Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes (16 page)

As a first move, the
Express
despatched Sean Rayment, ex­officer in the paras, to Wiltshire. 'Sean was being screamed at to get a pig, or a pig story,
at any cost. He was wading around in the mud, carrying a bucket of nuts and yelling "pigs".'

The hunt was on. Other papers muscled in: the
Sun
and the
Mirror
sent reporters, TV news crews rented helicopters to trace the piggy footprints. Even the broadsheets joined in. Within a couple
of days, the pigs had captured the country's imagination: they were brave, they were smart, they were two little guys getting
one over on the evil forces of big business. As they roamed around the winter woods, comparisons were made to war heroes escaping
from Colditz. A Japanese TV truck arrived in Malmesbury, and NBC sent a veteran of the Gulf War and the Rwandan genocide,
Donatella Lorch, to make sense of it all for an American audience.

News stories come in many categories. Some are clearly big stories which all papers must cover; others, like that of the Tamworth
Two, acquire their importance and magnitude solely through media hype. The more that is written, the more important it becomes.
From being a simple tale of two pigs who broke out of their pen, it blew up to be the biggest story in Britain that week.
It was talked of in pubs and opined about in broadsheet editorials which saw true British guts in the pigs' escape. The
Mail
called them Butch and Sundance, further cementing the general belief that these outlaw animals were actually on the side of
the angels.

Down in Wiltshire, Barbara Davies enlisted the help of Kevin and Debbie Stinchcombe, owners of an animal sanctuary. As a boy,
Kevin had appeared in a musical version of
Dr Dolittle,
so he was well placed to 'talk to the animals'. The three of them set off to the woods, armed with buckets of nuts and metal
hurdles and ropes. Barbara told them she would lose her job if she failed to capture the pigs, something the Stinchcombes
took very seriously, and by dawn one pig was in captivity. They tried to keep it a secret while they searched for his companion
but a nosy neighbour, alerted by the squealing, rang the local radio station, which was running a 'pig hot line'. Desperate
to preserve its lead over the pack, the
Mail
then sent Steve Morris to buy the pigs from their last known owner, Arnaldo Diiulo. Diiulo was a road cleaner who had reared
the pigs as a sideline on his three-acre smallholding. His pigs, probably worth no more than £65 each, were now being fought
over like rough-cut diamonds. The problem for Morris was that Gerard Greaves had already made an offer which Diiulo felt honour-bound
to accept. As Morris was explaining that this was problematic, as his paper already had custody of one pig, the back door
of Diiulo's cottage burst open to reveal a gaggle of other reporters, waving cameras and microphones and offering huge sums
of money. Diiulo barricaded the door and signed up with the
Mail.
Gerard was part of the pack pushing at the farmhouse door. 'It was mayhem,' he recalls, 'but what Iclearly remember is that
a reporter from the
People
passed her card through the door. On it she'd written, "£50,000 for the pigs".'

Meanwhile, the
Mail
despatched yet another journalist to Malmesbury to interview the pig. Star writer Paul Harris reported Butch as saying, 'I
caught a glimpse of the
Daily Mail
girl, a redhead like me, and I knew I was in safe hands.' Paul and Butch appeared on TV that night, after Paul had been styled
by the
Daily Mail's
fashion team to ensure he looked suitably 'country casual'. The hunt was on for Sundance, who kept being 'spotted' in various
gardens. Rumours flew that rival papers were preparing to parachute a 'fake' pig into the fray. Harris called one of the UK's
leading DNA experts to find out if it would be possible to prove such skulduggery, then bought a set of pig's trotters to
lay false trails. Steve Morris was put to work on the pigs' family tree, discovering that they were not pure breeds but the
progeny of a Tamworth called Miss Piggy and a wild boar called Amadeus. The
Daily Mail
were delighted when it transpired that they had been bred at Bolehyde Manor, where Prince Charles had wooed Diana.

Sundance was finally spotted in the large garden of a nearby farm. There were two entrances. Gerard and Sean, still without
a pig-exclusive, parked their respective cars in the two driveways, where they spent the night, in the hope that they might
capture the pig if it came past. But their efforts were to no avail. The following morning, Sundance was finally captured,
tranquilised and secured in a bunker next to the vet's surgery in Malmesbury town square. The world's media congregated outside
as NBC's Miss Lorch pointed out that 250 million people worldwide were waiting for a first glimpse of the pig. At that moment,
Sundance let out an almighty squeal and her cover was blown. The world's media glimpsed the groggy pig for the first time.
In a final attempt to recapture the headlines, an exhausted Gerard flung himself towards the pig and photographer Jonathan
Buckmaster got to work. Throwing his arms round Sundance's neck, Gerard turned to face the lens. In a split second, the
Express
had their exclusive photo for the following day: a snap of Gerard and his pig, under the headline, 'The
Express
Brings Home the Bacon . . . from Gerard Greaves in the thicket of it'.

'It had become such a big story that PRs from different companies had rushed to Malmesbury, trying to catch some of the media
spotlight. There were girls handing out sweets and offering bystanders samples of washing-up liquid,' he recalled. The following
morning, Gerard received a herogram from
Express
editor, Richard Addis: his paper's 'exclusive' had cost virtually nothing and the paper's honour was intact. Later that day,
the pigs were reunited. The
Mail
wanted a picture of them peeking over a stable door, but as they were too small to manage this a carpenter had to be hastily
called in to build a platform. The mayhem was over: as quickly as it had arisen, the story fluttered and died, the world moved
on and the two pigs were sent to a rare-breed centre near Ashford in Kent where they've grown old and fat, their days of stardom
firmly behind them.

Eight years later, on an equally cold late-winter morning, Dennis and I load up the pigs just after seven o'clock: a keen
east wind is gusting under grey skies and the four boys zip into the trailer in pursuit of the bucket of nuts. We shut the
gate: from inside is the healthy sound of munching interspersed with squeals. The trailer rocks as the pigs bustle about after
the food, then there's silence. We're hooked up to Dennis's B-reg gold Mercedes and I keep remembering my aunt's story about
the trailer full of pigs that turned over on the road, but Dennis is a good driver and the trailer rides easily behind us.
Just where we turn on to the main road, there is a big clump of snowdrops, still in full flower.

'I saw a squirrel there on my way in - he had a whole snowdrop bulb in his mouth, the flowers still attached. Maybe he was
taking them home for Mother's Day,' Dennis jokes.

We arrive at Snells well before eight, the time of our appointment. A sharp turn off the Axminster road out of Chard and up
a steep track brings us to a jumbled collection of tatty-looking buildings perched on the top of a hill. The view is fantastic,
rolling wooded hills that lead southwards towards the sea at Lyme Regis, but the north-east wind is blowing strongly and it
is bitterly cold. Already there is a small queue. Immediately in front of us is Darren Riggs, a designer who keeps pigs, sheep
and two beef cows on his smallholding near Taunton. Darren's two pigs are Duroc Gloucester crosses, blackish with huge spots,
far fatter than our four. They are fast asleep on the straw in the back of his trailer, and when the time comes for them to
move he has to prod them awake and chivvy them down the ramp. They are not nervous, just lazy. Inside the pens immediately
outside the door leading to the slaughter room, there is a pile of multicoloured pigs - a Tamworth, a Berkshire and a Gloucester,
apparently asleep in a colourful pig sandwich, the black Berkshire snugly held between the sandy Tamworth and the pink-spotted
Gloucester. For a minute I think they must be dead; they are so completely still and it seems impossible that any animal could
kip while its relatives are meeting their maker in the room next door. Darren sees where I'm looking and laughs. 'It's a good
place,' he says, herding his duo towards the heavy metal door. 'The best round here. The animals are never nervous.'

I had expected to be deafened by pig squeals and the racket of animals bashing against clanking bars, but the only sounds
are the trailers manoeuvring into position. Then it's our turn. Dennis backs the trailer up to the entrance to the slaughter
pens and our four come trotting out. Beside the fat Durocs they look more swimsuit model than WeightWatchers regulars. They
amble into the long hallway, looking around curiously. The vet, a Spaniard called Jose who is wearing a black nylon balaclava
under a bright yellow hard hat, checks them off on his list and bends down to look them over. 'What are you looking for?'
I ask.

'I check zee feet,' he mumbles through the balaclava and puts a tick beside our entry. While the buildings might look jerry-built
and untidy, all the important things seem just right: it is clean, there are piles of fresh straw on the ground, it doesn't
smell that bad, and the atmosphere is conducive to keeping animals calm in their last moments.

I pat our pigs on their rumps and leave them trying to engage in conversation with the Duroc Gloucesters who are being held
in an adjacent pen. The day before I had asked Trevor Symes, the owner of Snells and son-in-law of the founder of the abattoir,
Charles Snell, if I could watch the process, so I walk round the back of the white pre-fab building, up some concrete steps
and in through the office door. Trevor hands me a white coat and a rolled-up blue hairnet. He is similarly attired, but over
his hairnet he wears a white plastic hard hat. On his wrist is a copper bracelet like the one my mother used to wear to help
with her arthritis.

Trevor has a warm smile and an easygoing nature. If he'd been a doctor, you'd have said he had a good bedside manner. I follow
him through a series of white doors, through a room where the carcasses of pigs and cattle are hanging by one foot from a
long rail attached to the ceiling, through another door and into the centre of the slaughterhouse. Pig bodies, in varying
stages of dismemberment, hang from rails around the room. The concrete floor is streaked with blood and the noise level, from
saws and turning machines, is deafening. We walk past a yellow vat of pale grey intestines, looped and bunched in an undignified
heap, past a row of hearts, lungs and livers, still attached to each other by veins and fatty tissue that are slightly steaming
in the chilly atmosphere, round a low wall and back into the area where the animals are waiting. Our pigs are nowhere in sight,
but Trevor opens a gate and now we're looking over the top of a waist-high railing at the four of them as they stand quietly
beside a pulley-style hoist, breathing in the last few seconds of their lives. The slaughter man looks young enough to be
at school. He is nineteen and his name is Ryan. He quickly sprays the pigs with water from a hosepipe in the wall, then grabs
the nearest one by the shoulders, turns him on to the ground and deftly loops a chain, attached to the waiting hoist, around
one back leg. The sudden speed is shocking and I step backwards, noticing that the other pigs are making anxious movements
and backing away as far as they can, looking for a way out of their enclosed space.

'Why are they being sprayed?'

'To make sure the electricity does its job,' Trevor replies. At that moment, Ryan clamps the two prongs of the stun gun around
the head of the pig which is now on the floor, its left back leg attached to the chain. He presses the button, pumping I.3
amps of electricity through its brain for just over three seconds. The pig squeals once, loudly, its back legs jerking up
towards its stomach while its front legs stretch stiffly forwards. It is a horrible, gut-wrenching squeal and, as I watch,
the other three rustle nervously round in circles. I wish that all the pigs had been electrocuted at once. Ryan then pulls
down a lever on the wall and, with a grinding noise, the hoist cranks into action, swinging the pig up by its leg and moving
it to the left, through a grimy plastic door. As it begins its last journey, Ryan reapplies the stun gun, although I'm sure
that the first bolt has rendered it completely unconscious. Once it is in the air and over a low wall leading out of the small
death chamber, he takes a blue-handled knife from the pouch attached by a metal chain to his waist and deftly and quickly
slits the pig's throat. Blood gushes and pumps, pouring down into a concrete well where it is collected and taken to be recycled
for bio­fuels in a factory in Barnstaple. I realise that I've been holding my breath and that my heart is pounding, and I
reach out to hold on to Trevor's arm. We follow the twitching carcass, hanging from its chain attached to a circular railing,
as it swings round the corner of the blood-collection vat, bumping up against other pigs waiting in line to be dropped into
a bath of hot water.