I was on about even when they don't follow the programme. That's extraordinary."

"What's so extraordinary," said the resident Welshman, "is that people report fictitious goings-on as if they were really happening. I mean, Brian Aldridge isn't really having a baby by another woman, is he?"

"That's a bit like saying that Macbeth isn't really planning to take the Scottish throne," said the man with the dog. "We know that the man on the stage is only dressing up and pretending to be a Scottish general. But we still believe it. People really believe that Brian is a bad lot. Brian Aldridge is more real to most people than James Hewitt, because although Hewitt is a real-life cad, we don't know what he sounds or looks like, whereas Brian Aldridge is part of our lives."

"Are you saying you wouldn't recognise James Hewitt if he walked in here?" said the purple lady.

At that very moment, the pub door opened, and a youngish man whom none of us had ever seen before walked in. The pub went very still. The man was about to come across to the bar when he realised that everyone had turned to look at him.

"Have I done something wrong?" he said.

"No," said the purple lady. "It's just that we thought you might be James Hewitt."

"I don't think I am," said the man. "Who's James Hewitt?"

"Chap who seduced Princess Diana," said the Major.

"Oh, right, him," said the man. "Why did you think it might be me? Do I look like a seducer?"

"Well," said the man with the pint, "it's a bit hard to explain, but we were talking about Brian Aldridge, and..."

"Brian Aldridge!" said the new arrival. "So you've heard the latest episode! Gripping stuff, eh?"

"And there you have it," said the resident Welshman. "My God, there you have it! Here's a chap, straight off the street, average punter, and he knows all about Brian Aldridge and doesn't know about James Hewitt. He's well up on the world of make-believe and doesn't know about reality. I worry about the world, I really do."

The new arrival went up to the bar and was about to order but decided to enter the conversation instead.

"You might just as well ask", he said, "whether Cherie Blair is made up as well!"

Nobody said anything. The young man hesitated, then kept going.

"I mean, is she just in a soap opera? All those Bristol flats and everything! So unlikely! And the way she came out and did her piece to the camera and cried in the right place – you almost expected the credits to roll up, saying, 'Script consultant: Alastair Campbell'!"

Nobody said anything.

"Cherie Blair?" he said. "You know who I mean by Cherie Blair?"

"Never heard of her," said the resident Welshman.

"She's in Downing Street," said the young man.

"Not a programme I ever watch," said the purple lady.

"Never heard of it," said the Welshman.

"We probably don't get it down in this part of the world," said the man with the dog.

The young man looked at us as if we were all mad, got a pint and went to the farthest part of the pub to drink it, alone. Poor chap. He didn't know the pub rules. Sunday is politics-free. Anyone who talks politics on Sunday is fined £1 per mention. I'm in favour of making every day Archers-free as well, but I never dare say so.