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A coastal village near present day Norfolk, Brancaster was originally the site of a Roman fortification in the 1st and 2nd centuries, and is now, again, the site of a battleground - this time between the noble and true residents and long time guardians of the village and the dark and evil forces of the outsiders, clad in Burburry and Barbour, who see it as their duty to perform a Chelseaectomy on the village and make it genteel enough for them and their braying ways.

This includes stopping the church bell tolling in the middle of the night; making it compulsory for the "locals" (as in "...oh darling, we've a little local man coming to do the lawns and hedges every Friday...") to tug at their forelocks as they drive past (a motion for the locals to add to this by throwing themselves in mud lest their rustic eye fall upon the poor newcomer is being considered); annexing the beach (" simply CAN'T have the local people on here Saskia, you simply CAN'T...I mean, they, well they, they, they drop their 'aitches..."); making sure that the front pews in the village church are for the people 'from the big house'; and, most importantly, twinning the village with the town that sells silly hats, Burnham Market.

It is said that these people, the modern day Orcs, who, instead of riding loathsome beasts from the pits of hell, saddle up in their 4x4s (the men, it is rumoured, would rather mount their "landie" than their wives!) and chortle their way around the village think that they are appreciated as they "provide employment" for the poor huddled masses who were there, oh, centuries before them-sadly, mowing ones grass for a shilling and a gentle thrashing around the buttocks ("didn't do me any harm at school you village scoundrel") fails to elicit much more than a generous two fingered salute and continued and growing resentment.