The Sir Bernard Moore Show

It's 1992. The Doomsday Clock is the furthest it has ever been from midnight. It's the safest, most peaceful and contented time planet Earth has known since the invention of atomic weapons. But not everywhere is as safe as everywhere else in the world . . . Here we are in Hobsick. Population: 2,001. A secluded village located somewhere just south of the north of the midlands. Seven miles to the east, a busy dual carriageway barely acknowledges that Hobsick exists, pointing any potential traffic down a sinister, unnamed B-road. To the west of the village sags the overgrown, potholed remains of twelve miles of another dual carriageway, as good as severed from civilization by a landslide in 1967. Between these two bypasses, shrouded by dense, ancient woodland, dismal bogs and bracing moors throngs Hobsick: a flabby smudge of pebble-dashed pubs and draughty prefabs, red-brick terraced cottages adorned with gaudy window boxes bursting with fresh nettles, a well-tended allotment