Storytelling in Bangkok

Thanks to Authors Abroad and the librarians for setting up two terrific weeks of tale telling in Thailand in the following schools:

St Andrew’s International School, Sathorn                    

St. Andrews International School, Sukhumvit 107

St. Andrews International School, Dusit Campus

Wellington College Bangkok                         

Brighton College Bangkok     

Regents International School, Bangkok

Bangkok Patana

Singapore International School of Bangkok

The Wicked Pumpkin

‘I know what you did and I’m going to tell your parents.’

The Wicked Pumpkin

In a town you’ve never heard of, in a street you’ll never walk down and in a house you’ll never see lived a little boy called Eustace. He was exceptionally good most of the time but occasionally was very bad indeed. His mother and father didn’t like it when he misbehaved and had warned him that if he did anything naughty ever again he’d wish he’d never been born.

Early every Monday morning, before Eustace was awake, his father would set off to work in a faraway town where he’d stay until the end of the week. After breakfast Eustace walked five miles to school and his mother would spend the day at Lazy Jacks’ coming back just in time for supper which Eustace had to have on the table by six o’clock sharp.

After clearing the kitchen table he’d go to his room in the damp, cold cellar while his mother sat at the kitchen table playing patience. When his father returned on Friday evening Eustace would be asked if he’d been a good boy in his absence.

Now one Saturday afternoon in spring, while his father was watching football on the TV and his mother was nowhere to be seen, Eustace was putting the lawn mower away in the garden shed when a mouse shot between his feet and disappeared between two tins of creosote. Eustace rushed over to see if the little creature might have a nest hidden in a cosy corner.

Behind a stack of fallen flower pots there was a dusty wooden box. He thought it was probably full of old tools he’d neither know the name of, nor what to do with, but when he nudged it with his foot it was lighter than expected and in the wall behind, he noticed a tiny hole through which the mouse must have escaped. He took the box to the daylight and crouched in the doorway with it on his lap. Puffing a cloud of woodworm dust into the air, he wiped away the cobwebs with his sleeve and took out the metal pin of the catch. The rusty hinges creaked as he opened the lid.

There was nothing inside but a couple of dead beetles and what looked like a wood chip. When he held it in his palm he could see it was actually a seed, oval and shrivelled like a sweet that had been sucked dry and then spat out. Disappointed with his find he flicked the seed into the garden, threw the box onto the woodpile and spent the rest of the afternoon perched in a pear tree on the railway embankment.

Above the house that night, a thunderstorm shot darts of rain from dark and angry clouds. Lightning flashes filled the sky and one bolt scorched the earth and struck the seed, waking it from its slumber.

Jolted to life and lashed by rain, the seed was pummelled into the soil and there it lay catching its breath before flicking forth the tiny tongue of a shoot to worm its way through the sodden tilth. Roots like hairy tentacles clawed into the earth and before the week had passed two tiny green leaves sprung forth blinking in the morning light. And even though the spring frosts were not yet over, the keenest morning snap did not stall or kill that little seedling.

Soon great umbrellas of leaves rose from the ground and on the first day of June a single yellow trumpet flower bloomed triumphantly before wilting and withering away. The beginnings of a queer vegetable protruded from the plant: a green and white speckled knob shaped like an amputee’s stump which by the summer holidays had grown into the shape of a large football. By the first chill days of autumn a great orange pumpkin, the size of a cow’s head was lying snugly upon a bed of straw.

That the seed had germinated had been a pleasant surprise to Eustace and he had lovingly nurtured it since he’d noticed its presence in the spring. Indeed, he spent many a happy hour tending to the growing plant’s needs and had begun to think of the pumpkin as his one and only friend, confiding to it his secrets and his fears.

But even though to anyone but you or me it might have seemed a completely ordinary kind of pumpkin, it wasn’t really, it was only pretending – biding its time. Eustace had yet to find out that what was growing in his little patch by the garden shed, was really a most Wicked Pumpkin.

Now, one Monday morning on the last week of October, Eustace was on his way to school when he did something that was very naughty but since no-one had seen him do it, it was his own little secret. But when he came home from school and walked down the garden path he heard the Wicked Pumpkin say,
‘I know what you did on the way to school today and I’m going to tell your parents.’

Oh please don’t tell them,’ begged Eustace, ‘I’ll do anything you ask me to.’

‘Alright,’ said the Wicked Pumpkin, ‘I won’t tell them if you sprinkle salt on the soil to stop the slugs and snails eating my leaves. I want to watch them squirm and ooze white bubbles as they die a horrible death.’

Well, is that what Eustace did? Yes, that’s just what Eustace did.

Now, on the Tuesday morning in the last week of October, Eustace was in the playground when he did something which was very, very naughty but since no-one had seen him do it, it was his own little secret.
But when he came home from school and walked down the garden path he heard the Wicked Pumpkin say,

‘I know what you did in the playground today and I’m going to tell your parents.’

‘Oh please don’t tell them,’ pleaded Eustace, ‘I’ll do anything you ask me to.’

‘Alright,’ said the Wicked Pumpkin, ‘I won’t tell them if you steal your mother’s golden necklace and hang it around my neck so I look pretty.’

Well, is that what Eustace did? Yes, that’s just what Eustace did.

Now, on the Wednesday morning in the last week of October, Eustace was in the classroom when he did something which was very, very, very naughty but since no-one had seen him do it, it was his own little secret. But when he came home from school and walked down the garden path he heard the Wicked Pumpkin say,

‘I know what you did in the classroom today and I’m going to tell your parents.’

‘Oh please don’t tell them,’ implored Eustace, ‘I’ll do anything you ask me to’.

‘Alright,’ said the Wicked Pumpkin, ‘I won’t tell them if you shoot all of the birds in the garden with your air pistol. They wake me up every morning with their silly songs.’

Well, is that what Eustace did? Yes, that’s just what Eustace did.

Now, on the Thursday lunchtime in the last week of October, Eustace was in the dining hall when he did something which was very, very, very, very naughty but since no-one had seen him do it, it was his own little secret. But when he came home from school and walked down the garden path he heard the Wicked Pumpkin say,

‘I know what you did in the dining hall today and I’m going to tell your parents.’

‘Oh please don’t tell them,’ appealed Eustace, ‘I’ll do anything you ask me to.’

‘Alright,’ said the Wicked Pumpkin, ‘I won’t tell them if you bash that croaky toad that lives in the flower pot with a brick.’

Well, is that what Eustace did? Yes, that’s just what Eustace did.

Now, on the Friday afternoon, in the last week of October, as he was
walking home Eustace watched the fire engines racing to his school. He had done something very, very, very, very, very naughty but since no-one had seen him do it, it was his own little secret.

But when he came home from school and walked down the garden path he heard the Wicked Pumpkin say,

‘I know what you did at school today and I’m going to tell your parents.’

‘Oh please don’t tell them,’ entreated Eustace, ‘I’ll do anything you ask me to.’

‘Alright,’ said the Wicked Pumpkin, ‘I won’t tell them if you take that axe and chop off the head of next door’s cat. She keeps coming into our garden to use it as a toilet.’

Well, is that what Eustace did? No, that’s not what Eustace did.

Our Eustace picked up the axe and chopped off the Wicked Pumpkin’s head. He was about to cleave it clean in half when the Wicked Pumpkin rolled along the garden path and out through the garden gate. Eustace ran into the street but it was nowhere to be seen.

‘At last,’ thought Eustace, ‘my secrets are safe.’

And in he went to make the supper.

At six o’clock that evening, his mother and he were sat at the table when his father came home from work carrying a big orange pumpkin. He put it in the middle of the table and said,

‘Look what I found by the garden gate. Someone has left us a treat for tomorrow’s Halloween. After supper we’ll hollow it out and carve a face and put a candle inside. But first things first, Eustace, have you been a good boy this week?’

‘Oh yes,’ he replied, ‘I’ve been a very good boy.’

But then the Wicked Pumpkin said,

‘Oh no you haven’t, you’ve been a very bad boy.’

And it told the parents all the naughty things Eustace had done.

Eustace was very ashamed and said he was very, very, very, very, very sorry and wouldn’t do any of those things again.

His father stood up and told him to go to his room. While he was walking down the stairs to the cellar he heard his mother and father both exclaim,

‘Goodness knows, what are we going to do with that boy?’

They were up half the night discussing the possibilities but it wasn’t until the Wicked Pumpkin offered a suggestion that they made a decision.

If the Trick or Treaters who trooped down the garden path the next evening had looked closer at the gruesome head glowing on the porch, they might have noticed that it wasn’t really a small carved Halloween pumpkin after all. Then perhaps, they wouldn’t have waited so keenly for Eustace’s parents to open the door.

© Clive PiG

Illustrations by Andrew Kingham

This story is featured in my book Unicorn in the Playground only £5.99


Tip-toe across the Tamar – August 22nd & August 24th

Family Storytelling with Clive PiG

Photo by Mark Eaton

Take a stroll across the River Tamar with International Storyteller Clive PiG and hear tales of rivers and stories of bridges on this promenade walk across the Tamar Bridge.

All children must be accompanied by an adult.

Warm clothing and sturdy footwear are advised.

Storytelling on the Tamar Bridge Clive PiG – Crossing Rivers, Building Bridges

Photo by Mark Eaton

Crossing Rivers, Building Bridges – Family Storytelling with Clive PiG at the Tamar Bridge

April 8th 2.00-3.30pm April 12th 2.00 -3.30pm April 14th 10.00 -11.30pm

by Bridging the Tamar Visitor and Learning Centre


Mini-tour Lisbon, Madrid & Lanzarote

The Adventures of Mister Storyfella courtesy of

in Lisbon – Madrid – Lanzarote

January 23rd Lisbon

Off to work. I do like Mondays
Today’s lessons are about to begin … PS Did you know that Paula Rego used to attend this school – 1945-1951?
Once upon a time I lived in a house in St Julian’s Road and attended St Julian’s Secondary Modern School for Boys …
Sunset in Carcavelos

January 25th Madrid

“Greetings Mr. Suitcase. Welcome to Madrid. How was your flight?”
The Musicians of Bremen
The Man Who Turned Into A Volcano
And I’d like to thank all of you, too. St. Anne’s was FAB!!!

January 26 – 27 Lanzarote

Traditional Canarias Dish – Ropa viejaFried egg, rice, tomato soup, sausage, fried banana
Airbnb Calle las Adelfas, 3 apt 274 Costa Teguise, Canarias 35508 Spain
“Now be honest Mr. PiG, what is it that appeals to you about being a storyteller and touring the world?”

The Barbary Pirates of Torbay, the Wrecker and the Death Ship, and the tale of the Salcombe Selkie recounted by Clive PiG

These tales washed up one misty morn on a Westcountry shore like mysterious flotsam and jetsam to the delight of one curious beachcomber.

Come and hear them told and sung at South Devon Storytellers Monday 9th January 7.30pm

Listen to one of them here:

The Ballad of the Wrecker and the Death Ship

From the album Uncle Wolf, available to buy on Bandcamp

Clive PiG is a storyteller, poet and potato juggler.

His dynamic delivery of traditional and original tales appeals to young and old, making him a popular performer in the UK and beyond.

This travelling talesman has sung songs on TV in New York City, shared stories in Zaatari refugee camp in Jordan, and spouted poetry at Number 10 Downing Street.

Clive’s storytelling is theatrical and interactive, combining music and song, rhythm and rhyme. His dramatic performance style is captured perfectly in his two illustrated books of original stories and comic poems –

Jurassic Cove 

and Unicorn in the Playground

“He doesn’t just tell the story, he lives the story.”

 Emma Cordy, Stage Manager, Big Top, Kidz Field, Glastonbury Festival.

The Two Travellers

Greetings Story Explorers!!!

Welcome to my blog. Over the next few weeks I’ll be posting recorded versions of the tales featured in my latest booky — The Adventures of Mister Storyfella. Here’s the first one hot from the studio.

THE TWO TRAVELLERS my version of a tale I first heard while touring the USA as a singer-songwriter in the 1980s.


Percy Veer won the cup for never ever giving up

Percy Veer

Percy Veer

Won the cup

For never ever giving up

Not so fast

Often last

Never first

Was he cursed?

He’d be lapped

Every lap

Every relay

He’d delay

Every hurdle

Was a hurdle

But …

In a sprint

He would not stint

He’d try and try

And try and then

He’d trip and fall

And rise again

Once, lost

In the triathlon

They sent out a search party

They found him

In a marathon


But hale and hearty

The best he ever

Came was fourth

He’d never won a medal

No bronze, no silver nor no gold

But now he’s got some metal

Yes, Percy Veer

Won the cup

For never ever giving up

Presented to him by his mum   

Percy was so chuffed

He stood on the pouffe podium

And held the prize aloft

© Clive PiG  

(Version 25/06/2016- 08/09/2021)

The Sun Owl

A story to warm your cockles

Dartmoor Storytellers presents New Light – Stories for the Winter Solstice

The nights are long, and the sun is at its lowest point: after a challenging twelve months, we wait for the first spark of the new year, with weary bodies and wild hopes in our hearts.

Dartmoor Storytellers brings you an evening of Solstice storytelling online, with songs, merriment and inspiration, together with sounds and images of Dartmoor in midwinter. Settle down by the fire with your tipple of choice, and toast the season with stories from six fine storytellers from across the British Isles and stories from across the world.

Storytellers: Henry Everett, Clive PiG, Lisa Schneidau, Fleur Shorthouse, Tamar Eluned Williams, Colin Urwin

Sounds and images: Tony Whitehead

One ticket gives you access to a whole evening of storytelling:

7.00pm – 8.30pm: stories suitable for families (age guidance 7+)

8.30pm – 10.00pm: stories suitable for adults (age guidance 14+)

Stories will be told online via Zoom: the link will be sent through before the event, following ticket purchase.

Buy tickets here:

I’ll be re-mixing The Sun Owl – a tale from Arctic Canada

In the far, far north, near the top of the world, it seems winter will last forever. The sun has not touched the sky for many months. Where has it gone? Dark days and nights make life slower than slow, duller than dull, colder than cold, in the tundra. 

Some say the sun is sleeping. Others think it’s become as heavy as a giant whale and will never fly again. Perhaps the sun has eaten too many seals?

Igulik puts another bone onto the fire. It cracks like an ice split, and the marrow sizzles and spits. His sister Nuniq, stares at the orange flames as if trying to suck the heat into her eyes to warm her body from the inside.

Usually, it is warm enough in the igloo to only wear a few clothes, but even though they are wrapped up tight in their caribou anoraks they are shivering. They’ve run out of seal oil for the lamp and stove, and all that remains to stave off the cold are a pile of animal bones, a handful of dung, and a few sticks of driftwood.

Mother and father have harnessed the huskies and gone out onto the sea ice to hunt. They’ve been told to keep the fire alive and not to fall asleep. If the fire died, the children might too. Nuniq strokes the ermine fur wrapped around her neck and hopes her father’s harpoon finds a seal soon.

Igulik is worried. What would happen if their parents didn’t come back? There was no food left. Sure, this was a bad winter, but the summer hadn’t been much better. Fewer fish, lemmings, caribou, seals, and whales than anyone could remember.

Outside, the wind whips around and around the igloo as if trying to lift and spin it into the air. Eddies of snow spiral above like swarms of manic white midges. 

Winter is often the time when the old and sick die. But even the strong and young were suffering. Igulik was afraid that when their parents returned, they’d find their children frozen, stiff as sleds. He says none of this to his sister. Instead, he puts a piece of driftwood on the fire and tells her to lie down with him and to eat the time by telling tales.

They lie on their backs on the caribou hides with their heads by the fire and their feet towards the wall. They nestle together as flickering shadows dance above them and take turns to tell each other stories they’d heard from Angaluk, their grandmother.  Stories about igloos catching fire and of winds that tear across the tundra and bite the heads off naughty children.

Just as Igulik drops a lump of musk ox dung onto the fire, they hear a sound outside. Expecting it to be their parents coming home with a seal for supper, imagine their surprise when they see the head of a fox poking through the entrance. It sniffs about for a few seconds and then looks at the light in the centre of the snow cave.

Igulik reaches for his spear. A fine pelt and meat for the huskies would be an unexpected prize for his family. But before he can launch his missile, something happens that’s very strange indeed.

Nuniq screams as the creature stands upright and walks towards the flames. This animal is wearing an anorak like them and has the body of a man but with the head of a fox. It stands staring at the warm glow beneath and reaches out its arms to the flames and yelps, 


Brother and sister hold each other tight and look up at the strange visitor in their home. It was standing as still as a statue made of ice.

A moment later, another head pops through the entrance. The two ivory tusks of a walrus glint in the firelight. The creature rises up and walks towards the centre of the igloo. It stands, staring at the warm glow beneath, and it reaches out to the flames and grunts,                                                                       


Brother and sister hold each other tighter.

A moment later, another head appears. The great furry head of a black polar bear pushes through the entrance. The creature rises up on human legs and walks towards the centre of the igloo.

It stands staring at the warm glow beneath and reaches out to the flames and growls,                            


Brother and sister hold each other tighter and tighter still.

A moment later, another head appears. The black and white head of an orca pushes through the entrance. The creature rises up and walks towards the centre of the igloo. It stands, staring at the warm glow beneath and reaches out to the flames and squeaks,                                                                                           


Brother and sister freeze in terror.

The four animal-headed humanoids slowly reach down to the fire and pick it up, cradling it in their eight hands. The light blazes in their eyes as their faces move closer to the flames. For a moment Igulik and Nuniq thought they were going to eat the fire, but then, watch in horror as their only source of heat and light is carried out of the house, and the igloo is plunged into cold darkness.

The two of them huddle together for warmth and comfort. They try their best to keep awake, but very soon their heavy eyelids get the better of them and they drift off to sleep.             

Luckily, only a few minutes away, are the returning huskies and parents, with a couple of bearded seals tethered to the sled. 

Zip-wire fast, they jolt to a stop. Strange scents whip the dogs into a yapping frenzy. The mother dashes into the igloo only to bolt out shouting. She pulls her husband into the house. They slap the faces of the children in the darkness. They are stiff and still, but then they stir. Their eyes open and their bodies are rubbed and hugged. Once revived, the children explain what has happened and the mother cries. The father exits the igloo and leans against the building. He looks up into the darkness and sighs,

‘No sun, no fire, no life. Sun gone too long. Gone far away. Not come back. If no come back, no eye in sky, we no see. No light, no heat. If long time last, body stop. We die. Spirit fly.’

But then a white shape like a ghost, looms at his face. A flurry of feathers fills the space in the dark. Two eyes, like fiery black holes in a tiny snowball stare into his own. 

Is it a flying seal pup? No, it’s a new bird of the frozen land. An owl – a snowy owl. The first Arctic owl in the history of the world.

‘Krek, krek.’

The white owl’s eyes bore into the worried man’s mind. There’s a flash of understanding between these inhabitants of this hostile habitat. The owl disappears into the night.

Up and over the frozen world, the bird flies silently with wings as soft as a summer breeze. Eyes like torch lights pierce the darkness. Scouring the void. Seeking the elemental heat. The sustaining source of light and life in this primordial world.

And then, there below, light flows from a giant igloo’s smoke hole. Wrapped around the fire, sleep the grandparents, parents and children of the Half and Half. Creatures that are part like you or I, but also of the Other. Beings that existed before us. Animals with the bodies of humans but with the heads of beasts.                                     

Silent as a shadow, the bird swoops into the igloo. The talons grasp the fire, as if it’s prey. The owl flies upwards and backwards with the bright ball of heat. It rises through the smoke hole and brings the light into the darkness.   

Families emerge from igloos to watch in wonder at what appears to be a meteor slowly arcing across the Arctic sky. Most follow with their eyes but some with their feet. It leads them towards the igloo of Igulik and Nuniq. They arrive in time to see the ball of fire suspended above the house. The snowy owl is hovering above the smoke hole. They shield their eyes from the bright light. 

‘Krek, krek.’

The white owl lets go of the flames and flies off, towards the east.

Inside, the half-frozen family stir. Igulik wakes to see fire floating down. Nuniq huddles close to the heat. Mother and father look at each other with relief.

Outside people are shouting and whooping.

A sliver of silver light has appeared on the horizon. No larger than a hair’s breadth. But light, none the less. The sun is returning from its wanderings. Winter is over.

Beaver Sisters Stop The Flood

Beverley or Eva?

Beverley and Eva – The Beaver Sisters                                                                                                      

Otter was getting very concerned.

It had been raining for days and days, and nights and nights.

Usually, Otter loved the rain.

He liked dipping in the ponds and zipping in the streams.

He loved swimming in the rivers and lolling in the lakes,

even surfing on the sea and hanging out with seals.

But this time, Otter thought the clouds had been crying for much too long.

“It’s as if the clouds can see what’s wrong with the world but they don’t know how to make it better,” he sighed.

Badger, too, didn’t usually mind the rain.

It made the earthworms juicier. But Mole had mentioned that the ground was becoming much too damp, and the worms were complaining that if it was going to be this wet from now on, they might have to get plastic macs.

Badger took his family to see Otter who was lying down in the entrance of his holt. Badger shook his head and his umbrella, stomped his feet and complained,

“I don’t like it, I don’t like it one little bit,” he muttered, as he took off his wellington boots and poured out litres of water.

“I’m soaked and I’m soggy.” he said gloomily.

 He pulled off his socks and wrang them out.

Otter’s children were laughing and frolicking in the deep puddles outside, but Badger’s kids were sniffling and wheezing, coughing and sneezing.

“What am I going to do?” cried Badger. “We can’t go back home. Our sett is filling up with water. The furniture’s floating and the television has exploded. We’ll have come to live with you.”

“Oh, but you can’t,” said Otter. “My home’s too small for all of your family. And anyway, I live all over the place. Sometimes I sleep in the riverbank. Sometimes in a den in the woods. Sometimes in the hollow of a tree.”

“Well, that’s just not good enough,” said Badger.

“Why not?” asked Otter

“Because I want all of my friends to come and stay too.”

And one after the other, more creatures appeared.

There was Shrew, Mole, Vole, Prickleball, Rabbit, and Fox.

“Goodness me!” exclaimed Otter. “What a lot of friends you have. Wait, I do know somewhere. There’s a cave above the river just around the bend. Let’s go there.”

All of the creatures, splished and sploshed as they waded towards the cave.

At last, thought they, they’d be somewhere sheltered, and they could get a fire going and dry their sodden fur.

One hour later, they’re all cosy in the dry warm cave, listening to the rain lashing outside, staring into the flames, drinking hot chocolate, and playing shadow puppets with their paws.

But suddenly Shrew squeaked, “Look there’s a trickle of water coming into the cave!”.

“Don’t worry”, said Otter, “Fox can mop it up with his tail.”

“I’d rather not”, said Fox, “I’ve only just got myself dry.”

But nobody ever listened to Fox.

“No!”, Shrew shrilly insisted, “You all don’t understand: the trickle will turn into a stream, the stream will become a river, the river will become a lake, the lake will become a sea, the sea will become an ocean, and we’ll all drown!”

“We could always make a boat,” suggested Fox. But no-one listened to him.

“Oh dear, we’re not safe anywhere,” said Badger. “Soon we’ll all drown.”

“Who can save us?” they all cried.

“Not me,” said Otter. “I’m good at catching fish, but not much else.”

“Not me,” said Mole. “I’m only good at worm wrestling.”

“Not me,” said Vole. “I’m just good at looking cute and twitching my whiskers.”

“Not me,” said Prickleball. “I’m only good at rolling up in a ball and being juggled by clowns at the circus.”

“Not me,” said Rabbit. “I’m only good at eating carrots and having large families.”

 Fox didn’t say anything, and I bet that doesn’t surprise you by now.

“Not me, says Water Shrew, “but I know someone who can.”

“Who’s that?” said Otter.

“There used to be other animals who lived amongst us, but one day some creatures upset them, and they all went off in a strop, and never came back.”

“Who were they?”, Otter wondered.

“They were Beavers. They’re eco- engineers. They’ll know what to do.”

“But where are they now?” wondered Otter.

“They live on the great lake at the foot of the mountain”, squeaked Shrew. “Hurry, before it’s too late.”

Otter shot off like a torpedo through the rising waters until he came to the lake at the foot of the mountain.

He saw a conical lodge built of sticks, stones, and mud in the centre of the lake, and as he swam towards it, he saw Beverley and Eva, the Beaver sisters, resting on the decking, rolling up lily pads into the shape of a cigars, on which they began to nibble.

“Help, help! You’ve got to come quick. Shrew says you’ll know what to do to save our friends. Their homes are flooded or washed away. They’re all sodden and soggy.”

“Are these the same creatures who laughed at us and our family because of our goofy orange teeth and squashed flat tail?”

“I’m sure they didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, all right. We’ll forgive them. After all, we like to keep busy, and so do the rest of the team.”

The Beaver sisters slapped their tails on the surface of the water and called out,

Beaver tail

“Come on, you bunch of eager Beavers.”

Immediately, dozens of Beavers popped their heads above water and reported for duty.

Upon hearing of the emergency, with a sense of urgency, they all ducked down below the waters and swam towards the cave.

Once outside, the Beavers donned yellow hard hats and hi-vis jackets. They did a quick recce of the area, then demarcated the danger zone with black and yellow tape. Then they surveyed the site, inspected the surrounding vegetation, height and width of trees etc., checked gradients and wind direction, and finally signed off on the health and safety assessment.

Then, they set to work. While some got their teeth into the lower parts of the trees, others sang to keep them company.

Orange chisel teeth

We’re a team of eager beavers.

Doing what we can

Felling trees with chisel teeth

To build a great tall dam.

A wall of wood with mud and stones

To prevent the flood

It’s our second nature

Building’s in our blood.

Timber! Timber!

The trees come crashing down

Timber! Timber!

Soon, you’ll be safe and sound.

We’re eco-system engineers

We’re brilliant for the planet

We can change the habitat

If you just let us plan it

We build dams and dig canals

We slow down the water

You should let us on your land

We can come and sort ya!

Timber! Timber!

The trees come crashing down

Timber! Timber!

Soon, you’ll all be safe and sound.

And very soon, a magnificent dam surrounded the cave, and the creatures were safe and sound in their sanctuary.

Eventually the wind blew the clouds away and a new day dawned.

When the waters receded, the Beavers made a hole in the dam and the creatures rushed out of the cave to thank their rescuers.

Otter proudly presented a whopping, fresh salmon to the Beavers, saying, “Tuck in. There’s plenty more where this came from!”, as a reward for all their hard work.

Upon seeing the great fish, Beverley and Eva put a paw to their mouths and retched.

“Yuk! Whoever told you we eat fish! We don’t each meat either. We’re herbivores. But we wouldn’t mind popping back into your cave for some hot chocolate and toasted marshmallows, please!”

Then, after having a good old sing song around the campfire, Fox asked.

“Would you like to stay longer? We’ve got a river and a little lake. You could build a lodge there. What do you think?”

And Shrew, Mole, Vole, Prickleball, and Rabbit, Otter and Badger all looked at Fox and said,

“What a good idea.”

And Beverley and Eva and all the other Beavers agreed.

© Clive PiG  Word Count 1340                                                    Version  29/11/2021

Super Hero Beaver & more tales about tails.

The Superhero Beaver and other Beaver Tails
Tues 26th October
10.30 – 12 noon
£3.50 per child (1 accompanying adult per child)

Heard the story about the beaver who saved the world? Do you know how the beaver got a flat tail? What about the strange case of the man who married a beaver? Hmm.

Join globetrotting storyteller and children’s author Clive PiG to find out in these and other stories from around the world as we celebrate the first ever reintroduction of an extinct native mammal to England: you guessed it- the beaver.

Listen to Clive’s animated and whimsical tales about great floods, forbidden love and, yes, beavers! Be inspired by RAMM’s new resident beaver to produce your own piece of creative writing.

A full mount and skeleton of a beaver from the River Otter will be on display, along with other beaver related objects. These individuals died naturally and have been prepared by ethical taxidermist Jazmine Miles-Long and skeletal preparator Jon Knott.

This event is part of the Exetreme Imagination Festival

Two Tigers And A Tabby Cat

Sumatran tigers at Paignton Zoo. (Can you spot the second tiger?)

Two tigers saw a tabby cat

Walking by their cage

They dashed over to gobble it

But then became enraged

The tabby, though, just stood there

It didn’t run away

The look it gave the angry pair

Seemed to me to say,

Yes, I know it’s not a tabby.
For your records, I am in receipt of a poetic licence, and also have an enhanced DBS certificate,
and Public Liability Insurance for up to 10 million squid.

“I was wild once, just like you

But now I’m mild and tame

I come and go from this old zoo

And you can’t —that’s a shame.

But I’d swap places if I could

Because I’d rather see

You escape into the woods

Wild and running free

For I’m a prisoner as a pet

I’m in captivity

My ancestors would so regret

What’s become of me.

I’d prefer your prison chains

Than my sofa, that’s for sure

I so wish I could be untamed

I’d roar like you for evermore.”

The tigers now were so het up

They could not reach their prey

A keeper came and picked it up

And carried it away.

Two tigers and a tabby cat

Are all somewhere they hate

They live in a strange habitat

They share the same sad fate.

© Clive PiG    03/10/2021

First Foray Into Australia

First foray Down Under thanks to Paul Jones at The King’s School, Sydney, Australia

Storytelling is an art form. Stories have been told in every land and culture, throughout the ages. This week, Year 3 launched an inquiry into storytelling, and they were thrilled to meet Mister Storyfella himself, for an English lesson to remember! Speaking to the boys from Devon in England, Clive shared stories, myths, legends and song for almost an hour.

Identifying as a globetrotting storyteller, poet and potato juggler, Clive PiG – Mister Storyfella skilfully shared his talents with the boys. He emphasised the importance of storytelling, not story reading. Listening intently and laughing on cue, the Year 3 boys were introduced to Colin the chocoholic, an old Scottish lady with a LOT of courage (and a broom!), as well as a Colombian pizza chef called Luigi!

Clive is a gifted storyteller whose facial expressions, voices, gestures and props kept every boy entertained. What a great way to remember that stories can be brought to life through expression and action. The boys will continue to explore the art of storytelling and a variety of dramatic techniques through our ‘How we express ourselves’ Unit of Inquiry.

Looking for a storyteller? Look no further!

Image preview


Tales about the little people


Want to know the difference between a pixie and a spriggan, or a knocker from a sprite? Bring your fairies and pixies to Soapbox Theatre and storyteller Clive PiG will tell you all about them.

SHOW 1!/FAIRYTALES-WITH-CLIVE-PIG-1-30pm-THURS-19TH-Aug-2021/p/373686563/category=114273752



Easter Saturday in Aylesbury

The Aylesbury duck has lost its pluck

Unplucky Duck

What is it ails the Aylesbury duck?

It’s pale, it’s frail,

It’s down on its luck.

Its feathers are ruffled,

It’s tired and it’s troubled.

It waddles, then wobbles

Then tumbles and topples.

Something’s quailed the Aylesbury duck.

It’s gone off track,

It’s on its back.

Alas, alack,

It lacks its quack.

What could it be?

Oh look, I see –

Fox got its tail.

It’s lost its pluck.

That’s what ails the Aylesbury duck.

© Clive PiG      03/04/2021