AS Beggarsdale's two successful entrepreneurs, one would expect Jetset and Maggots Moneygrubber to be rather good chums. After all, they have both spent their lifetimes piling up the filthy lucre, more or less legally, and that should give them a lot in common.

However, village gossip says that despite their outward mutual politeness, they secretly hate each other's guts, Jetset being jealous 'cos Maggots has more brass, and Maggots 'cos Jetset has been allowed to become a member of BAFFFFAS.

The Beggarsdale Association of Fly Fishers, Ferret Fanciers and Ale Suppers is, you see, the Dale's most exclusive organisation.

It is also the medieval fiefdom of Owd Tom, who let Jetset join after he spent a fortune improving his private stretch of the River Beggar and then threw it open to BAFFFFAS members.

Whereas Maggots (who fishes with grubs!) banned Tom from the Old Vicarage stretch of the aforesaid river, ensuring he would be blackballed for ever and a day.

However, fishing was far from their minds last Sunday when most of the locals gathered, as usual, in the Beggars' Arms after church.

Strangely enough, it was the vicar who started the fuss.

For a normally mild-mannered man, the Rev Rupert had delivered a fiery sermon attacking the wave of greed which has rocked the American financial system so badly that stocks and shares have plummeted here, putting at risk millions of people's pensions and savings.

Now in this, the Rev Rupe has some personal interest at stake: the Church Commissioners nearly lost his own pension fund by dealings on the property market before that bubble burst the last time round.

In the pub, Maggots, swilling his normal brandy and Cokes, nudged Jetset less than gently as he said in what he thought was a whisper: "Thought t'vicar was a bit OTT today. I could feel him looking at us when he was going on about greedy businessmen?"

Jetset frowned. He did not like the idea of being lumped with Maggots in any way at all but, in particular, not in the vicar's contempt.

"He may have been looking at you," he snapped (he had already sunk a couple of large G&Ts). "But I didn't notice anything in my direction. Have you got something to feel guilty about"

Maggots reared up: "And what's that suppose to mean...?"

This was by no means in a whisper and stopped all conversation in the bar. Maggot's wife grabbed him by the elbow and gave it a hard tug.

Jetset, though embarrassed, was in no mood to let things go: "If you must know, I've just lost a fortune on the markets - but I don't think this is the time or the place to talk about money."

The vicar, who always pops in for a gill - a single gill - after the service swept across the bar, stepped between the two and smiled his saintliest smile: "Come on gentlemen. I'm flattered that you are taking my sermon so seriously, but I don't think we should let it get too ...too heated, shall we say."

The two men glared at each other, but Maggots allowed himself to be dragged to the door by his wife.

Jetset, patently shaken, sat down on his barstool and ordered another G&T.

Cousin Kate, the postmistress, leaned over from her adjacent stool and gave him a not-so-reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"The money lenders been falling out in the temple again?" she asked with a wicked grin.

Jetset did not think this was at all funny. Strangely enough, everyone else did.

Even the vicar, the poorest man in the pub, allowed himself a small smile.

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.