Come with me to Poggitty Farm. It’s a farm where the animals runs the place themselves. That’s right – they do all their own farming, drive the tractor, look after the garden, and so on.

One day, the animals were out planting wheat in the Number 2 front field when they heard something in the distance. Porridge, the plough horse, who was in charge of the job, lifted his head. “I wonder who’s coming,” he neighed.

“I don’t mind who it is, if he helps me plant this wheat,” clucked Peck the Hen, who was pecking holes in the ground and popping grains of wheat into the holes.

The sound got louder, and then in a few moments, with a cloud of dust and a screech of brakes, an old car pulled up.

“Hello friends, who’s the boss around here friends, I’ve got some wonderful news for you all,” said the stranger.

Porridge the plough horse was about to say, “We don’t have a boss,” but the stranger kept on going.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Step-right-up-only-50-cents-money back-guaranteed-Ivor-McRascal at your service, and I’m looking for a bunch of this here countryside’s best singers, and the folks back in town said try Poggitty Farm and you’ll look no further, and so here I am. Hey, Mr Plough Horse, can I hear you sing?”

“Now look here, Mr Mc-Whatever-your-name-is,” said Porridge. “No, you can’t hear me sing, because horses don’t. We have a lot of work to do, and I’d be grateful if you’d take your ideas somewhere else, unless you plan to hop down from the jaloppy of yours and start helping.”

“Hold on, Porridge,” said Tip the Dog, who’d been standing nearby. “You might not sing, but I’ve been told my voice is one of the finest around. You listen, Mr McRascal.” And he squatted on his haunches, lifted his head, and howled a chorus of Baa Baa Black Sheep.

“Say friend dog, that’s mighty fine singing,” said Mr McRascal, “and if the other animals on this farm are half as good, you’ll famous.”

Not to be outshone, Peck the hen began to cluck her way through a song, shouldering Tip aside with her wing as she did.

“Why Mrs Hen, that’s just amazing,” admired McRascal. “No doubt about it, there’s talent here all right. I want you folks to get all practised up in time for the County Show next week. A telly-vision crew from the big city are going to be there, and you’ll be on TV. Poggitty Farm will never be the same again. See you next week, and don’t be late.”

With that, Mr McRascal jumped back into his car and drove back down the road. If the animals had not been so excited about their new opportunity, they might have wondered at Mr McRascal’s very loud laugh as he vanished.

But McRascal was right. From the moment he left, life was pandemonium at Poggitty Farm. Everyone wanted to be a television star. The air was filled with cackles, squawks, miaows, hoots and honks as they practised. And they became so busy practising that they forgot all about their work around the farm. Planting stopped, the cows had to milk themselves (and that wasn’t easy), and the meals were cold because no-one wanted to do the cooking. Porridge got more and more upset, and refused to have anything to do with it, but no-one would listen.

Finally the great day came, and all the animals headed off to the County Fair, highly excited. All except Porridge, that is, who said he was going to stay at home.

What a sight they were. Everything that could walk carried the ones who could not. So the mice and hens and hedgehogs rode on the backs of the pigs and sheep and cows, the ducks and the geese flew overhead, while the turkeys trotted alongside.

And the excitement when they arrived!

“I want to go on the merry-go-round,” said Grunt the pig.

“I wonder if they would let me on the ferris wheel,” said Mrs Moon, the cow.

“You’re too big for that,” said Piano the cat, “but I’d be purr-fect.”

“Come on, come on, we haven’t got time for that,” said Tip the dog. “When we’re famous we can have all the rides we want.”