Counting Sheep
Once upon a time, there was a farmer who had lots of sheep. He had so many sheep that he had trouble keeping account of them! One moment, he would count them and there would be ten sheep. The next, he would count them and there would be sixty!
They were always on the move and jumping over fences, they rarely stayed still for more than 2 minutes! The farmer had tried spraying red numbers on their woolly backs, but the rain just washed the paint off. He had also tried tying tags around their necks, but they just wriggled them loose! It was impossible to keep track! And without being able to count his sheep, there would be no way for him to know how many he could send off to have their wool cut, or how many more sheep he needed to buy, or how many names he had to think of. It had not occurred to him that he could just try and send one sheep at a time to have its wool cut or buy just one extra sheep at a time, as long as he had the space. The farmer hadn't even realised that if he had trouble counting them, he would certainly not be able to remember which sheep was which, even if he were to name them all.
He thought counting them would be the best way. But it just wasn't working.
'What the bloody hell will I do?!' cried the farmer into his brandy glass one evening. He was exhausted after another day of chasing the sheep around the fields, trying to count them. It was becoming a full time occupation - he had not had time to milk the cows that day and he hadn't even visited the hens properly in almost a week! Not to mention, all this was starting to seriously affect his love life. (The farmer didn't actually have any kind of love life, but if he did, it would surely be affected.) 'This is a nightmare!' he wallowed.
'I know!' came the bark of his sheep dog, Sandy, from across the table. He had trickles of beer dripping from his black and white snout. He paused to swish his tongue noisily around his chops. 'It's okay though! I have a plan!'
'Ohhhh no! Not another one of your fur-brained ideas, Sandy? I can't be dealing with another one of those. The last one was a disaster!' The farmer shuddered at the memory of forcing a leg of chicken that hadn't been plucked in an attempt to expand the market with a new flavour profile. 'I'm still finding feathers in my shit!'
'Nah, listen, listen! This is a good one,' said Sandy, straightening up and putting a paw on the table to show he meant business. 'Why don't you start a fete?'
There was a pause.
'You're drunk!' laughed the farmer.
'Nah, hear me out, now!' Sandy insisted, his eyes widening in excitement in the same way they did whenever he saw that little Jack Russell that lived a few fields over. 'You need to count the sheep, right?'
'Yeeeees...' said the farmer.
'And the reason you need that is so you know what wool you're cutting off of the buggers so you can make some dosh, right?'
'That is the general idea...' said the farmer, growing more weary by the second. He really couldn't see what great scheme Sandy could have that would get him out of this mess.
'Well, you start a fete, with stalls and games and whatnot. Now, every fete needs a main attraction. And your main attraction would be... wait for it...'
The farmer waited.
And waited.
The clock ticked.
Sandy stared at him intently, building the suspense, breaking eye contact only to give his arse a quick lick.
'Come on, Sandy, for fuck-'
'COUNTING SHEEP!' yelled Sandy, making the farmer jump so hard he nearly lost a knee cap against the kitchen table leg.
'What the-?'
'Listen! People turn up and they pay a quid to guess how many sheep are in your field. If they get it right, they win a prize!'
The farmer continued to look at him blankly.
'See, the only way they could possibly have a chance of getting even close to the real number is to actually count the buggers! BOOM!'
The farmer shook his head. 'But Sandy, you prat, if I can't even count the things, how will I know who has the right answer? And prize, what bloody prize?!'
'Well, we won't need to worry about actually giving a prize!' Sandy pressed on, not put off by the incredulous look on his best mate's face. 'This is the genius bit, if I do say so myself.' His tail was now wagging with excitement. 'Give 'em a few minutes trying to count those damn sheep and they ain't gonna be arsed about no sodding prize! They'll get pissed off, probably even fall asleep, it'd get so dull. They'll forget all about trying to win anything, and if anyone does give it a guess, you'd just tell them they're wrong anyway.'
Sandy was clearly so pleased with himself. He took a breath. his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.
The farmer looked thoughtful for a second. 'So, what you're saying is...'
'You'll have yourself some free workers, who'd actually be paying you so they can do your job for ya. You'll make a shit ton, they'll get a bit of a challenge - I know how you humans love one of them - and Fanny's your bleeding aunt!'
The farmer stared at him, shocked, bewildered, mildly impressed.
His brain was whirring, the idea buzzing around and developing. This dog - this scruffy, slightly blurry dog, who had suddenly done a hell of a lot of talking, considering he was a dog - might actually have a point...
Two Weeks Later
It was 10am on a Saturday morning and everything was set.
The farmer's field was lined with stalls: some offering games like Coconut Shy and Hoopla; some selling food and drink (mostly local produce); one selling raffle tickets and one where if you paid 50p, you could win a half a dozen eggs if you could guess which hen they came from. (The farmer had finally popped his head into the coop to see it a little bit overrun.)
A large, homemade banner marked the entrance. The farmer had had to use one of his old bed sheets, and had used the stains as part of the design. He'd always had an artistic flair. Bales of hay lined the aisle that led from the entrance, all the way up to the large pen into which the farmer and Sandy had managed to lure at least most of the sheep. Another sign, made from an old pillowcase and cut into the shape of a woolly cloud that halfway resembled a cartoon version of the animal, hung between two posts next to the pen. It read 'Counting Sheep' in large black letters, then in smaller print around the edges, 'How many?'; 'Get it right, win a prize!'; '£1 a go!'. There were a couple of spelling mistakes, but the farmer was rather pleased with his handiwork.
He stood at the entrance to the fete, looking back along the line of stalls, at all the lovely volunteers from the local church who had come along to help out. He had told them it was a charity fundraiser, of course, otherwise they may not have shown up. Although, it wasn't a total lie: charity starts at home. The farmer looked down at Sandy who was sat beside him. 'Not long now, lad!' Sandy failed to look back at him, his attention instead caught by the smell of sausages that was coming from the butcher's barbecue.
Fifteen minutes later, a small crowd had formed around the entrance, and now the farmer was looking out at all the people from the village, the majority of them clutching the leaflet that had promised them half price on booze. He adjusted his makeshift tie - really an old dressing gown belt - and took off his flat cap, clearing his throat loudly. The dull murmur from the crowd silenced, everyone looking up to face the farmer.
'Morning, all!' he called to them, waving a hand awkwardly. He hated public speaking, he could feel the sweat patch forming in his armpits. Oh, god, he hoped they wouldn't smell it. He figured he'd better wrap this up quickly. 'Erm...thanks for coming. Erm...hope you all enjoy yourselves...' he paused. 'Oh, and don't forget it's all for charity, so don't be tight bastards, eh?' He chuckled, impressed with his own wit, but was only joined by a spattering of smirks and one very loud laugh from a man further back. People had no sense of humour these days... bloody television.
The farmer hastily jammed his hat back onto his head and turned to face the aisle, calling behind him 'Right, in you come then!' He marched off quickly towards the Counting Sheep attraction, Sandy trotting along beside him, although still distracted by the whiff of sausages and burgers in buns. The crowd were following behind, squeezing their way through the entrance and dispersing themselves in the different directions.
'This is it now, Sandy,' said the farmer, taking his seat next to the sheep pen and picking up the money pot, which was in fact an old chamber pot. 'This is all down to you, better hope it goes well.'
Sandy gave a look that could be described as indifference as a woman and two children approached them. 'Look, mummy!' said the youngest of the two boys. 'I want a go!'
'You can't even count to three!' said his older brother matter-of-factly. 'I bet I could count the sheep better than you! I bet I'll win the prize!'
'Will not!' shouted the younger boy.
'Okay, boys, enough!' said the mother, digging some coins out of her coat pocket. 'You can both have a try!'
The farmer smiled a yellowy, toothy smile and held out the chamber pot for her to drop the money into, the two pound coins made a clanging noise as they settled. He pointed to a bench that was positioned in front of the pen. The two boys made their way over and each stood on it, leaning on the fence to get a good view of the sheep as they started to count.
The mother stayed back near the farmer, making polite conversation about how lovely the day was and what a great idea it was to get all of the community together for such a good cause. The farmer nodded in all the right places, but was watching the boys. They started off frustrated, they seemed to keep losing count. The sheep were on top form, moving themselves around as if choreographed that way.
It wasn't long before the youngest of the boys had sat down, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin resting on his hand, his other hand pointing randomly into the pen in an attempt to continue counting, although with considerably less oomph than before.
His brother, meanwhile, carried on standing on the bench and peering into the pen, a grin on his face at the younger boy's lapse in energy. This grin did not last too much longer. He, too, gave into to his legs and sat down next to his sibling, who had by this point dozed off. The older boy did not even try to continue in his challenge. Instead, he leaned his head gently against his brother's and closed his eyes.
The sound of a sudden loud snore that escaped him was enough to catch the attention of his mother, who finally looked over to see both of her boys sound asleep in front of a pen full of sheep.
'Boys!' she cried, darting over to shake them awake. 'Come on, now. You're not due for a nap until this afternoon!'
The boys stood up quickly and looked up at their mother. They looked slightly confused.
'I am so sorry!' the mother said, exasperated, as she looked back at the farmer. He merely smiled, bemused by it all. Sandy wagged his tail.
'Now come on, boys, tell the nice man how many sheep you think there are!' she told her children, who looked between the sheep and the farmer, their eyes still a little glazed over.
'Umm.. 126?' said the younger boy, who seemed proud to know such a large number, even in his sleep-addled state.
The farmer didn't answer for a second as he was still amazed by what he had just seen. Only when he felt Sandy nudge against his leg did he reply, 'Err, no. I'm afraid not.'
The young boy groaned a little, looking down at his feet.
'I know, it's 74, isn't it?' said the older brother, puffing out his chest with a surge of confidence.
'Nope,' grinned the farmer, making the older boy's face drop. That's not it either!'
'Never mind, eh?' said the mother, ruffling both boys' hair.
'Well done for trying!' said the farmer as the family walked away, the woman smiling her thanks as they headed towards the Tin Can Alley.
It continued that way for the whole day: different people, each paying £1 - children and adults; all of them taking their place in front of the pen; all of them dozing off within a couple of minutes of counting the sheep. The farmer was in complete awe, he couldn't understand the effect it was having on them all, it was bizarre! It was as if the sheep had some kind of magical power, like they were in league with the Sandman or something. Whatever it was, though, it was doing the trick. Even when people woke up from their micro-naps, they were giving it a go at guessing how many sheep were trotting around in the pen. The farmer had to tell them they were all wrong - of course, he still didn't have the faintest clue himself - but he had started making notes of the figures people were giving him. It couldn't hurt to have a look through them later and find an average number, at least it would give him something to go on.
The fete wrapped up at about 3pm. After all of the village folk had drifted away, the farmer helped all the volunteers to pack up their stalls and collected all their takings. The chamber pot had near-enough been filled to the brim, so he had equipped himself with a wheelbarrow instead. Once everyone had left, the butcher being the last to drive away in his blood-spattered van, the farmer took himself and his wheelbarrow of cash into his modest little farmhouse. He made himself a cuppa (topped up with a drop of the good stuff) and set about counting up all the money, Sandy curled up on the sofa next to him.
'Bloody hell!' he exclaimed when he had added the takings figure from the last stall - Decorate a Digestive - to the running total. Sandy jolted his head up and looked at the farmer.
All in all, the fete had made £672! And the biggest earner of it all was Counting Sheep.
'Bloody hell!' the farmer cried again. 'Six hundred and seventy-two bloody quid! Ha-ha-haaaa!'
He jumped up and grabbed himself a glass from the kitchen, pouring himself a large brandy. He jigged his way back to the sofa, bringing the bottle with him. Settling himself back down in his seat, he kicked off his boots and stretched out his legs, his feet knocking over a stack of 50 pence pieces as he rested them on the coffee table. The farmer balanced the bottle of brandy in his lap as he reached over and patted Sandy enthusiastically on the head.
'You, my boy, are a genius!' he said happily. 'You have sold all of my problems! All I need to do is keep running these fetes and we'll be set! Any wool or eggs I sell along the way will be a bonus!' He laughed again in jubilation as he drained his glass and poured another.
So that's what he did.
Once a month, he hosted the village fete, with Counting Sheep remaining as the main attraction, and the money rolled in. In fact, the game had become quite a talking point, from what the farmer could gather, with friends and families challenging each other to attempt it: count how many sheep are in the pen without falling asleep - submitting any kind of guess had become a mere afterthought.
The game had become so popular that there was always a queue for it, and the farmer had even managed to up the price to £1.50 per go without any complaints from anyone - after all, it was all for a good cause, right? Combined with the rest of the takings from the fete and the usual income from the farm, the farmer was making enough money to pay all his bills on time each month for the first time ever, with plenty left over for him to treat himself!
After dealing with some much-needed repairs for his farmhouse and upgrading the living quarters of all of the animals - top of the list was of course the sheep pen - the farmer became accustomed to the finer things in life. He was dining on the best quality cuts of steak, sleeping on a brand new memory foam mattress and spending most Friday evenings in the local pub, which he never would have afforded beforehand. Life was going great, for both the farmer and Sandy and he couldn't imagine that it could get any better!
That was until one Saturday afternoon, about four months after the first fete. The farmer was sat in his usual spot next to the sheep pen, watching as one after the other, people were falling asleep on the bench in the middle of counting. A young girl had just sloped off to rejoin the queue again after her third failed attempt, when a middle aged man in a smart tweed jacket and wire-rimmed glasses stepped forward. 'Good afternoon,' he said, politely.
'Afternoon. £1.50, please,' smiled the farmer, pointing towards the wheelbarrow, which had now been reserved for the takings from this game.
'Oh, no,' replied the man, shaking his head. 'I just wanted to talk to you. I'm a professor of physiology and neurology at the university.' He produced a card from his jacket pocket and held it out to the farmer, who took it. On it was the logo of the university that was based in the nearby city, along with this professor's fancy sounding name and a list of contact details.
'Oh, right,' said the farmer, looking at the man warily. 'What can I do for ya, Prof?'
'Well, I've heard about this... this...' he gestured towards the sheep pen, seemingly unsure of what to call it. 'I came across it in the local newspaper, and it's been trending on social media.'
The farmer had only recently learnt what 'trending' meant from one of the youngsters he met at the pub when she'd been raving that a video she'd filmed of her friend trying Counting Sheep had received more than 2,000 views. From what he gathered, the news was travelling about his sheep game and its mysterious outcomes.
The professor continued, 'I must say, I am extremely intrigued and indeed fascinated by it all.' His eyes had widened in a way that reminded the farmer of a crazy scientist look he had seen on characters in films. 'I am about to begin a study and experimentation in relation to sleep patterns, with particular focus on the causes of insomnia and possible remedies, and I would be most honoured if I could incorporate... this... into my methodology somehow.' Once more he gestured towards the pen, his eyes darting between the sheep and the farmer.
'Oh,' said the farmer, admittedly a little confused by some of the words that had just come spilling out of this bloke's mouth. 'So... you want to...'
'I would like to conduct some experiments to understand the effects caused by these animals upon humans during this kind of interaction, and use the results to hopefully develop a treatment for people who struggle to go to sleep.
'Right,' said the farmer, still trying to get his head around it. He thought about the sheep - his sheep - being locked up in some kind of lab, while more nerds like this one ran endless tests on them. He looked over at the queue of people still waiting to pay money for their turn. 'Well, I mean... I'm not sure...'
'The tests would all be carried out here at your farm, if that would be suitable for you, so that the sheep can perform in their natural environment - although we can work out the details later,' the professor was hardly stopping to take breath. He was gesticulating so much as he spoke that the farmer wasn't sure whether to look at the bloke's face or his hands
'Well, um-'
'Either way,' the professor interrupted, 'I can assure you, you would be generously reimbursed for any of your time taken up in the study, and of course a percentage of any income made if we are successful.'
The farmer's ears pricked up, as did Sandy's, it seemed. Suddenly, thoughts of the finest. most expensive bottles of brandy were clouding his thoughts as he near enough shouted, 'So, when do you want to start?' The professor adjusted his glasses and smiled.
From then on, everything went by in a blur. The university had invested funding into the experiment and the farmer was asked to sign an agreement detailing the terms of his involvement and, his main focus, the rather agreeable payment he would receive for each week the professor was on site with the sheep, nor to mention the mention of the potential further sum he could receive if all went well.
The research continued for a full three months, alongside which the fetes continued to run - the professor considered these as optimum opportunities for observation and analysis. Business was booming.
A couple of weeks after the professor's last visit to the farm, the farmer received a phone call from him to tell him of the success that had come from the further tests they had done. They had somehow found a way to adapt the Counting Sheep experiment to make it work when people merely watched footage of the sheep in the pen, and then they went further and planted the idea of counting sheep in the minds of people who were struggling to get to sleep. The professor had always specialised in this 'mind-over-matter' malarkey, but when it came to sleeping, nothing had ever worked like Counting Sheep had.
Suddenly, it was everywhere. It was all over the news, people were calling it a miracle.
The thing is, it wasn't the kind of thing you could put into a tablet and prescribe to people. I mean, sleeping pills did exist if that's what people wanted, but it didn't seem as... natural, let's say.
The professor had had some of his university students put together a video about the Counting Sheep method that people could access on the Internet, teaching them how to get into the right mindset. The way they did it seemed to the farmer like a kind of hypnosis, it even started Sandy off snoring.
But still, people wanted more, so the farmer and the professor came up with a new idea, with the help of a bottle of brandy and another dose of Sandy's smart thinking. They developed the farm into a Sleep Farm. A 'retreat', the professor called it. With further funding provided by the university, they used the area of spare, unkempt land and built a whole complex. People came from far and wide to stay for weeks at a time, paying good money to see the Counting Sheep in real life and learn how to use the technique for themselves and be able to take it home with them. Those university students that had been involved in the original research project were given jobs as the Sleep Gurus at the Sleep Farm, so it worked out well for everyone! Meanwhile, the farmer kept his actual farm going, providing food to be used in the cafe at the retreat. It was a huge success and the farmer had never been better off.
One evening, he sat down at the dining table in his (now slightly bigger) farmhouse which still sat in its same old spot in the field, overlooking the driveway leading to the retreat. It had been around two and a half years since the that first fete had taken place and the farmer was feeling a little reminiscent.
The fetes had since moved on to be held the village hall, with all the proceeds going towards developing the local area, although they probably weren't doing as well as they were when the sheep were the stars of the show.
'Oh, how far we've come, eh Sandy?' he commented, before downing his fifth glass of brandy.
Sandy was sat on the other side of the table again, enjoying his occasional treat of a bowl of beer. The farmer picked up his brand new flat cap and fiddled with it in his hands, a calm smile on his face.
'Now all we have to figure out, is how we're going to store all this milk all those cows are coming out with...' he said, dreamily.
'Ahh, now I've got an idea for that one!' Sandy piped up, his ears flopping and his tail wagging.
'I thought you bloody might!'
The farmer laughed huskily and poured himself another drink.
The End.
They were always on the move and jumping over fences, they rarely stayed still for more than 2 minutes! The farmer had tried spraying red numbers on their woolly backs, but the rain just washed the paint off. He had also tried tying tags around their necks, but they just wriggled them loose! It was impossible to keep track! And without being able to count his sheep, there would be no way for him to know how many he could send off to have their wool cut, or how many more sheep he needed to buy, or how many names he had to think of. It had not occurred to him that he could just try and send one sheep at a time to have its wool cut or buy just one extra sheep at a time, as long as he had the space. The farmer hadn't even realised that if he had trouble counting them, he would certainly not be able to remember which sheep was which, even if he were to name them all.
He thought counting them would be the best way. But it just wasn't working.
'What the bloody hell will I do?!' cried the farmer into his brandy glass one evening. He was exhausted after another day of chasing the sheep around the fields, trying to count them. It was becoming a full time occupation - he had not had time to milk the cows that day and he hadn't even visited the hens properly in almost a week! Not to mention, all this was starting to seriously affect his love life. (The farmer didn't actually have any kind of love life, but if he did, it would surely be affected.) 'This is a nightmare!' he wallowed.
'I know!' came the bark of his sheep dog, Sandy, from across the table. He had trickles of beer dripping from his black and white snout. He paused to swish his tongue noisily around his chops. 'It's okay though! I have a plan!'
'Ohhhh no! Not another one of your fur-brained ideas, Sandy? I can't be dealing with another one of those. The last one was a disaster!' The farmer shuddered at the memory of forcing a leg of chicken that hadn't been plucked in an attempt to expand the market with a new flavour profile. 'I'm still finding feathers in my shit!'
'Nah, listen, listen! This is a good one,' said Sandy, straightening up and putting a paw on the table to show he meant business. 'Why don't you start a fete?'
There was a pause.
'You're drunk!' laughed the farmer.
'Nah, hear me out, now!' Sandy insisted, his eyes widening in excitement in the same way they did whenever he saw that little Jack Russell that lived a few fields over. 'You need to count the sheep, right?'
'Yeeeees...' said the farmer.
'And the reason you need that is so you know what wool you're cutting off of the buggers so you can make some dosh, right?'
'That is the general idea...' said the farmer, growing more weary by the second. He really couldn't see what great scheme Sandy could have that would get him out of this mess.
'Well, you start a fete, with stalls and games and whatnot. Now, every fete needs a main attraction. And your main attraction would be... wait for it...'
The farmer waited.
And waited.
The clock ticked.
Sandy stared at him intently, building the suspense, breaking eye contact only to give his arse a quick lick.
'Come on, Sandy, for fuck-'
'COUNTING SHEEP!' yelled Sandy, making the farmer jump so hard he nearly lost a knee cap against the kitchen table leg.
'What the-?'
'Listen! People turn up and they pay a quid to guess how many sheep are in your field. If they get it right, they win a prize!'
The farmer continued to look at him blankly.
'See, the only way they could possibly have a chance of getting even close to the real number is to actually count the buggers! BOOM!'
The farmer shook his head. 'But Sandy, you prat, if I can't even count the things, how will I know who has the right answer? And prize, what bloody prize?!'
'Well, we won't need to worry about actually giving a prize!' Sandy pressed on, not put off by the incredulous look on his best mate's face. 'This is the genius bit, if I do say so myself.' His tail was now wagging with excitement. 'Give 'em a few minutes trying to count those damn sheep and they ain't gonna be arsed about no sodding prize! They'll get pissed off, probably even fall asleep, it'd get so dull. They'll forget all about trying to win anything, and if anyone does give it a guess, you'd just tell them they're wrong anyway.'
Sandy was clearly so pleased with himself. He took a breath. his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.
The farmer looked thoughtful for a second. 'So, what you're saying is...'
'You'll have yourself some free workers, who'd actually be paying you so they can do your job for ya. You'll make a shit ton, they'll get a bit of a challenge - I know how you humans love one of them - and Fanny's your bleeding aunt!'
The farmer stared at him, shocked, bewildered, mildly impressed.
His brain was whirring, the idea buzzing around and developing. This dog - this scruffy, slightly blurry dog, who had suddenly done a hell of a lot of talking, considering he was a dog - might actually have a point...
Two Weeks Later
It was 10am on a Saturday morning and everything was set.
The farmer's field was lined with stalls: some offering games like Coconut Shy and Hoopla; some selling food and drink (mostly local produce); one selling raffle tickets and one where if you paid 50p, you could win a half a dozen eggs if you could guess which hen they came from. (The farmer had finally popped his head into the coop to see it a little bit overrun.)
A large, homemade banner marked the entrance. The farmer had had to use one of his old bed sheets, and had used the stains as part of the design. He'd always had an artistic flair. Bales of hay lined the aisle that led from the entrance, all the way up to the large pen into which the farmer and Sandy had managed to lure at least most of the sheep. Another sign, made from an old pillowcase and cut into the shape of a woolly cloud that halfway resembled a cartoon version of the animal, hung between two posts next to the pen. It read 'Counting Sheep' in large black letters, then in smaller print around the edges, 'How many?'; 'Get it right, win a prize!'; '£1 a go!'. There were a couple of spelling mistakes, but the farmer was rather pleased with his handiwork.
He stood at the entrance to the fete, looking back along the line of stalls, at all the lovely volunteers from the local church who had come along to help out. He had told them it was a charity fundraiser, of course, otherwise they may not have shown up. Although, it wasn't a total lie: charity starts at home. The farmer looked down at Sandy who was sat beside him. 'Not long now, lad!' Sandy failed to look back at him, his attention instead caught by the smell of sausages that was coming from the butcher's barbecue.
Fifteen minutes later, a small crowd had formed around the entrance, and now the farmer was looking out at all the people from the village, the majority of them clutching the leaflet that had promised them half price on booze. He adjusted his makeshift tie - really an old dressing gown belt - and took off his flat cap, clearing his throat loudly. The dull murmur from the crowd silenced, everyone looking up to face the farmer.
'Morning, all!' he called to them, waving a hand awkwardly. He hated public speaking, he could feel the sweat patch forming in his armpits. Oh, god, he hoped they wouldn't smell it. He figured he'd better wrap this up quickly. 'Erm...thanks for coming. Erm...hope you all enjoy yourselves...' he paused. 'Oh, and don't forget it's all for charity, so don't be tight bastards, eh?' He chuckled, impressed with his own wit, but was only joined by a spattering of smirks and one very loud laugh from a man further back. People had no sense of humour these days... bloody television.
The farmer hastily jammed his hat back onto his head and turned to face the aisle, calling behind him 'Right, in you come then!' He marched off quickly towards the Counting Sheep attraction, Sandy trotting along beside him, although still distracted by the whiff of sausages and burgers in buns. The crowd were following behind, squeezing their way through the entrance and dispersing themselves in the different directions.
'This is it now, Sandy,' said the farmer, taking his seat next to the sheep pen and picking up the money pot, which was in fact an old chamber pot. 'This is all down to you, better hope it goes well.'
Sandy gave a look that could be described as indifference as a woman and two children approached them. 'Look, mummy!' said the youngest of the two boys. 'I want a go!'
'You can't even count to three!' said his older brother matter-of-factly. 'I bet I could count the sheep better than you! I bet I'll win the prize!'
'Will not!' shouted the younger boy.
'Okay, boys, enough!' said the mother, digging some coins out of her coat pocket. 'You can both have a try!'
The farmer smiled a yellowy, toothy smile and held out the chamber pot for her to drop the money into, the two pound coins made a clanging noise as they settled. He pointed to a bench that was positioned in front of the pen. The two boys made their way over and each stood on it, leaning on the fence to get a good view of the sheep as they started to count.
The mother stayed back near the farmer, making polite conversation about how lovely the day was and what a great idea it was to get all of the community together for such a good cause. The farmer nodded in all the right places, but was watching the boys. They started off frustrated, they seemed to keep losing count. The sheep were on top form, moving themselves around as if choreographed that way.
It wasn't long before the youngest of the boys had sat down, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin resting on his hand, his other hand pointing randomly into the pen in an attempt to continue counting, although with considerably less oomph than before.
His brother, meanwhile, carried on standing on the bench and peering into the pen, a grin on his face at the younger boy's lapse in energy. This grin did not last too much longer. He, too, gave into to his legs and sat down next to his sibling, who had by this point dozed off. The older boy did not even try to continue in his challenge. Instead, he leaned his head gently against his brother's and closed his eyes.
The sound of a sudden loud snore that escaped him was enough to catch the attention of his mother, who finally looked over to see both of her boys sound asleep in front of a pen full of sheep.
'Boys!' she cried, darting over to shake them awake. 'Come on, now. You're not due for a nap until this afternoon!'
The boys stood up quickly and looked up at their mother. They looked slightly confused.
'I am so sorry!' the mother said, exasperated, as she looked back at the farmer. He merely smiled, bemused by it all. Sandy wagged his tail.
'Now come on, boys, tell the nice man how many sheep you think there are!' she told her children, who looked between the sheep and the farmer, their eyes still a little glazed over.
'Umm.. 126?' said the younger boy, who seemed proud to know such a large number, even in his sleep-addled state.
The farmer didn't answer for a second as he was still amazed by what he had just seen. Only when he felt Sandy nudge against his leg did he reply, 'Err, no. I'm afraid not.'
The young boy groaned a little, looking down at his feet.
'I know, it's 74, isn't it?' said the older brother, puffing out his chest with a surge of confidence.
'Nope,' grinned the farmer, making the older boy's face drop. That's not it either!'
'Never mind, eh?' said the mother, ruffling both boys' hair.
'Well done for trying!' said the farmer as the family walked away, the woman smiling her thanks as they headed towards the Tin Can Alley.
It continued that way for the whole day: different people, each paying £1 - children and adults; all of them taking their place in front of the pen; all of them dozing off within a couple of minutes of counting the sheep. The farmer was in complete awe, he couldn't understand the effect it was having on them all, it was bizarre! It was as if the sheep had some kind of magical power, like they were in league with the Sandman or something. Whatever it was, though, it was doing the trick. Even when people woke up from their micro-naps, they were giving it a go at guessing how many sheep were trotting around in the pen. The farmer had to tell them they were all wrong - of course, he still didn't have the faintest clue himself - but he had started making notes of the figures people were giving him. It couldn't hurt to have a look through them later and find an average number, at least it would give him something to go on.
The fete wrapped up at about 3pm. After all of the village folk had drifted away, the farmer helped all the volunteers to pack up their stalls and collected all their takings. The chamber pot had near-enough been filled to the brim, so he had equipped himself with a wheelbarrow instead. Once everyone had left, the butcher being the last to drive away in his blood-spattered van, the farmer took himself and his wheelbarrow of cash into his modest little farmhouse. He made himself a cuppa (topped up with a drop of the good stuff) and set about counting up all the money, Sandy curled up on the sofa next to him.
'Bloody hell!' he exclaimed when he had added the takings figure from the last stall - Decorate a Digestive - to the running total. Sandy jolted his head up and looked at the farmer.
All in all, the fete had made £672! And the biggest earner of it all was Counting Sheep.
'Bloody hell!' the farmer cried again. 'Six hundred and seventy-two bloody quid! Ha-ha-haaaa!'
He jumped up and grabbed himself a glass from the kitchen, pouring himself a large brandy. He jigged his way back to the sofa, bringing the bottle with him. Settling himself back down in his seat, he kicked off his boots and stretched out his legs, his feet knocking over a stack of 50 pence pieces as he rested them on the coffee table. The farmer balanced the bottle of brandy in his lap as he reached over and patted Sandy enthusiastically on the head.
'You, my boy, are a genius!' he said happily. 'You have sold all of my problems! All I need to do is keep running these fetes and we'll be set! Any wool or eggs I sell along the way will be a bonus!' He laughed again in jubilation as he drained his glass and poured another.
So that's what he did.
Once a month, he hosted the village fete, with Counting Sheep remaining as the main attraction, and the money rolled in. In fact, the game had become quite a talking point, from what the farmer could gather, with friends and families challenging each other to attempt it: count how many sheep are in the pen without falling asleep - submitting any kind of guess had become a mere afterthought.
The game had become so popular that there was always a queue for it, and the farmer had even managed to up the price to £1.50 per go without any complaints from anyone - after all, it was all for a good cause, right? Combined with the rest of the takings from the fete and the usual income from the farm, the farmer was making enough money to pay all his bills on time each month for the first time ever, with plenty left over for him to treat himself!
After dealing with some much-needed repairs for his farmhouse and upgrading the living quarters of all of the animals - top of the list was of course the sheep pen - the farmer became accustomed to the finer things in life. He was dining on the best quality cuts of steak, sleeping on a brand new memory foam mattress and spending most Friday evenings in the local pub, which he never would have afforded beforehand. Life was going great, for both the farmer and Sandy and he couldn't imagine that it could get any better!
That was until one Saturday afternoon, about four months after the first fete. The farmer was sat in his usual spot next to the sheep pen, watching as one after the other, people were falling asleep on the bench in the middle of counting. A young girl had just sloped off to rejoin the queue again after her third failed attempt, when a middle aged man in a smart tweed jacket and wire-rimmed glasses stepped forward. 'Good afternoon,' he said, politely.
'Afternoon. £1.50, please,' smiled the farmer, pointing towards the wheelbarrow, which had now been reserved for the takings from this game.
'Oh, no,' replied the man, shaking his head. 'I just wanted to talk to you. I'm a professor of physiology and neurology at the university.' He produced a card from his jacket pocket and held it out to the farmer, who took it. On it was the logo of the university that was based in the nearby city, along with this professor's fancy sounding name and a list of contact details.
'Oh, right,' said the farmer, looking at the man warily. 'What can I do for ya, Prof?'
'Well, I've heard about this... this...' he gestured towards the sheep pen, seemingly unsure of what to call it. 'I came across it in the local newspaper, and it's been trending on social media.'
The farmer had only recently learnt what 'trending' meant from one of the youngsters he met at the pub when she'd been raving that a video she'd filmed of her friend trying Counting Sheep had received more than 2,000 views. From what he gathered, the news was travelling about his sheep game and its mysterious outcomes.
The professor continued, 'I must say, I am extremely intrigued and indeed fascinated by it all.' His eyes had widened in a way that reminded the farmer of a crazy scientist look he had seen on characters in films. 'I am about to begin a study and experimentation in relation to sleep patterns, with particular focus on the causes of insomnia and possible remedies, and I would be most honoured if I could incorporate... this... into my methodology somehow.' Once more he gestured towards the pen, his eyes darting between the sheep and the farmer.
'Oh,' said the farmer, admittedly a little confused by some of the words that had just come spilling out of this bloke's mouth. 'So... you want to...'
'I would like to conduct some experiments to understand the effects caused by these animals upon humans during this kind of interaction, and use the results to hopefully develop a treatment for people who struggle to go to sleep.
'Right,' said the farmer, still trying to get his head around it. He thought about the sheep - his sheep - being locked up in some kind of lab, while more nerds like this one ran endless tests on them. He looked over at the queue of people still waiting to pay money for their turn. 'Well, I mean... I'm not sure...'
'The tests would all be carried out here at your farm, if that would be suitable for you, so that the sheep can perform in their natural environment - although we can work out the details later,' the professor was hardly stopping to take breath. He was gesticulating so much as he spoke that the farmer wasn't sure whether to look at the bloke's face or his hands
'Well, um-'
'Either way,' the professor interrupted, 'I can assure you, you would be generously reimbursed for any of your time taken up in the study, and of course a percentage of any income made if we are successful.'
The farmer's ears pricked up, as did Sandy's, it seemed. Suddenly, thoughts of the finest. most expensive bottles of brandy were clouding his thoughts as he near enough shouted, 'So, when do you want to start?' The professor adjusted his glasses and smiled.
From then on, everything went by in a blur. The university had invested funding into the experiment and the farmer was asked to sign an agreement detailing the terms of his involvement and, his main focus, the rather agreeable payment he would receive for each week the professor was on site with the sheep, nor to mention the mention of the potential further sum he could receive if all went well.
The research continued for a full three months, alongside which the fetes continued to run - the professor considered these as optimum opportunities for observation and analysis. Business was booming.
A couple of weeks after the professor's last visit to the farm, the farmer received a phone call from him to tell him of the success that had come from the further tests they had done. They had somehow found a way to adapt the Counting Sheep experiment to make it work when people merely watched footage of the sheep in the pen, and then they went further and planted the idea of counting sheep in the minds of people who were struggling to get to sleep. The professor had always specialised in this 'mind-over-matter' malarkey, but when it came to sleeping, nothing had ever worked like Counting Sheep had.
Suddenly, it was everywhere. It was all over the news, people were calling it a miracle.
The thing is, it wasn't the kind of thing you could put into a tablet and prescribe to people. I mean, sleeping pills did exist if that's what people wanted, but it didn't seem as... natural, let's say.
The professor had had some of his university students put together a video about the Counting Sheep method that people could access on the Internet, teaching them how to get into the right mindset. The way they did it seemed to the farmer like a kind of hypnosis, it even started Sandy off snoring.
But still, people wanted more, so the farmer and the professor came up with a new idea, with the help of a bottle of brandy and another dose of Sandy's smart thinking. They developed the farm into a Sleep Farm. A 'retreat', the professor called it. With further funding provided by the university, they used the area of spare, unkempt land and built a whole complex. People came from far and wide to stay for weeks at a time, paying good money to see the Counting Sheep in real life and learn how to use the technique for themselves and be able to take it home with them. Those university students that had been involved in the original research project were given jobs as the Sleep Gurus at the Sleep Farm, so it worked out well for everyone! Meanwhile, the farmer kept his actual farm going, providing food to be used in the cafe at the retreat. It was a huge success and the farmer had never been better off.
One evening, he sat down at the dining table in his (now slightly bigger) farmhouse which still sat in its same old spot in the field, overlooking the driveway leading to the retreat. It had been around two and a half years since the that first fete had taken place and the farmer was feeling a little reminiscent.
The fetes had since moved on to be held the village hall, with all the proceeds going towards developing the local area, although they probably weren't doing as well as they were when the sheep were the stars of the show.
'Oh, how far we've come, eh Sandy?' he commented, before downing his fifth glass of brandy.
Sandy was sat on the other side of the table again, enjoying his occasional treat of a bowl of beer. The farmer picked up his brand new flat cap and fiddled with it in his hands, a calm smile on his face.
'Now all we have to figure out, is how we're going to store all this milk all those cows are coming out with...' he said, dreamily.
'Ahh, now I've got an idea for that one!' Sandy piped up, his ears flopping and his tail wagging.
'I thought you bloody might!'
The farmer laughed huskily and poured himself another drink.
The End.