Every year, in the muddy, squelchy village of Widdersnatch, the locals gathered for what they called the Great Boot-Off. The Boot-Off was a competition that celebrated the one thing Widdersnatch had more of than sheep poo, cow poo, pig poo, or even hedgehog poo: boots. And given the Widdersnatchian propensity for all things poo-related, boots were essential.

Not good boots, mind you. Not sensible, cleverly fitted boots of finest soft leather. Certainly not boots anyone with dignity or arches would wear.

But still, undeniably _boots_, nevertheless.

“Boots,” proclaimed old Nanny Bleatphart, who had judged the competition since the Great Wellington Explosion of ’48, “are the soul of a man. Or the sole, anyway.”

The villagers assembled in the village square, a well-trodden puddle-ridden stony quagmire in the village centre with delusions of grandeur. The usual suspects had turned out for the event; there was Boot Polish Barry, who liked a glistening sheen on his footwear. There was Millicent Threadgirdle, the holder of a valuable patent on knitted boots. Not just the laces, the whole pair of boots. She occasionally, in flights of drunken, optimism-soaked fantasy, claimed they were waterproof. They were not. Millicent walked like someone walking on large brown and very alive, slugs.

But all eyes were on this year’s dark horse: young Ned Fumble. Ned had ideas.

“Ladies an’ not-so-ladies!” bellowed the Mayor, a man with a booming voice and a moustache that failed to disguise an inadequate understanding of modern attitudes as they relate to gender. Surprisingly, the Mayor had won Best In Show three years running. “Present your footwear!”

And they did. With pride. With passion. The wreak of airborne foot-fungus spores was palpable.

Boots clomped. Boots squelched. One boot, the property of Percy Poulters, whose boots were fashioned from not very well tanned goose-hide, honked. Percy was a man of extravagant thrift and worryingly dubious fowl-centred ethics.

Then came Ned.

He stepped into the square with what could only be described as _contraptions_ on his feet. Long, curling toes. Gears that spun with a satisfyingly smooth, mechanical tick-tick, like a well-oiled freewheeling bicycle wheel. “Clockwork Multi-function Bootsmanship,” said Ned proudly, pulling a lever on the ankle. The boots clicked. Whirred. Emitted a small, but energetic blast of steam. “Boots that do the job! - And not just the job of walking!” He exclaimed, with a broad grin.

“You’ve made boots,” Nanny Bleatphart said slowly, “that can cook turnips while you walk?”

“And knit scarves, if you so wish,” said Ned. “There is some specialisation of abilities in each boot though. For example, the left boot is a whizz at root vegetables. Whereas the right one’s more haberdashery focussed.”

The crowd murmured.

“But are they waterproof?” asked Millicent, with the desperate spite of someone whose socks had never truly been dry since 1972.

Ned marched forward. The boots puffed once and lifted him two inches off the ground.

Hoverboots.

Powered by a continuous series of very small explosions.

As he floated gently above the square, a hush fell.

Then the left boot misfired, causing Ned to pirouette, the angular momentum of which flung him into the cabbage stall.

There was widespread applause. In Widdersnatch, a good boot, when failing, should _fail with style_.

After a brief intermission to remove cabbage from various unprotected orifices, the judging commenced.

Boot Polish Barry’s were too polished and lacked spontaneity. Millicent’s knitted pair had sagged into something resembling a pair of sea-soaked knitted swimming trunks after a church outing. Percy’s gooseboots hissed at the judge and then made a daring, but ultimately failed, escape attempt.

And then there was Ned. His boots were, by this stage, smouldering gently, cooking a modest stew and weaving a blue tweed wedding suit.

“Well,” said Nanny Bleatphart, tasting the boot stew. “It’s woefully under-seasoned, there is an excess of cheese. But at least they’re ambitious.”

She looked at Ned.

“Most promising footwear-related disaster I’ve seen since the Inflatable Clog Incident.”

She raised her judging spoon.

“The winner of this year’s Boot-Off is Ned Fumble and his multi-purpose, all singing and dancing footrockets!”

The crowd cheered. Percy hissed. Millicent sulked.

And so, in the finest tradition of Widdersnatch, a new Boot Champion was crowned. His prize? A trophy filled with athletes foot cream, a title of minor nobility (“Lord Toe of the Eastern Marshes”), and the knowledge that next year, he’d have to defend his title against something even more ludicrous.

That evening he began, out of habit, as much as anything, designing a pair of custard-powered galoshes, which, Ned was pretty sure, would turn out to be World class, multi-role, competition boots.

But somewhere, deep in his sole, or possibly soul, Ned longed to stroll along empty beaches, basking in the sunshine and feeling the freedom of his slightly crooked toes poking out the front of a pair of hand-made, straw sandals with a nice daisy-motif.