Armoured Farmers

Prepare to readdress all your preconceptions, because I've got a conundrum for you: why has there never been a single instance of archery in The Archers?
This is a query that has been doggedly burdening me for the last 4 minutes, possibly because I'm a Sagittarius and I assume that means we're all obsessed with archery. No doubt because Saturn is going into a menopausal state and bisecting the motet of Orion's orbit, or whatever the astrological terminology is.
Obviously my dream scenario would be if the titular Archers were not a family but an elite vigilante justice team, a bit like the Avengers but where everybody is Hawkeye, and all the villains are horses or fête saboteurs. But having secured an interview with the BBC, I was reminded that the radio serial has been in existence for 60 years and that changing the fundamental premise now might cause continuity errors.
Even so, you'd think one of the writers would have come up with it as a gimmick, but no such luck. Perhaps it would be too ironic. We need a spin-off series, maybe The Archers: Ultimatum, where members of the family in question roam Ambridge with murderous intent, killing invariably tired men and invariably posh women with extreme prejudice. Tea-rooms are set alight, token Scottish characters say token Scottish phrases, and middle-aged uncles stop worrying about the financial problems they're facing and realise it's probably because they own a farm in the credit crunch - and then proceed to run for their lives. Meanwhile, down at one of 19 local pubs (you either own a pub or a farm in Ambridge), a previously mistrusted immigrant worker is redeemed in the eyes of the local gossips as he rescues Clare Balding from the falling rafters. Clare Balding, of course, is there because she's a mildly posh older woman and it's a career requirement; the storyline instead explains she's there to judge a cake competition, or because she heard the local horses beckoning to her in her sleep. The episode ends with the screams of the dying, but just to keep up the tradition, they are just background noise to a mother coming to the realisation that it was her son that drove the satanic dagger into the vegetable fair's prize parsnip. The theme tune plays. Well. A dubstep remix, in any case.
The only explanation I can offer for my slow descent into gleeful megalomania is that I haven't actually spent an entire morning in my house for over three weeks. Let it be of some comfort to you that I shall end these dark days on Saturday. Amen.