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The man lay silently in the savannah grass of the Ngorongord valley in Tanzania.
He didn't dare breathe or move for startling the Thompson's gazelle that he had tethered to a small Acacia tree.
From his clothing, you would never have guessed that he was Welsh- only his WRU rubber wrist band on his right 'trigger' hand gave it away.
The Blackwood Dentist, Major Orion Jekyll- Hyde-Hunt, was the veteran predator of the Serengeti, as he approached his 75th Birthday intent on giving himself an early birthday present.
He wasn't using the little antelope for target practice- he was after much bigger prey.
During his 40 or so years, since he was honourably discharged from the Army, Major Hunt had spent most of his free time scouring the Dark Continent in pursuit of the 'Big Five'.
Elephant, Buffalo, Leopard, Rhinoceros and African Lion.
His house - called the 'Grange' -was filled with all kinds of 'trophies' of animal heads on his walls, mounted on wooden shields and was testament to the other love of his life- that of the 'dying' art of taxidermy.
To him there was no greater thrill of tracking his victim through the bush, shooting it and then skinning it and stuffing it and mounting it in his study wall.
He would have done that to his women to if UK Law would have allowed it.
He could not describe to an outsider, how big a man it made him feel to shoot a defenceless animal in cold blood.
It was the Major's biggest regret that he had missed the Second World War- on account of being too young- as he would have loved to have had the opportunity to shoot a man or better still a fellow Nazi.
His brain-washed army brain scanned the surrounding Serengeti Plain for signs of the pride.
He was after an African Lion which was on his 'to-do' list before he went to the 'Great White Hunter' in the sky.
The Major believed that all human life on Earth was Alien and came from a place close to the constellation of stars that he was named after.
The only Big Bang Theory that he believed in, was the big bang that came from the end of his hunting rifle.
And then he saw her.
A magnificent African Lioness of around 7 feet from head to the tip of her tail.
Just like in his native Blackwood, it was the women that did all the hard work- hunting and rearing their young- whilst the men laid around in the sun licking their own balls.
The Major didn't want to shoot this perfect evolutionary killing machine- he wanted Leo-the dominant male lion- the inappropriately named King of the Jungle (as Lions do not live in the Jungle but hunt on the open grassland of Central Africa).
The 'Mane Man' if you like- the Major had a vision of Leo, poking his head through the wall above his grey marble Louis X1Vth surround and open fire.
He knew that the lioness would have to kill the prey and then sit back while the dominant male would stroll over eat the 'lions share' of the raw meat and then leave her the leftovers for both her and the cubs.
Once again- like the Blackwood Men on a Friday Night with a kebab.
As in human life, there is a hierarchy or structure into which all animals - human or otherwise- fit- and he- Major Jekyll Hyde-Hunt complete with his high powered telescopic rifle had replaced Leo at the top of the food chain.
The Major wasn't interested in the environment or nature conservation.
He wasn't even interested in eating his prey.
He purely wanted to shoot the beast and brag to his social- climbing friends that he had the money and resources to do something they could not afford to.
When asked by his fellow Monmouth Golf Club members as to why he went to Africa to hunt- he replied arrogantly - because it was 'there'.
He even took in the severed hand of a Mountain Gorilla - an endangered species- so that he could use it as an ashtray for his Cuban cigars.
The Major was loved and loathed in equal measures by the elite golfing fraternity- most of whom secretly despised his opulence and attitude to life- but would not 'break cover' for fear of being ostracised from the 'Club'.
The Monmouth Club was an anachronism in the 21st Century with Members Rules that were a throwback to the days of the Raj in India.
Only the elite could afford its annual membership and green fees - so only the rich used it.
Back in the 21th Century, the Major used his excellent peripheral vision to spot the Head of the Pride, who was sitting in a small clearing of parched grass that he had flattened with his own body weight, casually flicking his tail at the tsetse flies that buzzed his massive bollocks.
He knew that he couldn't hit the beast at this range.
He would have to risk leaving his position and getting closer to the action.
As he did so- he could see the lioness dropping her shoulders and slowly padding forward towards the tethered gazelle- who was just beginning to pick up her scent.
It started to buck wildly and tried to pull herself free from the tree, as the lioness and the rest of the pride began to close in as one on the stricken animal.
Mercifully, the uneven contest was over very quickly, as the Lioness applied a choke hold to the little antelope's neck and the life quickly drained out of the poor creature, whose eyes were the only testament of the pain it felt in its final death throes.
Nature was both wonderful and cruel in equal measures.
The only difference is that animals hunt to eat while humans hunt just for sport.
Major Jekyll-Hyde-Hunt was just such a human.
He was regarded locally as a bit of an eccentric and a lot of a schizophrenic.
Most patients didn't return for treatment to him- as you didn't know which of the dentist's personas would turn up.
The mild mannered one or the raving lunatic one.
He was a nightmare for his nurses to work with, as he would throw instruments at them like he was a Zulu spear-chucker of the highest order at Rorke's Drift, when in his darker moods.
An Assegai from an Asshole Guy.
Yet on other occasions when Dr Jekyll was in the surgery, he could be the most caring, compassionate human being on the Planet.
Then he had patience with his patients.
But when he was in a rage -the only thing that seemed to calm him down was his love of killing innocent warm-blooded creatures.
His nurses would leave Hunting Magazines around the surgery and waiting room in an effort to distract their schizophrenic employer.
The Major, looked through his telescope lens, he could make out the lumbering shape of Leo ambling towards the dead antelope.
There was nothing more than Leo enjoyed than pawing his way through a Thompson Local.
The fact that the gazelle was still tied to the tree made it like a version of leonine swing-ball, as it batted back and for- losing body parts in each successive swing.
The Major held his head still, took a breath and held it without exhaling, as he steadied himself for the money shot.
There were lions all around and a circle of hyenas and other dogs hanging around the kill- waiting for the big cats to finish and take their 'lions share'-so they could scrap over the left-overs.
He was like Lee Harvey Oswald in that Dallas Book Depository just waiting for Jackal O to get its head out of the way so he could shoot the big guy.
As he finally got a clear shot- he lightly pressed to trigger only to hear a metallic clunk.
Something had clogged up the bullet chamber.
Orion could not believe it.
He cleaned his guns more meticulously than a baboon cleaned its red arse.
He inspected the bullet chamber and noticed that there was an obstruction.
As he pulled out the bullet- he could see the smiling face of Nelson Mandela beaming back at him.
There was a tiny African National Congress medal blocking the cylinder.
It was misshapen and bent and had scored the interior of the rifle.
How the Hell had that got there?
In an instant, he realised that last night at Base Camp, he remembered leaving his rifle unguarded for a few minutes outside whilst he used to 'Bush Telegraph' .
"I bet it was that little kid!" said the Major .
He was referring to one of the children of his 'Tour Guides' from the Masai-Mara tribe that had been hanging around his tent- the little disabled one with half a foot from stepping on a landmine- the one that he had clipped round the back of his head.
" I wished that I had hit that little Kaffe harder now!" said Orion.
Suddenly, the Major's blood ran cold.
He realised that the truck that had brought him out to this Protected Wildlife Reserve had buggered off.
What If in Post-Apartheid Africa, the tribespeople no longer had respect for their minority White Rulers and betters?
What if the same thing that happened in Zimbabwe- Rhodesia came to pass and the class structure was upset by revolution?
UDI or You Die?
It meant the same thing to a Great White Hunter with no transport or fresh water in a 300 mile radius.
Surely these people still relied on the illegal revenue that poaching brought to the tribe?
Bob Geldof and Live Aid couldn't have raised THAT much for the local economy?
All these questions started to go through the Major's head.
He appreciated that there were 'no flies on these people' but they wouldn't just leave a white man to die in the Serengeti with all these wild animals running about would they?
After all he would be missed wouldn't he?
The more questions he asked himself the worse his situation seemed.
He HAD been rude to the Guide, Boko Harram or whatever his name was...he couldn't pronounce it so why should he care what he was called.
His money too...surely they would care about that?
He remembered then he had breached his own rules.
His wallet containing his cash had been in the trouser pocket of his khaki shorts and would have been down around his ankles whilst he was distracted using the toilet.
With a ventilation gap under the door and the sides of the kharzi, any little pilfering hands- especially that a child- could have got his wallet out of the pocket.
The Major was in major trouble.
He checked his pocket for ammunition but found only around five bullets left.
He wasn't even sure if his gun would now fire in view of the damage caused by Nelson's Column.
For the first time in his privileged life, Major Jekyll-Hyde felt fear.
He was no longer the predator but was now potential prey and this new realisation brought with it a real sense of genuine terror.
Was Man the only animal intelligent enough to be scared by such a prospect or did that male Thompson's Gazelle killed by the pride early realise what was coming?
Did the animal rank the same as Major Orion Jekyll-Hyde, when it came to God's Master Plan for the Universe and would he get the blame from the Great Creator?
Either way the Buck stopped with him.
For the first time in his life- he felt insignificant.
Could he extricate himself from this life or death situation?
He knew it wouldn't be long before the predators on this vast grassland would pick up his scent- he prayed that they had not lost their fear of man and didn't view him just yet as 'prey'.
With successive holidaymakers and tourists invading this most sacred place on Earth- some of the animals associated human beings with the provision of food instead of actually being food.
But it was only a matter of time before that changed.
The Major decided he would have to be mentally tough as well as physically tough, if he was to survive this ordeal.
He looked at the hot African sun and noted its trajectory in the sky and decided his best bet was to head East towards the border with Kenya, and use the famous Mount Kilimanjaro as a guide.
He knew there were a few freshwater lakes up there in that area and that there were regular charity climbs by the Welsh Rugby Team and other Europeans - so he decided that would be his 'beacon' of hope.
He knew he would have to get rid of his scent to throw off any predators- so the first lump of elephant shit he came across, he would smear his body with as cover.
Lions were wary of elephants.
He decided he would use the long grass to stay out of sight- although it would be a risky strategy as he could just as easily stumble upon a lioness and her cubs which would mean an instant death.
But at least that would be an instant death.
His other big fear was that of standing on a poisonous snake and being bitten resulting in a slow lingering death.
He thought of how babyish some of his patients were in view of the fact they were living in their 'bubble existence' - being frightened of a small injection or a tiny filling.
Out here it was survival of the fittest and a life or death struggle with not just the elements but a lot of the deadly animals, reptiles and other critters found in the World.
He estimated that the journey at its shortest estimate would be at least a week, through some of the harshest terrain on the Planet.
Not like David Attenborough- who had all the creature comforts that the BBC could provide.
The Major cursed his luck and set off rifle in hand ready to make a great trek.
Every step could be his last - so he recced the area carefully before he moved on.
Like a commando, he would run in small bursts, take cover, watch for movement and then move on.
He estimated he had around five- six hours of sunlight left and he would try and find some cover - if possible off the ground to try and sleep.
He was aware that lions and snakes can both climb trees but the way he saw it - gravity would be his friend in that situation - and he needed all the help he could get if he would ever see Wales again alive.
Eventually, the line of tall grass stopped and the Major could see a vast plain of grass that had been grazed flat by the many herds of herbivores that inhabited this area.
Buffalo, antelope, zebras and giraffes to name but a few.
It never ceased to amaze the Major, at this living proof of Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution and the constant change in genetics and mutation that populated this landscape.
He knew that he had little option but to break cover and follow the herd to the nearest watering holes- (again like the Blackwood men) knowing full well that he would not be the only predatory creature doing the same.
In the searing heat, he pushed his safari hat down on his head - being grateful for the limited cover that the wide brim afforded his face.
In the far distance, he could see the heat hazes dancing like genies emerging from some unseen bottle.
Even the metal of his gun barrel felt 'steelworks' hot to the touch, as he slung it over his right shoulder as he began his yomp.
He knew finding fresh drinking water was his priority and also finding a receptacle he could use to carry it in.
Oh what he would give to find an empty Coca-Cola bottle or can, tossed from a visiting Wildlife fan- but there was none.
Just his luck -apart from Blackwood - it turned out to be the only place left on Earth with no litter.
He didn't like being exposed - out in the wide plain in full view of would- be- predators.
He knew he wasn't capable of outrunning them and being in his mid-seventies he couldn't 'stott'- like an antelope to show he was fit and healthy and capable of outrunning the opposition.
He knew full well that in nature it was survival of the fittest- and he was certainly not the fittest.
As he walked along as fast as his blistered feet would carry him, he noticed the giant termite mounds and an aardvark using his long tongue to get a meal in amongst the dust.
The last time he had seen a tongue that size it was attached to 'Kiss' lead singer Gene Simmons.
He marvelled at its ability to adapt to this barren terrain and the delicate ecosystem upon which it depended.
He didn't really care though- he shot it anyway- with one of the few remaining bullets- as he wondered what it tasted like.
Initially, he had missed the target by four feet- like shooting with an air-rifle with dodgy sights on a rigged Fairground booth.
He adjusted and made the appropriate allowance and hit the target right between the eyes.
He dragged the carcass to a nearby bush and began to light a fire by using two pieces of wood and rubbing them today.
The primitive peoples of the Masai Mara call them 'kaambebalongo' or 'magic sticks'.
The equally primitive people of Blackwood call them matches.
He created a wooden spit from some fallen dead branches and toasted the mammal over the fire.
The Major had to take a chance on cooking the creature- as he couldn't eat it raw- and realised that it was a risky strategy, as the smell of the meat cooking would undoubtedly draw attention which is why he had made camp under a small tree with low to high branches.
So when the inevitable predators came, he could merely climb out of danger and leave them have his leftovers.
He just hoped it wasn't a leopard or lion that fancied a piece of ant-eater- as it generally was not on their preferred menu.
Just before dusk- they came in the form of a pack of hyenas.
Each daring the others to make the first move on the Major.
Their black faces and tiny ears making these savage beasts look like soft and cuddly- when in reality they could rip apart a human in minutes.
As they are descendants of dogs - there was a silent mutual admiration for human beings which goes back to primitive times when cavemen first domesticated these canines- but the initial hesitancy and stand-off only lasts for a few minutes- especially when they are hungry.
The Major beat a hasty retreat to the upper branches - not wishing to waste any of his three remaining bullets on these wild dogs.
He grabbed a chunk of aardvark flesh and climbed as high as he could onto the few branches capable of supporting his weight.
He sat still frustrated that these scavengers would eat his dinner at his expense.
It was a similar feeling to that which he held on the subject of 'Family Allowance' payments to people who didn't want to work in his home Town.
From his safe perch, the Major looked up at the horizon and saw two long necked shadows in profile of the setting orangey-red sun - which must have been giraffes- he was surprisingly enchanted by this scene- as he remembered the one he had shot - a few years back- which he mounted and stuck through his conservatory roof- just to piss off the local Planning Department.
Life was so fragile and unpredictable- he could never have imagined this situation a week ago when he sitting in front of his hearth with an open-fire dressed in his bedroom slippers, cravat and 'Hefner' dressing-gown.
He looked in the direction of Mount Kilimanjaro and it looked mystical- the summit surrounded by low cloud.
No wonder primitive people thought mountains were home of the Gods.
He was also surprised that he could hear the sound of the American Band 'Toto' playing the song 'Africa'.
Only to realise that he had left his MP3 player on.
Like an Oscar winning film of the 1980's- Major Orion Jekyll-Hyde just wanted to be 'Out of Africa' too.
He plotted his next move- as the last of the hyenas disappeared into the bush dragging the elongated nose of the dead anteater for them to chew on later.
The Major made himself as comfortable as was possible in a tree, linked his arms and legs around the branches like a sloth, tipped his hat over his eyes and nodded off to sleep.
It had been a long and eventful day.
His subconscious mind was whirring with thoughts, and proposed survival techniques that he was trying to recall from his army days.
He knew he would have to go 'native' if he was to survive this situation.
And boy did he love soft toilet tissue paper.
The Major awoke with the first rays of the sun.
He could feel something warm and sticky hitting his face.
He brushed his hand on his cheek and realised almost immediately that it was guano or bat shit to the uninitiated.
It stank to high heaven and was coming from one of the branches high above him.
It was almost like it was deliberate- that the Universe was trying to tell him something.
Or that the bat was the reincarnation of RAF trained 'Bomber' Harris.
Sonar or radar being their speciality- being used to hit a target in the dark.
The Major as he got over the shock of where he was- realised he would have to get moving soon.
It was much cooler at this time of day -as the Mid-Day sun directly overhead would cook him like a fried egg on this unforgiving Hell hole grill.
He mentally pointed himself in the direction of Kilimanjaro, set his MP3 to the minimal sound to conserve the battery, scanned the area for danger and then climbed down the trunk of the tree towards the ground.
He could hear all sorts of animals waking up- a cacophony of sound hit his ears- as he strained to identify if the noises were friend or foe- food or killer.
The scenery hadn't change much- inedible grassland and rotten trees.
There was no sign of water.
The best he could do was lick the moisture from the night off the tree leaves, before it evaporated and pray that the tree was not a poisonous variety.
He knew giraffes ate them - so logically - he hoped they would not be toxic.
His mouth was more parched than some of his diabetic patients.
He remembered why he had become a dentist in the first place.
He was a masochist not a sadist.
He enjoyed causing OTHER people pain but did not enjoy it himself.
In short- he could give it not take it.
Perhaps that is why he loved hunting so much- he loved the Power and hurt he could inflict on little animals.
Why did his ancestors bother fighting their way to the top of the food chain otherwise?
Rifle in hand, he carefully padded his way through the short grass- keeping a wary eye out for that hyena pack that had 'dogged' him last night.
Once again he yomped his way over the plains ignoring the pain from his blistered feet.
He knew that as the morning went on, the temperature would climb, and he would have to find some cover if he was to avoid heatstroke.
The climate of Central Africa was harsh at best to a pampered safari guest- but to have to revert to behaving like Victorian Explorers - Speke, Burton and Livingstone- as he 'presumed' that it must have been intolerable to have lived in such primitive times- let alone explore this mosquito-infested continent with its multitude of poisonous plants, dangerous wild animals and unfriendly natives must have been a nightmare.
The Major kept himself mentally alert by replaying in his mind- games of golf that he had played and won at the 'Rose' in Monmouth- as if nothing else if he could convince himself that the Serengeti plain was like walking a giant golf course, then he could pretend and ignore the harshness of his situation.
For every 18 miles that he walked- he felt like they were one 'hole' closer to the 19th Hole- or Club-house - that he could take that long awaited cool drink.
Suddenly, the Major made a startling discovery that would change his situation for the better.
No - it was not a 4x4 Range Rover hidden in the long grass.
It was a dead female elephant carcass, with its tusks removed.
Most normal human beings would have been reviled by the sight, but not the Major.
He being an accomplished taxidermist saw this as an opportunity.
He surmised that it had been shot quite recently by poachers for the ivory tusks.
It was covered in flies and had been pretty much stripped by all sorts of scavengers- with this once magnificent creature that was a direct descendent of the woolly mammoth, now just part of the eco-system and another meal on the Serengeti diners menu.
The Major was surprised to see that behind the remains of the fallen creature, was her dead calf too.
He had died standing up - probably from hunger or shock at the demise of his Mother.
In any event, the Major got to work quickly on the carcass with his Swiss army knife, quickly removing the remaining innards of the baby beast and placing its skin and head out to dry in the sun.
Like the flies all around him - the Major was busy 'hatching' a plan to aid his survival.
Within half an hour- he held the complete wrinkled skin of the baby elephant and like a scene from the 'Silence of the Lambs' he proceeded to wear it- trunk and all.
Like he was wearing a pantomime costume from 'Marigolds' in Brynmawr- the sunburned dentist took cover under the cool skin.
He knew that if he could find the rest of the herd- he would stand a greater chance of survival- as the elephants would lead him to water and offer great protection from the plains predators.
Like Lord Greystoke had become Tarzan before him.
Now the Major had transformed into a Jumbo.
He tried in vain to blow down the trunk of the elephant- but he was not musically trained to play the pachyderm.
The best he could do was raise a tiny squeak.
Now given the size of an African Elephant's ears, to Sir David Attenborough it would have come as no surprise that this sound would have been heard one mile away by the orphan elephant's aunt named Nelly.
She had been searching frantically for the 'orphan-ifant' and her sister for hours.
She headed in the direction of the sound before coming crashing through the savannah and light bush only to stumble on the horrific scene.
The Dentist hidden inside the 'Babar- elephant-skin raincoat' knew it was a life or death gamble, he was playing but what choice did he have?
He had to pretend he was a distraught elephant calf and walked about on all fours- raising the front paws by the aid of two tree branches.
Nelly smelt her nephew and prodded and poked him with her tongue and trunk.
She knew something wasn't right but her proboscis senses told her it smelled just like her relative.
She was distracted by the grief of seeing her fallen sister, who less than 24 hours ago was a living, but alopecia version of a Mastodon dinosaur.
She rubbed her sisters back and tried unsuccessfully to use her trunk and lift the fallen creature.
It was like trying to raise a single Blackwood mother from her DFS Sofa during an episode of Jerry Springer-it was completely hopeless.
The Major- like an inverted elephant rider-or inside mahout- all the while shuffled about like he was vulnerable- in the hope of pricking the Cow Elephant's maternal conscience.
He had never seen an elephant cry before- not even Disney's Dumbo- he assumed that they were dumb animals, with no sense of family or emotion.
These animals were starting to get under his skin- in a strange role reversal.
Eventually Nelly gave up the ghost, indicated for 'Babar' to follow her and slowly began crashing her way through the undergrowth in the direction of the herd.
Every so often she would raise her trunk in the air and give a toot for directional advice from her siblings.
When the Major finally caught up with the elephants- he was shocked to see how massive these creatures were and how gentle and affectionate they were towards each other, especially the dominant bull elephant that he christened 'Colonel Harty'
The hard hearted hunter was softening in view of his new experiences.
He knew that if any of his new travelling companions really wanted to they could crush him underfoot or break every bone in his aging body with one clout from their muscle-bound trunks.
He attached himself to the tiny tail of his newly adopted 'Aunt Nelly' and followed closely, as the herd blazed a trail through the jungle, crashing foliage, scoffing leaves and leaving 'behind' massive green 'jungle pizzas' as they went.
Relieving themselves by scratching their wrinkled arse-skin on the bark of trees.
Being at the back of the herd, the Major didn't have the best view of the World, as he stared up at the rump of Nelly, as it waddled and swayed along to the Jungle rhythm.
With all that ageing grey skin and furrowed lines, it reminded him of Helen Mirren on that L'Oreal advert under Brooklyn Bridge.
Not so much mutton dressed as lamb - more like crows- feet walking in play-doh.
The march was nearly thirty minutes long and during that time the dentist amused himself by checking the dead calf's teeth as they went.
" You need to brush those back wisdom teeth more thoroughly and those gums look a bit enflamed...I thought you elephants never forget?" said the Major tripping back onto Mr Hyde mode.
Eventually, the herd stopped at a small watering hole near Olduugi Gorge which had a beautiful waterfall cascading down from the rocks above.
It was really refreshing, as the herd used their trunks like portable shower pipes, spraying each other communally as part of a bathing ritual.
No ticks or insects stood a chance against these pressure hoses- as they were sprayed off into the water pool.
Not on your Nelly.
The Major suddenly noticed that the once sizeable herd had started to disappear.
But where were they disappearing too?
He made his way towards his adopted Aunt who was wading through the shallow water towards the waterfall and what appeared to be on close inspection a cave beyond it.
As he followed, taking a battering from the force of the water overhead, as he did so he was instantly blinded by the darkness of the cave.
As his eyes were struggling to adjust to the new light- he decided to remove the head of the dead baby elephant in order that he could squeeze through a gap to see out the other end of the cavern.
" My oh-my-....this must be the fabled Alley Barbar's cave!" he said to himself.
His voice booming around the walls with an echo.
Head under his arm, the Major walked like the Victorian ghost of John Merrick, as he made his way through the dark recesses of the Mountain.
He was shocked to see that behind the cave was an entire secret valley filled with the remains of generations of dead elephants, hiding amongst ancient African hardwood trees.
He had stumbled upon an elephant's graveyard.
All around him were white bones and yellow tusks that had lain here undiscovered for Centuries.
There was more ebony and ivory than both of Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney's keyboards.
The Major suddenly reverted to kind.
What was the street value of this little lot?
He knew he would have to get out of this elephant costume soon otherwise he felt he would be rumbled.
His plan had worked the elephants had led him to water but also inadvertently to their version of
Nel Dorado.
As he tried in vain, to get the elephant 'wet' suit off- he struggled as he had done too good a job of sowing himself in.
Try as he might, he could get out the conventional way.
He would have to find another means.
***************************************************************************
Kenyan Poachers, Ness Kaffe and D-Caff looked down at the watering hole somewhat mystified.
They knew that the African elephant was an endangered species and were disappearing fast -but not that fast.
Where had the entire herd gone?
They couldn't have ALL drowned in that little pool.
The pair weren't necessarily bad lads but they had to feed their family somehow.
They had tried to avoid the 'gang' culture by being employed by the Kenyan Coffee Company to grow the coffee beans- but it was really hard work.
D-Caff had tried a brief foray into rap music but it didn't pay as well as Ivory poaching did.
It was a return to the days of slavery - only economic slavery this time- ruled over by the white overseers and masters who gave all the orders.
Having to 'complete' with Brazilian and Columbian coffee, also meant that they didn't get a 'Fair Trade' price for breaking their backs in the hot African sun.
They were convinced that the 'white man' was the spawn of the devil.
As the baby elephant emerged from beneath the waterfall, the pair were shocked to see what appeared to show a White Man slowing emerging from the elephants arsehole.
The pair looked at each other like it was a Ju-Ju or curse and fled back towards their battered stolen Mercedes car left behind from the Top Gear African special.
The Major struggled to get out of the wet suit.
He realised that he had done TOO good a job on sewing himself into the elephant suit and the only aperture left big enough to squeeze through was the bum of the dead creature.
He wondered what any would-be witness to the scene would make of it.
However, the Major knew he was now - give or take a deviation- at least 200 miles from any civilisation - the closest being likely to be at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro.
Now - thanks to the elephants - he had a supply of clean drinking water- all he needed to do was to find a receptacle to carry it in.
He hunted the edge of the pool, lifted some vegetation but couldn't find anything to use.
He was just about to give up and try a different tack when something caught his eye- glinting in the sun.
It was a shiny plastic water bottle containing the logo of the London Olympic Games 2012.
As he fished it out it of the water, he could see an inscription of 'Go Mo for Bo Jo' written on the side.
It had also had a mark to show it had come from the Mayor of London's Office.
How could something have travelled this far- end up in an African lake...probably Labour wasting money again on foreign junkets he assumed.
" Livingstone... I presume?" said the Major.
Whatever was the cause, he was grateful for its use.
He filled it up to the brim, sealed off the top and started in the direction of Mount Kilimanjaro.
As he left the safety of the elephant herd behind, he made a mental note of its location - should he return one day to claim the fortune in ivory- hidden in that secret valley.
The Major could see in the distance the reason why the sacred mountain was known as the 'Roof of Africa'- as its summit was shrouded in low cloud and looked like the front cover of 'The Teardrop Explodes' Album.
It was quite an impressive sight, especially as in the foreground you could see animals as far as the human eye could see, as if clinging to the shadow of this monument of nature for safety.
Stripy Zebras- like horses in black n white pyjamas, long-necked giraffes, antelopes of every description and of course- the predators who relied on these creatures to survive.
It was an eco-system with a diverse habitat that was being destroyed slowly by mankind.
The Major marvelled at the scene- and was mightily impressed at the speed of a thirsty Mo Farrah running away from a pursuing cheetah.
This land was the cradle of civilisation.
It was a shame humans had been allowed entry to the Garden of Eden - as clearly they have spoiled it.
The Major stopped dead in his tracks - as an equine creature shot across his path.
Holding a full driving licence -he was programmed by society to stop at every zebra crossing.
He was also instinctively programmed to shoot on sight too.
Whilst he aimed for its head- the bullet ended up tearing a nearby okapi a new arsehole.
It startled him, as even so called 'family animals' in the wild were potential killers too.
He was aware of the fact that the biggest 'initial' killer in Africa - after ISIS, AIDS, and HIV was in fact the hippopotamus.
They, just like crocodiles can outrun a human (Mo Farrah excepted) over a short distance, have a body weight that is the equivalent of Vanessa Feltz standing on your toes in high heeled shoes, and a powerful jaw that can snap a man in half.
The Major staggered on - as the sun blazed down on him- he now had blisters on his blisters and knew that it was only his iron will to survive that was keeping him from being the next meal on the flying vulture menu.
He was thirsty, starving and scared half to death.
Perhaps, it was karma paying the old dentist back for all of those years that -he- the 'driller killer' had caused pain and suffering to other people and defenceless animals.
But there is another saying- 'shit floats' and perhaps this was the reason that he stumbled upon a nomadic member of the Masai Mara Tribe.
It was the first time in his life that the Major looked pleased to see a fellow human being.
The tribesman known as Cowadunga was startled by the 'ghost'- as he had not seen a White Caucasian before, but had heard tales from his ancestors about the appearance of the White Man being associated with bad luck and of course slavery.
"Kanyo Iyesita Oloiborry Endira?" he asked.
Which translated to:-
" What are doing White Devil?".
Cowadunga was frightened that he was an evil spirit come to take him or his beloved cattle away.
Neither man could speak a word of each other's language.
The Major stared at the pearly white teeth of the tribesman and was impressed with his dental hygiene.
How did he keep them that clean without toothpaste or a toothbrush?
What Den-Plan was he on?
He - like all Englishmen abroad- arrogantly expected the tribesman to speak the Queens English- after all it was the language of the internet.
Cowadunga -even if he could have understood him- he wouldn't know what the internet, broadband or a toothbrush was for that matter.
He could see that the Major had a rifle over his shoulder, and he had witnessed first-hand what a bullet could do to him or his animals- so he took several steps back away from the 'Endira'.
As he did so, the Major began to follow him.
He tried to use body language - by offering him the open palm front gesture to show he meant no harm- but Cowadunga had decided he would do a 'Mo Farrah' and put as much distance between him and the 'slaver' as he could.
The Major was shocked at the speed of the tribesman.
He had never seen anything move that fast- not that is -since that time as a kid, when he stuck a red hot poker up the arse of his pet tomcat.
As Cowadunga ran, his feet disappeared in a cloud of dust like he was a modern day roadrunner bird.
The Major thought briefly about shooting him, but decided it wasn't worth wasting a precious bullet.
Instead, he just stole his lunch and headed on towards the sacred Mountain.
He was very grateful for the milky drink, cow cheese and strip of biltong that Mrs Cowadunga had packed her husband that morning.
Further on, the terrain of the ground began to change- as did the animals.
In the rocky foothills leading to Mount Kilimanjaro, the Major encountered a flange of baboons, a couple of chimpanzees and the occasional Mountain Gorilla in the descending mist.
The temperatures in the Third World began to cool to just 96 degrees in the shade.
He laboured on until he was no longer physically able to walk- looking for a safe place to bed down for the night.
Like most humans- he had an innate fear of the dark and the time just before Dawn, he found the blackest.
He looked up at the beautiful starlit sky and once again marvelled at how insignificant he was, compared to the infinite galaxy of constellations that shone down from the Heavens.
There was even a constellation named after him- not Orion the Hunter- but that of the 'Great Bear'.
Just like Jekyll-Hyde- the 'Bear' was split in two personalities:-
Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.
And just like the Welshman you could not predict which one would come out at night.
The Major made himself as comfortable as he could in a tiny Acacia tree.
If only birdwatcher Billie Oddie could see him perched up on the middle branches- he really would 'twitch'- at the sight of this unusual bird.
He felt about as comfortable as Christopher Biggins would be in a thong.
But 'Safari -so Goodie' - he had thus far by some miracle the Bore with the Twelve Bore, had survived his 'Great Trek' across South Africa and reached the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro.
He had a lot of climbing up massive stonewalls tomorrow ahead of him- so he knew he needed to preserve his strength and get some shut-eye.
As he hung his weapon over the tree branch, and then his gun too, he started to drift off.
Every so often his leg would involuntarily spasm in a hypnic jerk, as his daytime motor control of his muscles failed to switch off.
It was a residual reaction left over from mankind's primitive arboreal past to prevent him toppling out of his perch.
The time when the first African man lived in trees- just like the modern-day 'Blackwood' Dentist.
When the Major awoke at first light- he had found that his toes and fingers had instinctively curled around the branches of the acacia- with his nob acting as an anchor too.
As he rubbed the 'eye snot' from his sleepy eyes, he blinked at the new Dawn.
He left off an almighty fart- that startled the Serengeti and sent a herd of rhinoceroses into a crash.
He stretched up with his arms and yawned loudly.
He rubbed a couple of pesky ants off his neck.
He then proceeded mentally to choose the easiest pathway up the ancient grey rocks - selecting to begin his assent up a narrow ravine.
He knew that one like a sewage worker during a 69 session - one slip and he would be in the shit.
But he had precious little option.
He would climb the rocks and then discharge his gun into the air to see if he could attract attention.
He would then wave his arms around and make a stone SOS signal on the ground, in the hope someone could spot it from the air.
As he reached the narrow cleft in the rocks- he proceeded to climb it with his back pressed firmly against the other side.
He knew a few days ago, the fuller figured dentist would not have fitted the aperture, but the newly malnourished African version would.
Ursa Major was evolving into Ursa Minor.
The Big Hunter had lost so much weight- he was now the Big Hunt.
Most of his disgruntled ex-patients had called him a version of that too.
The Major knew that he simply HAD to hold out for the 70 foot 'chimney-sweep-style' climb.
The 'Great Bear' Grylls had to grow a pair, if he wanted to live to see his phoney pals at the Golf Club again and 'brag' about his latest ordeal.
He remembered his climbing technique training from the Army and of course actor Gregory Peck in 'The Guns of Navarone'.
Each foothold and handhold was important.
You didn't release one until the other three were firmly planted in position.
Like a caterpillar version of Chris Bonnington, the gravity-defying inch-worm hunchback, crawled his way up the steep sided rock- carefully selecting his holds as he went.
In that heat, human sweat could be deadly and act as an unwanted finger lubricant.
With his rounded back touching the opposite wall of the narrow crevasse, he climbed up unaided thrown the narrowest point of the gap between the rocks.
His hunchback was hurting him and he also had a lot of cramp in his leg muscles- as his 'Charlie' and his 'Charley Horse' both slowed his progress.
His rifle too slung over his back was another impediment, as it swung violently, as he tried to fight the natural elements.
Once he had passed the point of no return, the Major had a plan to place his hands and feet on opposite sides of the chasm and power himself up the rocks like a star-jumping frog, using his entire body strength and speed to rise to the top of the 'chimney'.
It was a gamble but he had no other option.
He knew it was all or nothing.
He let go of the rock and tried to 'starfish' his way up to safety.
He hoped that once there he could build his distress boulder message in the hope of being rescued.
After all the Mountain had achieved charitable status itself, with everyone from Irish Models in red stiletto heels, to Welsh Rugby Captains and even Lord Geldof of Live Aid Fame raising money by climbing its peak.
As he made it to the top of the opening, the Major was expecting to see hordes of people, walking passed in fancy dress- Bugs Bunny costumes, blue feathered ostriches or Superman outfits- but there was no one around.
He was sweating and straining, preparing himself mentally for the final grab from his X wing position, when out from a small bush came a voice.
" Allo Der" said the African Man.
As he smiled he revealed perfectly white teeth to the sun and dazzled the Major in the process.
Blinded by the Sun God Amun Ra - the Major instinctively raised his right arm to protect his eyes from the glare of the reflected sun.
This move proved fatal, as he then fell face first back down the rock-face- much quicker than he had climbed it.
As he fell he once again wondered who was doing the veneers around here.
He landed with great force face up in the gap in the rocks wedged tighter than a pair of Cyril Smith's underpants.
The African stood on the edge of the vertical drop and shouted down to the Major.
" U' allright down der Man?"
" Not really!" replied the Major.
" Who the Devil are you anyway?"
The African tossed him down a business card which he caught in his open hands.
He read the card aloud.
" Idi Amin Junior- Last Prince of Scotland Tours of Kilimanjaro- Proprietor."
" You gander?" asked the African.
" Yes...but what are you doing in Tanzania?" replied the trapped dentist- ironically performing his last ever filling.
The poor man was trapped with his head facing up - as was his rifle - both pointing skyward like a Grenadier guard on parade.
The Major knew that he was hundreds of miles away from the nearest hospital and the chance of any form of rescue was out of the question.
This cleft in the rocks would be his final resting place on Earth.
And the responsibility for this had to fall squarely on the shoulders of the exiled Dictators Son.
" Sorry about that... but my family has a habit of making people disappear!" said the African peering over the edge tentatively.
" When I heard it was Kilimanjaro ....I didn't realise I had to take the first part LITERALLY!" said the Major.
He tempted the African out of cover by deliberately speaking quietly.
" What did you say Bwana?" asked Idi.
" Is there anybody else up there with sense that could get me out of my predicament?"
" No....nobody on Der Mountain till (he looked at his booking schedule) October...one Month from now!"
At that point the taxidermist knew he was stuffed.
It was now or never if he was to tick his last box on his Bucket List.
The Major fired off his shot which went straight up in the air, just missing the African's ear as it went.
" You nearly shot me then!" he screamed back down the abyss as the bullet sailed on and on up into the air.
The Major was disappointed that he had missed his quarry despite the fact he himself had not missed his.
" One bullet left!" he cursed.
He didn't want to die slowly of dehydration of starvation.
He would save that for emergency.
But there is a saying what goes up must come down, and this equally applies to bullets.
Whilst the bullet had missed it's target on first flight- it didn't miss poor Idi on the way back - as it struck him on the back of the ostrich feathered headdress on the way back down.
He teetered on the edge for a split second then plummeted lifelessly down the chasm towards the trapped climber.
He landed with a thump which knocked the Major free but sent him to a crumpled heap on the floor.
All broken and twisted he lay unconscious and oblivious to pain- a bit like it his old patients were under the old dentists black mask of gas.
But then he came around and realised that he had more broken bones than Motorcyclist Barry Sheen.
He was in excruciating pain- like a combination of all the root canal fillings he had ever given in his life.
Like Karma balancing out all the suffering he had caused during his dental career- which secretly he had enjoyed administering.
He decided that the only way forward was to put the rifle under his chin and shoot himself.
He pointed the rifle up and after a few seconds of deliberation and silent prayer- he squeezed the trigger.
The dodgy sight and bent barrel meant it missed the dentist- only taking off the tip of his nose before hitting an innocent monkey in a tree near the rocks- sending him plummeting to his death.
"Major Mistake!" he said as he collapsed in agony- knowing that he was food for the African vultures flying close-by.
" Orion- you really are a Big Hunt!".
Newly expectant Father Declan Anthony Pod paced nervously in the corridor of the Maternity Wing of Llanelli Hospital.
The Year was 1972 and like every Rugby Union Fan in Wales, he secretly wanted a son to follow in his on-field footsteps and play rugby first for the Scarlets and then for Wales.
The timing of his Wife’s labour couldn’t be any worse, as on this very day, Llanelli were playing host to the International Touring Team New Zealand.
The Grand Stand ticket in his shirt pocket was burning a hole in his heart, as he was caught in the horns of a dilemma.
Did he sneak off to the big match? Or wait in this draughty corridor for the 24 or so hours the Doctor said it could take for his first-born child to enter the World?.
It had been a cruel twist of fate that had led to this situation, as his Wife’s due date had been the following Monday but her water’s had broken that afternoon and all the women of his backward West Walian village of Llareggur (that had inspired Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood) had warned him that the child would be born on the real Sabbath Day.
Times were so different in the early 1970’s for men and the maternity process.
There were no ultrasonic pictures, no amniocentesis or health testing.
No-one except for God knew back then the sex of the baby.
Going in to the delivery room was unheard of and taboo to the local midwives, who considered that ‘real’ men fainting was just another hindrance to their work.
Dec had prayed in his local chapel for a little boy to carry on his Surname, which was dying out in West Wales.
Other than him, the only other Pod was spotted in Carmarthen Bay- so he felt a sense of ‘porpoise’ about the whole issue.
His wife, Blodwen was considered old, as she having their first son at the age of 40, which back then was pretty unheard of.
The idle tongues of the village doorsteps rang with rumours that the Dec was not the true Father of the child, but that the local milkman used to deliver more than milk to that Cuckold ‘Blod Pod’ around the front, with the Coal man using the back entrance too.
Although in Llareggur, the whispers had be kept quiet, as it was still legal in West Wales to use the ‘Scold’s Bridle’ to stop women from gossiping maliciously.
It was hard too for women back then, as there was precious little to do- they only had the Water Mill, the Flour Mill and the Rumour Mill to entertain them.
True, there was sewing, crocheting and of course, the Chapel twice on Sunday, but there was little else for women of the village to do- so they either became a scrubber or cleaned their front step.
Whilst having a dalliance with a gentlemen friend was bad, having a dirty threshold was worse still and considered a sin in the eyes of God.
Was it was pure coincidence that all the other desperate Housewives and Rugby Widows of the village, at 10.00am every morning (save as to Sunday of course)?.
Back in 1972, there were no mobiles, no facebook or twitter, the only way to communicate was over the garden wall whilst hanging out the washing.
Dec the Collier, continued to pace the corridor nervously, waiting for news of his child and Mother which was relayed gruffly by the Matronly Mid-wives, who seemed to hold the man responsible for getting their patients into this predicament.
This whole process reminded him of disasters at the local collieries, waiting for news of which of his Brothers-of the Dust had been taken down to the other Pit.
He knew he was obligated to ring his Father-in-Law on the payphone in the Llareggur Inn Bar to update him as to events.
They in turn would ring the Sub-Post Office in Llareggur with the news, as they were the only one in the village who had a phone and then the ‘jungle drums’ would beat and news of the labour flashed like a ‘wildfire’ from doorstep to doorstep for the women.
If he had heard the word ‘dilation’ once that day, he had heard it a hundred times.
It didn’t help his cause to continually hear how many pints of ‘Felinfoel’ Ale that he had consumed in anticipation of the big match.
He was feeling foul enough already.
Worse still was the drunken singing in the background which reminded him of a scene from John Wayne’s ‘The Quiet Man’.
“ Any news yet?” slurred his Father-in-Law in the request for the hourly update.
“ Ten minutes to go in the Second Half…he said looking at his waistcoat pocket watch …are we still up 9-3?” asked Declan getting his priorities right.
His Father-in-Law nodded which wasn’t much help when he was on the telephone.
He hadn’t got the hang of these new-fangled devices yet in Llanelli.
“ Any news your end?”
“ No… but there are two nurses in there now and both are busy with cold water and flannels!” said Dec.
Suddenly, Dec heard his name being called by the more masculine of the two midwives called Miranda.
“ You can come in now!” she ordered.
Dec said “ Got to go now….something is up or more likely down…I will ring you back shortly!” as he slammed down the receiver in haste and headed for the delivery room.
As he entered the room, he could see that his Wife was holding a little bundle of joy in her arms, all wrapped in swaddling white clothes and from the look of her demeanour, she had been through a real ordeal.
The Midwives had cleaned up all the blood and shit from the bed, so that the physical evidence of the struggle in bringing his child into the World had been hidden.
The only sign was etched on the ashen face of Mrs Blod Pod, which was masked by a smile, as she cuddled the reason for the pain that felt like pushing a coconut out of a hole the size of a walnut.
“ Declan… this is your Son… .meet Trey….!” She said proudly, smiling up first at her husband and then down at the babe in arms.
“ Trey….I wanted to call him Barry John!” said Declan.
The look from the faces of the midwives meant he was outvoted.
It was only fair after all that effort that his wife get to name him.
Even if that name reminded him of the man from the Dairy- Trevor who always seemed to call when he was in work or in the pub.
All he could think of with the shadowy figure was ‘Milk Trey’ but he didn’t want to ruin his Wife’s moment of glory- especially as he wanted to go to the match.
“ That’s for your tea!” she said nodding at the afterbirth.
He ignored the remark- even if he was starving.
“ All your Father wants to know is has he got ten little fingers and ten little toes?....as the entire pub keep singing that song!” said Declan.
“ Well, actually that’s something I wanted to talk to you about !” said Blod.
She peeled back the covers to show that the baby was in fact Male.
“ Look at the size of that thing….he takes after his Father and is definitely my child now!” boasted Declan staring down at the baby.
Hang on he thought….there are more than ten little fingers and ten little toes.
In fact there were 25 digits in total.
“That’s not normal is it?” asked Dec of the midwives- as he had only ever lived in Carmarthenshire.
“ That’s why I decided to call him Trey!” said Blod.
“ Not Jake?” stuttered the shocked Dec thinking subliminally of the Rolf Harris song.
“ No!” spat back Blod.
“ Nor Peter the Metre either because he has three feet!” continued the Wife.
“ How the Hell could this happen?” asked Dec.
“ Is God punishing me for all Triple Crown beer I have consumed on a Sabbath?” asked Dec.
“ No….Dr Ganesha has been sent for and he will explain the situation to you!” said Miranda sounding like she had bollocks.
“Rejoice Dec A Pod…. you have a healthy son …who in time will be able to run faster than
Roger Bannister!” said Miranda falling over the bedpan.
Declan was ushered into a side room so as not to disturb the bonding session between Mother and new baby.
Dr Ganesha sat him down and delivered the news. “Your son has been born with an extra leg and my assessment of how this has happened is that he must originally have been one of a conjoined twin but that the other twin did not form properly when the egg subpided but was fed by the umbilical cord and attached itself to the correctly formed twin!” said the Medic.
“Please be assured that such birth deformities, where I come from make your child special and an object of worship!”
“ But you come from Carmarthen!” said Dec still open-mouthed at the surprise.
“ In my culture, this event is a blessing and will prove to be lucky- as during his lifetime, he will be adored by thousands!” said the Doctor as if he was experiencing a premonition .
“ So he WILL get to play for the Scarlets!” said Declan taking in a huge sigh of relief.
“ I don’t know much about rugby…I am more of a cricket fan but he would make a marvellous wicket!” said Dr Ganesha smirking.
The comment was lost on Declan, who was puzzling about the effect the birth would have on HIS life.
“ But hang on….I have a more immediate problem… where am I going to nappies to fit
Dec had an even bigger problem, as he suddenly realised he had missed the closing minutes of the big game .
He rushed back into Maternity, kissed his wife on her sweaty forehead and the baby and shouted out before she had time to reply.
“ I’m off to the pub to catch the match and to wet the baby’s head!”
The look of disgust on the Midwives’ faces mirrored that of his Spouse but Declan felt that he had been through an ordeal too and needed a pint to restore the balance in his World.
Never the quickest on the uptake, Declan puzzled to himself, as he headed for the local pub with news of the new arrival.
“ What did that Doctor mean by a ‘marvellous wicket’?”
As he reached the Llareggur Arms, in complete contrast to the new arrival everyone was legless.
The Llanelli Scarlets had beaten the All Blacks touring team 9-3 and everyone was elated.
Only Dylan, the Pub owner behind the bar was sober.
“ Pint of beer please Dylan!... I have good cause to celebrate!” said the new Father proudly.
“ Sorry there’s no beer left!” replied Dylan.
“ What do you mean there’s no beer left?” asked Declan.
“ Don’t you know Llanelli beat the All Blacks 9-3!” said Dylan even more proudly.
“ Yes….but you must have some beer…..what about your cellar?” asked Declan hopefully.
“ I have run out….no pubs in Llanelli have any left….don’t you think I have rung around?” said Dylan
“ So what have you got to celebrate my new special baby….born to run on the wing for the Scarlets…not just two legs like everyone else….my son has THREE LEGS….he will be a LEGEND!” said Declan.
“ I have only one bottle of Babycham left, two packets of Leek and Onion crisps and some pork scratchings… nothing else!” declared Dylan.
“ Till is loaded mind you…mostly with IOU notes from your Father-in-Law, that he said you would settle up when you arrived!” continued Dylan.
“ Cheeky Monkey!” he said in a strong West Walian accent last used in Hinterland.
“ Well what did you expect?... this is Carmarthenshire after all !” said Dylan.
Handing over most of his weekly pay packet, Declan sipped on his Babycham, trying to look as manly as a Collier above ground could.
After all years of those of firing blanks, he had finally found one good swimmer in his family.
“ Where is he then? Asked Dylan enquiring after his Father-in-Law.
“ Ty Bach!” replied Dylan.
“ Give me those notes from the till , he might need some paper!” ordered Declan.
“ Nice Try!” said Dylan.
“ Yes….slurred one of the pub regulars…the kick was charged down by Bergiers in midfield and he ped over for the first score!” said a regular who had that afternoon changed his name to Phil Bennett.
Declan just looked at him in horror, as he had just like in the classic Likely Lads episode, ‘Benny’ had just ruined the repeat on BBC Sport for him.
He made his way through a tangle of bodies lying on the floor, that was like a scene from Georgie Best’ bedroom that Morning.
He found his Father-in-Law where all men should be, at the top of the beer garden trousers around his ankles in the outdoor toilet giving birth to offspring of his own.
Declan knocked on the rotten wooden door.
“ Bugger Off…it’s taken!” shouted back the distinctive voice of his Father-in-Law.
He knew it was him anyway by the odour and the green fumes seeping under the door.
“ Dewi….you have a new Grandson called Trey!” announced Declan proudly.
“ Are you shitting me?” came the reply.
Dewi didn’t wait to wipe, but pulled up his trousers and pants and opened the door.
He hugged his son-in-law wildly.
“This calls for a celebration!” said Dewi…” Your round!” he continued.
“ There is no beer left… you lot drank it all!” said Declan
“ All well then home time!”
As the pair walked through the village, news of the three-legged baby had already filtered through to the women of Llareggur, who didn’t raise their heads up from their doorsteps in shame, as the pair walked past.
There was no internet or social media at the time but never underestimate the power of West Walian womens’ tongues.
Forward a decade for Declan and young Trey was now ten years old.
His birth defect was largely now ignored by the village children having grown up with his deformity.
1982 ushered in a war with Argentina over the Falkland Islands, which caused a degree of concern for the village as some had relatives in the biggest Welsh-speaking community in the World, including Wales, in Patagonia.
Declan was too young to go but many of the village men had joined up, as there was little work in these parts following the closure of the local creamery due to competition from the European Union.
Declan’s colliery had been put on notice it would be on the rumoured McGregor and Thatcher Pit Closure List- as it was an uneconomic pit.
Trey however, was insulated from the rigours of the adult World, he was just your average ten year old boy with three legs.
It was however, time for the end of ‘tag’ rugby that had been invented by a Merthyr Man with an electronic tag.
It was time for contact rugby- or as Declan put it Man’s rugby.
Sizing up his son, who was smaller than average for his age, he spoke with the coach for the Scarlets youth team who suggested that he would be better placed in the pack with his special ability.
What Declan hadn’t realised was that his three-legged son was a perfect natural hooker.
Two legs to steady himself in the scrum and his middle one to hook back the ball into the pack.
Trey was an instant hit.
“Trey-mendous!” in the words of his coach.
‘Cloggau Gold’ due to its lucky strike abilities.
The Scarlets had never won so many balls against the head and having the lions’ share of possession meant they went on an unbeaten run for three entire seasons between 1982- 1985 which had not been seen in Wales for many a year.
They didn’t even need to nobble the referees for a change.
Trey was also handy in the line- out, being semi-skimmed and light with his extra leg, he could be lifted into the air just like the milking stool he had been conceived upon.
But Trey didn’t only excel at Junior Rugby, he was brilliant at athletics and his ‘Triple Jump’ broke all County records before him, with his landing in the sandpit easily identifiable.
And just like his real biological Father, he was also talented in other ‘fields’.
His speciality was spotted in Junior school and put to good use in drama and dance.
On many occasions, he had his frizzy dyed green and with brown drainpipe trousers, as he was perfect for the background as a copse of trees.
But Trey’s three limbs would not tree limbs for long, as he was destined for greater things.
Out of mighty acorns Oakwood Parks are born.
No sooner than his teacher Miss Fame had realised he could dance too, then he was invited to do the chorus line, and later the Monty Python Ministry of Silly Walks which was followed with great hilarity and eventually a handwritten invitation to join a dance troupe at the forthcoming Eisteddfod.It was then that the Cloggau Gold dance ensemble of ‘Legs & Co’ were formed and named in Trey’s honour.
It was a marvellous site for a proud Blodwen Pod, as her son danced in a production of the ‘Riverdance’ in wooden clogs of all things.
But despite his dancing and sporting accomplishments, life was not all a bed of roses for Trey.
With every growth spurt, he was costing his Mother a fortune in having to buy new shoes and as money was tight in Llareggur- in keeping with the people of Carmarthenshire- his Mother had taken to shopping in Swansea- buying a pair from Clarkes but then pinching the third right, right shoe from the white rack outside the front of the shop.
But it was much harder to swipe rugby boots and therefore Blod was delighted to have come across a single ‘golden’ Gilbert boot sticking out of a landfill tip like it was Excalibur waiting for King Arthur to come along.
It was way too big but Trey would grow into it.
Luckily for her, CCT cameras were not invented in 1985- and not used in Llanelli with the arrival of electricity until 2017.
Trey’s shoe demands were not always down to his adolescent growth.
He was also busy wearing the soles out on his bicycle.
Most children of his peer group in the early Eighties had Raleigh bikes with bold Red Indian names like Chipper and Tomahawk that had stopped selling in the rest of Britain in the 1970’s.
Regrettably due to his extra leg, Trey was unable to ride a convention bike and was forced to stick to the Penny Farthing bicycle his Father had used in the 1960’s to get to work to the Pit on.
He was now using his third leg and shoes as a braking system, much to the annoyance of his parents.
It was from this regular occurrence that an event in 1985 was to change the course of little Trey’s life.
Chasing after the pack of cyclists, as he was unable to keep up on his Penny Farthing and despite being warned by his parents to keep away from it, he foolishly decided to freewheel down ‘Dangerous Hill’ near Tumble.
He found out why the village was so called, as he accelerated downhill to speeds in excess of 60mph with only his middle leg to stop his contraption.
He may have been alright, if he hadn’t collided with that Council Workman cutting the hedgerows.
The Insurance Company refused to pay out too, as they didn’t believe the claim, as they hadn’t heard the words ‘Workman’ and ‘Council’ in the same sentence before.
Trey in the accident lost his leg and despite still having two left, he was unable to regain his balance.
It didn’t help that Declan had whilst his son was still in his hospital bed, told his son to ‘grow a pair’ and that he would now have to ‘stand on his two feet‘.
In West Wales, they were very unforgiving of people who had not suffered their own work experiences.
As Declan had been forced down the Big ‘Cloggau Pit’ since he was Fourteen to feed his Family, he had becomes harder than the seam he cut coal from.
At 13 years of age, Trey’s rugby career was over, as he joined the world of biped after the bicycle crash.
The hokey-cokey would never feel the same to him again.
But the Scarlets Junior Section did him proud.
They set aside a glass cabinet on the portakabin wall for Trey’s amputated leg with a sign which read simply:-
‘Cloggau Gold’- in memory of the ending of the Minor’s Strike 1985’.
As predicted by Dr Garnesha all those years ago, Trey had become a living Leg-End.
Here is a photograph of Howard Marks and I at an event in Blackwood agent.He is a real character and a top Welsh legend.The New Captain Morgan.
Here is three Welsh tourists in the good ole US of A ...any guesses as to the City...clue not New Amsterdam....
He replied that he was protecting her from mosquitos in the absence of a net.
Gertie slept with one eye open for the rest of the night.
As did Myles, although it was on his Cialis enhanced knob which eventually tickled him under the chin to wake up to a glorious Venetian Morning.
They both dressed for breakfast and went down to the Breakfast Room in an uneasy silence.
The room was quite full with most of the seats and tables taken.
There was a full Sky TV film crew and several well- known actors buzzing back and fore for the continental breakfast.
Myles recognised the one off the television as being Ricky Gervais.
“ Don’t look know’ but there is that bloke David Brent from the Office!” said Myles quite proud of the fact he was in the presence of celebrity.
“ What Orifice?” asked Gertie loudly holding her ear-trumpet aloft.
“ Didn’t you have enough last night….you dirty bugger!” she continued.
“ Not the orifice…Extras etc…..!” he said innocently.
“ No Extras for you Myles …you had more than enough to last you another decade last night!” said Gertie.
Myles gave up.
He was intrigued to see a ginger tall man with glasses that looked like the bottom of milk bottles arguing with a bald Mancunian and what looked like a baby in a High Chair.
He couldn’t remember any of their names but they were all friends of Ricky Gervais.
“ Are these seats taken?” asked a young American Tourist.
“ No… help yourself….I’d only have to talk to her otherwise !” replied Myles.
“ Hi… the names Hank Marvin Haggler and this is my new wife Gloria….were from New Joisey…and we’re on Honeymoon!” said the young Yank.
“ Hello!” said Gertie looking up at the stranger, who was completely the opposite of her own husband being tall, dark and handsome.
Gloria sat down opposite her husband and looked longingly at him.
Myles looked at the beautiful young woman and then back at his wife of 50 years and wondered how a butterfly could turn into a caterpillar and then a deaf’s head moth.
“ Pass the sugar….sugar?” asked Gloria.
“ Okay …..pass the honey…honey !” asked Hank in reply.
“ Do you know …..interrupted Gertie….I have been married to him for 50 years and he has not ever once said anything like that to me!” moaned Gertie….getting in her first of many moans of the day.
Myles looked at his wife and said without a hint of emotion on his face.
“ Pass the milk you old cow!”
The silence was deafening apart from Gertie’s hearing aid of course.
More whine than the whole of the Italian vineyards.
“ This Venice water….it’s not like the clear blue stuff you get in the Venetian in Las Vegas !” said Hank sounding disappointed and trying to change the subject.
“ Well that is because everything in America is fake….fake water…fake cosmetic surgery and fake orgasms!” said Myles bitterly.
Another awkward silence prevailed followed with the American couple moving to another table as soon as one was free .
Gloria whispered to her husband ….” I hope that doesn’t happen to us!” .
“ It won’t !” said Hank…..” Say isn’t that the bloke who upset all the Hollywood A Listers at the Golden Globes?” said Hank pointing at Ricky Gervais.
On the adjoining table, the Sky TV Film crew was in uproar, as Ricky kept pinching food from the plastic tray in front of Warwick Davies and bouncing croissants of the bald-head of Karl Pilkington.
His sidekick, fellow bully Stephen Merchant sniggered at the scene and at their misfortune in a Twonks Tea Party.
Multi- millionaire Ricky had all the power and money and what he said went.
Like a real producer, telling his henchmen when to laugh and how to laugh.
Poor Warwick and Karl had to kow-tow to his bidding like ‘Idiots Abroad’ on a whim.
It was not like Ricky had done them any favours…other than make them World Famous Millionaires.
You could say if you weren’t an atheist like Ricky - that they had sold their soul to the Devil.
Gloria turned to Myles and said….” And that is the reason we never had children” she said pointing at little Warwick.
“ That’s a bit harsh isn’t it…even by your standards!” said Myles.
She then pointing at Karl, Stephen & finally Ricky.
Who just laughed like a hyena and made Derek-like expressions at the old pair.
Gloria finally plucked up enough courage to ask the celebrities for their autographs.
Ricky happily obliged asking politely who the autograph was to be made out to.
“ My husband Hank Marvin…please !” she said .
Hank waved from the other table.
“ I’m Hank Marvin too!” said Ricky picking up a sausage and eating it greedily.
“ He is a ‘shadow’ of his former self !” said Merchant following Ricky’s lead.
Both attempts at humour were lost on the young American woman, who was too young to remember the 1960’s band or that Cockney rhyming slang existed.
“ Do you want any of the others?” asked Ricky passing the pen to Warwick Davies.
“ Ewok from Star Wars…Willow Huffgood…and of course DER LEPRECHAUN !” said Ricky in a scary voice.
Warwick duly obliged in ‘shorthand’.
“ Him?” asked Ricky pointing at the bald Mancunian Twonk .
“ I’m sorry I don’t know who he is!” said Gloria.
Ricky thought this was hilarious.
The American woman didn’t have a clue who Karl Pilkington was.
“ I am sorry I should have introduced you….pointing at Karl….An Idiot…and then at the newly married New Jersey woman….A Broad…!”
Laughing at his own joke Ricky nearly fell off his chair.
Warwick Davies punched the plastic food tray with his fist in hysteria like a spoilt baby.
“ And him?” asked Karl in turn pointing at Stephen Merchant.
“ It’s okay I already have ‘Beaker from the Muppets’ autograph from Disneyland!” said Gloria.
It was Karl’s turn to join in this time as Merchant’s face went redder than a baboons arse.
Myles and Gertie had decided they had heard enough and needed to get some air away from the puerile banter.
Even their own company was preferable to this lot.
Grabbing his walking stick and her tripod wheeler walker, the pair stepped out into the magnificent Italian Sunshine to explore the Ancient City once the centre of all World Trade.
As she passed a stall Gloria picked up a postcard showing the Grand Canal and the shining white Rialto Bridge.
“ I must buy this one- if only to make Elsie at number 42 jealous that I have been abroad, do you know she hasn’t stepped one foot off British soil ever- the closest she came was as a Land Girl picking tomatoes in Guernsey….she’ll love this!” said Gloria.
“ Don’t forget to tell her that Venice is a lovely place but that all the streets are flooded!” said Myles sarcastically.
“ Good idea!” said Gertie ignorant of his jibe.
“ Do you want to go to go to see St Theodore and his crocodile in St Marks Square or the Rialto bridge that featured in Shakespeares’ a Merchant of Venice?” asked Myles hopefully.
“ What about a visit to the Pound shops or Charity shops followed by a McDonalds or KFC?” suggested Gertie.
“ Gertie- this is Venice not Merthyr- thankfully they don’t have a High Street dominated by multi-nationals unless you count Guchi & Prada…!” replied Myles.
“ But they have an Ann Summers shop…..look at all those masks in the window!” said Gertie.
“ And that one has a massive nose…is that for their Italian Prime Minster…Silvio Pinocchio …I think he is…the one who held all those Zumba Zumba parties!” said the Sun reader.
“ That mask my dear is to denote people of influence in Venetian Society ….the Doctors mask always had a bigger nose than anyone else…the mask was used as a primitive defence against the bubonic plague as people were more ignorant…like you…as they believed the disease to be carried by airborne germs rather than by fleas on the back of rats….!” said Myles trying but failing to ‘Educate’ Rita.
“ So if the disease was carried by rats….why didn’t Merthyr people get it?” asked Gertie.
“ One really big reason…Merthyr didn’t exist in the 14th Century!” said Myles.
“ It was a hamlet back then!”
“ See Merthyr people have smoked for years ….cigars that long ago!” said Gertie once again displaying she had gone to a failing school.
Myles just shook his head in desperation.
He may as well talk to her about the plot of a tv soap.
“This is this World famous St Mark’s Square!” announced Myles triumphantly.
“ Good, I’m knackered !” said Gertie without even a glance at the beautiful architecture.
As she sat down at a chair outside the a café bar called ‘La Dolce Vita’ Gertie was pleasantly surprised as two handsome Italian waiters fought over her attention.
“ 10 Euros Pleeze…!” said the first one Don Giovanni.
“ But I haven’t ordered anything yet!” protested the Pensioner.
“ It is a charge levied to sit down at a seat in this square and its view of the Basilica!” said the oily skinned lothario.
“ What about the table?” asked Myles.
“ Nothing- but who in their right mind sits on a table?” replied the second Italian Hale Caesar.
“ Me…!” said Myles putting his foot up on his wife’s tripod and sitting cross-legged like the Dalai Lama on the glass table and obscuring the view of the Basilica with the back of his hand.
The waiters upon receipt of the Ten Euro note from a disgruntled Gertie, left the eccentric Mad Dog Eenglishman out in the Mid-Day Sun.
“ You always have to show me up don’t you….you think you are so clever….so superior to these Spanish …..!” replied Gertie.
Myles didn’t both to correct her ….he hated Latin in school but hated being ripped off as a tourist even more.
“ Where too next then my little bundle of Joy?” asked Myles sarcastically.
“ Il Ghetto…the Jewish Quarter….La Fenice or the Rialto ?” he asked hoping the haul around the narrow claustrophobic streets in this heat would see her off.
“ What about that Bridge that Alec Guinness built ?” said Gertie.
“ Your ignorance astounds me sometimes !” said Myles.
“ You have less Culture than Tory MP Maria Miller!” he said snidely.
“ Max Miller…..I used to love him…Wheeltappers and Shunters on a Saturday Night…and then bingo!” said Gertie nostalgically and very deafly.
“ Does everything in your sad World revolve around Bingo?” asked Myles.
“ That’s roulette!” replied Gertie.
Myles looked at her …her deafness had got worse and was now almost equal to her stupidity.
She was now only hearing certain words that she chose to hear…selective deafness …a condition known to affect men but not normally women.
“ C’mon I’ll show you the way to the local BINGO hall…!” he said .
“ Great!” said Gertie moving a little quicker on her tripod walker following the mention of her favourite word.
After another 15 minute walk they arrived outside the magnificent La Fenice Opera House.
“ That’s not a bingo hall!” protested the gasping old dear.
“That’s where the posh people go to hear fat people singing at stupid prices!” said Gertie.
“ The Three Tenors!” sighed Myles looking up at the hub of Venetian Society for over 400 hundred years.
“ More than that to get in there…..is that fat black woman singing there tonight?” asked Gertie.
“ Who?” asked Myles wondering what gem his ignoramus of a wife was on about this time.
“ Oprah….Oprah Winfrey?” she spouted.
Myles closed his eyes in temper.
If it had not been for the presence of a French Tourist filming a video he would have happily strangled her on the spot.
“ Time now for the piece de la resistance - !” said Myles.
“ Oh yes….I am busting too….it’s like Merthyr Town centre since they closed the Bus Station toilets…I have to find a bog soon or I will have to pee in that canal there!” said Gertie letting out a loud sulphurous fart.
“ You will have to excuse my wife…she is a little deaf!” said Myles apologising to Jean Michel Jarre .
“ Apologies….you may need more Oxygene soon!” said Myles.
“ Zut Alors!” came the reply as the cameraman wiped some shit off his lens.
The pair shuffled on like the ‘waking dead’ to the white Structure known as the Rialto Bridge.
“ This my dear is the most famous sight in Venice- this bridge dates back to Medieval times when Venice was the capital of Europe if not the World….the hub and trading centre for famous merchants like Marco Polo!” briefed tour guide Myles.
“ I like his mints but I think Trebor ones are better…you don’t get the hole in the middle!” said Myles taking the piss out of his wife before she had the time to react.
“ I know Marco Polo didn’t make mints….I’m not completely stupid!” said Gertie.
“ Who was he then?” asked Myles.
“ I don’t have to tell you!” replied Gertie defensively.
“ Come on I promise NOT to laugh….who was he then?”
“ That guy from Gladiators….they one they banned because of his drug taking….or that bloke from Made in Chelsea!” said Gertie trying to hedge her bets .
Myles broke his promise and pissed himself.
“ Marco Polo was an explorer and Venetian trader who is reputed to have started the ‘silk road’ to China!” said Myles.
“ Why would he have a Milk Round in China?” asked Gertie once again mishearing the important part.
“ Never mind!” said Myles treading the boards at the entrance to the famous Italian Bridge.
“ I’m sorry Sir but the bridge is closed today for the filming of a television series!” said a heavy duty bouncer .
“ He looks like Marco Polo from Gladiators!” whispered Gertie.
“ You can’t just close a bridge off to the public on a whim ….on whose Holy Orders…. A Papal Bull from the Pope in Rome?” asked Myles.
“ Higher than him….Ricky Gervais!” said the Scottish Bouncer Big Lonsdale Braun.
“ But there are other people on that bridge too!” protested Myles.
“ They are the crew!” said the impassive guard.
“ Oh those must be the ones Ricky asked me to get the ice cream for at breakfast this morning at our Hotel!” said Myles using brains to defeat Braun.
“ What hotel are you staying at ?” asked Big Lonny suspiciously.
“ Doge’s Palace….we were the couple arguing at breakfast!” said Myles.
“ Okay….if you’re getting the ice cream in ….mine’s a cornetto…have you seen the price on them here?” said the muscles from Musselburgh.
Myles limped away to the ice cream vendor and was disgusted to find they were 15 Euros each.
He had to buy ten.
It was a real job to carry them all.
Hidden behind a rubbish bin, lurked Lurkio the rabid dog.
He had already stolen one ice cream off Myles the day before and saw him as easy meat for a second one.
As the pair of pensioner were waived passed by Lonsdale, busily chewing on his cornetto bribe, both Myles and Gertie made their way onto the most famous bridge in all of Christendom.
Gertie motoring up the incline on her little tripod that afforded her mobility.
Myles still capable of walking unaided listened intently as the TV scene played out.
“ An Idiot Abroad Scene 5 Take 3….Gobbo the Hunchback on the Rialto Bridge” shouted Derek-tor Ricky Gervais to the entire cast and crew.
“ Action!”
Warwick Davies, all 3 foot 6 inches of him came out of the scenery dressed as Gobbo Di Rialto, the Hunchback of Venice in a bright red raincoat.
“ Don’t Look Now” said Myles.
He knew full well that his wife of 50 years always did the opposite of what he asked her to do.
Gertie opened her eyes wide as what was a remake of her nightmare unfolded.
Karl Pilkington appeared on the scene , naked bar a golden oak leaf to hide his ‘acorns’, as Ricky had put it , chased after the little blighter towards Gertie with a serrated knife shouting “Come back Gobbo you’ve pinched my nuts….come back with my Pound of Flesh!” in the worst Venetian accent ever.
The pair were heading straight in the direction of the frightened woman, who leapt onto the top of her Tripod three-wheeler for safety, away from the onrushing dwarf.
At the same time as Gertie was distracted, Gobbi the rabid dog seizing his chance ran at full pelt towards the shopping tripod and the now unguarded cornettos.
His bulk and frame combined with the wheel movement on the sloping bridge sent the old woman tumbling over the side off the Rialto Bridge into the turbulent waters of the Grand Canal below.
Myles couldn’t have planned her death any better if he had set it up.
As Gertie flew through the air….horrified bystanders saw her false teeth fly out and land with a splosh in the grey lagoon liquid.
The film crew were in uproar as they thought it was part of a stunt act hired by Ricky himself.
Stunned Ricky stopped the scene and shouted at Warwick.
“ It’s your fault get after her…!”
He picked the mini-actor up by the scruff of the neck and slung him off the bridge.
“ You too Golden Globes!” ordered Ricky to Karl.
“ I ain’t going in there Pal….I’m seen the Manchester ship canal and that is bad but this is a SHIT Canal...!” he protested.
Arriving on the scene came the local Jewish Venetian Policeman, Massal Toff to investigate the accident.
“ Did he try to kill her?” said Massal pointing at Myles to the gathered crowd.
“ He was reported as being unstable by the receptionist at the Doges Palace yesterday?”
“ No…it was an accident…!” said Karl defending the old man.
“ A Hunchback dwarf and a rabid dog knocked the old lady of the bridge!” said Stephen.
“ And you are …..?” asked Massal.
“ Stephen Merchant!” replied the googly-eyed ginger.
“ Of Venice!” quipped Ricky.
“ What are you some kind of comedian?” asked Massal aggressively.
“ Well I am actually!” said Ricky.
“ Idiot!” replied the detective.
“ No that’s him!” said Merchant pointing at Karl.
“ And if you are a Venetian detective….you must be….SHYLOCK HOLMES?” asked the all -powerful Ricky.
“ Any more outbursts from you and I’ll arrest you for obstructing the course of justice!” warned Massal.
“ Look Tom Cruise & Brad Pitt couldn’t shut him at the Golden Globes in Hollywood …what chance have you got!” said Karl.
“Am i reading this statement correctly….Gobbi the rabid dog…gobbled Gobbo the Rialto Hunchback…that sounds like Goobeldegook to me!” said the Policeman.
“ Are you taking the piss….hunchback dwarf….rabid dog…? …that sounds like a bad plot in ‘Extras’ on Sky TV!” replied Massal.
“ So you do know me then !” said Ricky smiling inanely.
“ No !” said Karl realising he had finally for once the opportunity to get one over on his Boss.
“ Ricky here threw Warwick off the bridge in temper!” said Karl.
Ricky looked at Karl with daggers coming from his eyes.
“ You do realise that ‘Dwarf Tossing’ is still illegal in Venice?” questioned Massel.
“ That’s why Warwick didn’t bring his wife on location with him!” responded Ricky trying to laugh it off.
“ Is it a strict liability offence?” asked Karl.
“ Meaning that WHOEVER you are …no matter or not if you are a celebrity you cannot be seen to be above the law in Venetian society?” asked Karl stirring the shit (with a huge pole into the Grand Canal).
“ And who says travel doesn’t broaden the mind!” said Ricky looking at the monster he had created.
“ Yes….!” Replied Massal…“ but sign this autograph for my kid and I’ll let you off!”
A call came through on Massal’s mobile.
He listened intently and then ended the call .
“ Good news Mr Soginist…they have found your wife clinging to a red and white barbers pole 300 yards down in the Lagoon….they have taken her to the Santa Maria Dei Miracola Church to give thanks…the same thing happened in the 15th Century where a man survived after half an hour underwater….the bad news is they haven’t found her false teeth or that Dwarf yet…!” he glanced at Ricky disapprovingly.
Myles put on a happy face as he put his Wife’s Life Insurance Policy back in his pocket grudgingly.
Ten minutes later Massal got a second call.
“ Luckily for you… Mr Gervais your little friend was literally fished out of the Lagoon by a local fisherman who couldn’t decide at first, if he had caught a baby humpback whale or a demon in his net …..it was only when Warwick quoted Shakespeare to them did they believe his story he really was an actor in a Mini Theatre Company!”
“ Ah well ….said Ricky looking pensive from the centre of the Rialto bridge…The Quality of Mercy is not strained eh Massal….” All’s well that ends Well!”.
“ Get that dwarf dried out and let’s get on with the next scene….it’s costing me money!”