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Morris is finding it tough going in Greece.

Facing strong competition from a big-thinking Milo (and a big bodyguard), we ask if Morris has finally met his match.

The power of the subliminal message on the subconscious mind is a powerful thing, as Blue Peter has demonstrated so artfully since 1958, warping the minds of generation after generation.

When you go to a shop that sells clocks, the hands are often all set at Ten to Two. Retailers do this to give the clock face the appearance of a smile, and therefore appear more purchasable to the consumer.

Aunt Felicity told me this on the phone last night. Apparently a new shop has opened in Market Drayton selling novelty clocks to tourists. It takes this whole subliminal clock face thing to the extreme and only opens for a few minutes at 1:50PM. They are doing a roaring trade apparently.

Armed with this information, I've arranged a public address at 1:50PM tomorrow, and after that, at 3:40PM, I've booked Milo to give a response.

I haven't actually told Milo he's booked to speak, so when he doesn't turn up, coupled with the fact that three forty is subliminal sad-time, I expect the crowds will see the truth in what I say.

Sometimes, for their own good, you have to deceive people a bit to get them to see the truth. I learned that from a man who used to sell pickled mermaids in Market Drayton.

I have a lengthy, verbose and carefully crafted speech prepared that makes use of flipcharts, illustrations and anecdotal evidence.

The gist of it is that Milo is a charlatan and totally wrong in all he says, while I speak nothing but the truth, and also that Slatington is rubbish and Moreton Say is great.

I have no qualms about Milo appearing, as I know he would not be able to joust intellectually with me in the public forum, but his underhanded tactics have driven me to this, and I feel justice is on my side.

Quite a crowd turned up today at 1:50 to listen to my speech. I did note that a few of them had "Slatington - Paradise on Earth" placards, but I paid no heed. I'd hired a Grecian folk quartet to warm up the crowd a bit and the atmosphere was really quite electric.

Then, just before I mounted the stage to launch into my triumphant Salopian rhetoric, a burly man who could have been Larry Drake's twin grabbed me quite roughly and before I had chance to employ any oriental defences, Milo pushed past me and hopped onto the stage. My stage.

I watched it all as the burly man sat on me and ate sesame seeds from a small brown bag. I remember it all now, like some terrible waking nightmare, as if it happened in fast forward.

Milo on the podium gesturing wildly to the crowds, the large red banners that unfolded behind him with "Slatington, it's Greatington" in black man high letters. The Nuremberg rallies with Greek folk music and flipcharts.

Milo used all my prepared visual aids, but twisted to his own ends, I even saw him cross out the words Shropshire and write in Slatington over a particularly lovely photograph of a field just outside Moreton Say.

Milo got increasingly agitated, gesticulating, arms flailing wildly, eyes bulging.

Then the crowd started cheering and whooping and applauding, all kinds of noises they should have been making at the end of my speech, just after my "Â…and that's why Shropshire is the happiest place on earth." Rousing finish.

Instead of me, it was Milo who was raised to their shoulders and carried triumphantly across town like a conquering hero.

Instead of me.

Something went terribly wrong today.

Instead of me, they all listened to Milo.

Why would anyone believe Milo instead of me? I have truth and beauty and justice on my side, I have the green rolling hills of Shropshire, the shining towers of Telford and the mythic legacy of a thousand Salopian heroes behind me, all Milo had was a burly assistant and some stolen flipcharts.

I went back to my rented room a bit deflated. It's been one of my slightly less positive days. I'm going to sleep now; perhaps it will all make sense in the morning.

I woke late this morning with a headache and a desire to inflict suffering. Last night I was woken by a thunderstorm outside and my sleep was troubled by a combination of self-doubt and a tense bladder.

So I went back to bed for a bit and meditated on the Shropshire ideals by which I live my life, goodness, fairness, equality and fresh gingerbread. I rose again with a less violent disposition.

Then I noticed the quiet.

No traffic, no talking, no doors closing, no televisions... just a few birds and an occasional questioning bark. I walked out onto the street still wearing my special limited edition Han Solo pyjamas.

They've all gone. The whole town is deserted.

It's like Bridgnorth on a Bank Holiday Monday but without the pantomime horses and traffic restrictions.

I can't even find Norman, I'd left him tethered to a lamppost near the park, all that's left there now is a frayed rope.

Spent today looking around the town. Shops have been left unlocked, half-eaten meals sit at restaurant tables, cars are abandoned in the middle of the street, doors open, with their keys still in the ignition.

Either that poster I put up telling people "Not to miss Ludlow May Fair" was a much bigger success than I anticipated or something is seriously amiss.

Maybe they are filming a low budget Albanian/Greek sci-fi thriller and no one thought to tell me.

Maybe there was some mass hysteria reaction to Milo's lies about Shropshire and everyone fled to the hills.

I intend to find out.

One good thing about being stuck in a town on the Albanian/Greek border that's been suddenly and inexplicably deserted is the shopping.

No queues, no crowded aisles, no waiting for a till to come free. All the bargains are still there in the afternoon and you never have to argue about being charged for someone else's cat food.

I had a lovely day shopping. I bought a few gifts for home, some new clothes and a stapler with a chrome base and flex rubber overside that was just too beautiful to overlook.

I left the appropriate money in each shop, just because there's no one here, doesn't mean I'm about to start looting.

Then I sat in the park and called Mother, whose voice is much better. She talked to me for a few hours about her collection of thimbles and her rheumatoid problems.

Although I'm glad her crushed throat has healed, I had much more interesting, satisfying and intelligent conversations with her when she couldn't articulate more than a few strangled gurgles.

She could offer no convincing explanation as to the town's deserted state either.

She did have a theory about a mass dairy allergy dissolving everyone in their sleep but it was quite far-fetched and would have required a recent rapid evolution in the local breed of cow, some rare radioactive isotopes, a blender, five tons of milk powder, eighteen chinchillas, a Ford Anglia and a quite startling series of coincidences.

I awoke in the early morning to the thunder again, great rolling slaps in the face from outside.

Disturbed by such noise. I looked out the window and saw it descending with the dawn, a mechanical colossus... the most enormous helicopter I've ever seen.

Like a tower block with rotor blades, it crunched down just outside the guesthouse and Milo Forrest leaned out of the window.

He leaned out of one of the windows, his face level with mine now and told me exactly what had happened to everyone. There was a lot of ranting and gloating as well, but the answer he provided was a simple one and nothing at all to do with dairy products.

He had taken them

He'd convinced the whole town, man, woman and boy, to leave their life here and move to Slatington New Jersey, where a new life of ease, comfort and multi-channel cable television waited them.

Milo was quite smug about it actually and before he thundered back into the sky, he actually suggested I might want to give up my personal quest to promote Shropshire.

Don't worry, I will never abandon my purpose. It is too important, too much is at stake.

I know in my heart that Shropshire is better than New Jersey, that Moreton Say is better then Slatington, but I have to redeem myself if I'm going to continue my odyssey. Those poor misguided people that Milo has hoodwinked onto his helicopter need putting straight.

I'm going to hunt Milo down and explain in the firmest possible terms that I am right and he is wrong.

I'm going to leap from the jaws of defeat into the lap of redemption.

I'm going to make things better.

I'm going to Slatington.