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Waterloo

Peterloo

portaloo

no can do

in Manchester

Liverpool

Newcastle

Nottingham too

no can do

dead man's shoes

dead man's hand

do the right thing

you and all

hands face space

waste of space

new rules for scrubbed old hands

I'll try to remember

but feels like I'm back 

in work or school

Eat Out to Help Out

aka Eat Out to Help The Virus

I was there too

I took the money

I dined at that trough

like everything else

masks constantly evolve 

from the Lone Ranger

to the werewolf

from PPE

to mandatory wear

whilst enjoying the retail experience

to the jaundiced faces

of our corrupt politicians

first they wanted to save the NHS

now the mission is to save Christmas

but let’s get through this Halloween first

as the country closes its doors again

the leaves mulch and the light weakens

and the ghosts come back

to interrupted conversations

those things we wish we’d said

Hi from Wales

I hope that you’re all keeping safe and well in these uncertain and difficult times.

Times Like These, the fourth Inspector Marco novel was launched last week, and I’m really pleased with the reviews and comments from readers.

“At times I couldn’t turn the pages quick enough. ‘Times Like These’ is superbly written …” 5* Amazon review

“Mr Puleston has done it again and written a great well thought out book but also incorporated what is happening in the real world to help keep things feel real.”  5* Amazon review

Grab your copy today by clicking this link.  Times Like These -  AMAZON

Choosing the title

During May a cover version of the Foo Fighters song Times Like These reached number one in the charts. It was performed by the charity supergroup Live Lounge Allstars. Dave Grohl of Foo Fighters who wrote the song referred to the lyrics as - ‘they're about hope and love and compassion’.

The song title and the lyrics seemed to resonate with the difficulties we were all facing.

I’m a Foo Fighters fan and Times Like These is a great song so once I’d settled on the title I didn’t contemplate anything else.

Here is a link to the BBC website:  https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/ entertainment-arts-52499382

Cardiff – the capital of Wales

Detective Inspector Marco is based in Cardiff, the capital city of Wales.

The city’s history goes back to the Roman era. Since the end of the nineteenth century Cardiff’s success and prosperity were built on exporting coal from the South Wales valleys. The docks of the city brought in many people from all over the world creating a cosmopolitan and varied community.

I've added some photographs of Cardiff to a section about the city on my website –  Marco’s Cardiff.

Here is the link to buy  Times Like These  again

I always enjoying hearing from my readers so do please get in touch.

Regards / Hwyl fawr

Stephen

Hi, The fourth Inspector Marco novel  Times Like These  is launched today!

Grab your copy today by clicking this link.  Times Like These  -  AMAZON .

I'll probably have a quiet glass of something bubbly today and cross my fingers that the book will be a success.

...

...

Some of the background to  Times Like These .

After the last Inspector Drake novel I wanted to revisit Detective Inspector Marco, based in Cardiff.

When I started to plot the novel it was at the start of the Covid 19 lockdown and it got me thinking about setting a novel set in the period immediately after the easing of restrictions.  It would give me the chance of reflecting on how the pandemic had impacted on policing. And one of the issues raised in the news here in Wales was the impact of the restrictions on how the police deal with sexual and domestic violence, a problem the world over regrettably.

So I’m going to be sharing a bit about the background of the novel, where it is set and how I decided on the title in emails over the next few weeks so keep an eye out for them.

I hope you enjoy the novel.  Here is the link to buy the book  Times Like These  again

I always enjoying hearing from my readers so do please get in touch.

Regards / Hwyl fawr

Stephen

Flop

flip flop

from one bad decision

one delay to the next

no fillip fulfilled

but flopped enough

flimsy filleted conscience

flame grilled ideation

sears the nation

flannel fans

the sidelined fans

the tarts and flans

the dollops lollop

unable to gallop

the plumped up

propped up plops

that rule rather than govern

glib guff

guilt gripped

gulped

ending griped

top hat toffs

lop off that lot

lorded and loafed

yet levelled little

you're having a laugh

One two three tier lockdowns

in a two tier country

the second wave

a two tier cake

for the Great British Bake Off

the Great British Shut Down

tier suggesting structure

when none is present

Covidspeak

curve and peak

hands face space

test and trace

fear and inequality

cases and capacity

untruths and nepotism

loss and pessimism

please don't speak Covid to me

I'm just waiting for a vaccine

waiting for another year

better than this one

for the next TV presentation

by the scientists

with all the gravitas

of a wartime broadcast

of grown-ups telling us

the worst of news

the maps and graphs

different colours

different shades

sliding slideshows

the climbing lines

out of our minds with unease

the creep of a disease

over land and through the air

“Wake up,  you selfish bastard!” said his wife pouring a cup of cold water on her husband’s face.

There was still no movement from her Spouse.

Shelley Jones was beside herself with emotion.

It was a combination of anger and worry, but mostly fear at the situation she found herself in.

She had a bad feeling about booking her holiday on the Cassandra Line Cruise Ship, the Corona Vires, but now her premonition was coming true.

She had checked his wrist for a pulse and even put her make-up mirror under his nose to see if he was still breathing, but there was nothing-no sign of life from the love of her life Davey Jones.

The pair had been married for over 60 years and her spouse had promised her for decades that he would one day take her on a Mediterranean cruise around the Amalfi coastline of Southern Italy and now reality was hitting home that that he would never take her anywhere ever again, let alone on holiday.

Worse still she was frantic, as the pair had taken a chance by going on the trip of a lifetime without travel or life insurance.

It had not been economically viable, as with all their ailments, the cost of insurance was more than the actual cost of the cruise.

A gentle rap of knuckles on the cabin door broke her thought pattern and put her into even more of a panic mode.

“Mrs Jones, it’s only the Ship’s Steward, Camp David, checking you are both okay, it’s just that your husband looked a little peaky last night at the Wild Weekend 1970’s Strictly Come Dancing show!” said the crewman talking through the door.

“Everything is fine, thank you David, my husband was sitting next to the that John Travolta tribute act last night, so I guess he probably caught ‘Saturday Night Fever’ off him!” said Shelley trying to joke and sound as normal as possible in the circumstances.

“Good one…. replied the concerned Steward “Is he with you now?”

Shelley had to think on her feet.

“Oh no….!”

“He said he was going for a walk on the deck earlier!” replied the troubled woman.

‘Strictly’ speaking, it was not a lie as Davey WAS no longer with her.

Camp David thought this was odd, as for the entire journey Mr Jones had been confined to a wheelchair.

He decided he would check with the occupier of the next cabin instead.

The steward rapped on cabin door number 12 and a friendly face appeared.

“Sorry to bother you Mrs Sun but do you know if everything is okay with the Jones’s next door?” asked Camp David.

“Well I think so…. said the North Korean….I am sure that I heard Mrs Jones giving orders to her husband about an hour ago….so I think everything is normal!”

Camp David left the corridor and went back to his job preparing for tonight’s extravaganza in the Ballroom.

As the sound of the footsteps faded in the corridor, Mrs Jones let out a huge sigh of relief.

So did Mr Jones too, but unfortunately his was a death rattle, as the remaining oxygen left the deceased’s body. 

Shelley was in a difficult predicament.

What did she do?

She had heard rumours of a possible viral infection on board ship, which led to whispers of a pandemic, which could lead to quarantine and an inevitable lockdown on the Cruise Ship.   

At that point, her biggest regret was not being able to afford a cabin on the outside of the ship, so she could have disposed of her husband’s body neatly.

She didn’t feel guilty about the thought, because her husband had always reminded her of the saying ‘See Naples and Die’ but she didn’t think it was his intention to follow orders, after all he never listened to any of her commands over the last six decades, so why would he start now?

Besides, he was as much of an old trout as she was, as he loved his swimming and spent more time at his local swimming baths than Coronation Street’s Len Fairclough.

Whilst she didn’t want to ‘go overboard’ but she knew that her late husband would have to do a Robert Maxwell, otherwise she would be in real trouble.

As she sat on the bunk bed next to the corpse of her late husband, she knew deep down that he would understand and do the same for her in the circumstances.

She looked at the bag of bones that her husband had unfortunately become.

He had not quite reached his 80 ^th  birthday but had less meat on him than a vegan sausage.

Even during his lifetime Davey Jones had never been heavier than seven stone and people reckoned that he made his fellow hometown boxer Johnny Owen look fat.

Shelley was two years his junior and at nearly 78 was nearly double his weight.

Davey had one of those magic metabolisms that he could eat anything he wanted but never put any weight on, whereas she would only have to look at a mars bar for the calories to register on her childbearing hips. 

That’s why he always looked so dashing in his bowtie and evening suit, whenever he played his violin at the Brangwyn Hall in Swansea.

He was proud of the fact that for nearly 50 years, he had been a paid professional musician, playing second fiddle only to his Wife.

Davey Jones was not quite a virtuoso, but he had supported the best that Welsh talent had to offer including Katherine Jenkins, Charlotte Church, Aled Jones and of course Maggot from Goldie Looking Chain.

But now Shelley was worried about a different kind of maggot that was appearing beneath the skin of her dead partner.

She knew that very soon the corpse would begin to smell, as just like his favourite conductor, Andre Previn and his favourite classical musician Mozart he too would soon start to ‘de-compose’.  

“Roll over Beethoven!” she said aloud, as she pushed his tiny skeletal legs further back on the lower bunk, as she wondered how she could get away with disposing of the body without being put into the frame for his potential murder.

She hadn’t killed him of course, but she had threatened to do so on many occasions during their marriage, especially when he had farted under the bedcovers waiting for her to detect its unwholesome aroma, before collapsing into fits of laughter.

Even now in death she could smell his unique odour- albeit strangely more palatable than his usual brand.    

The alarm clock next to the bed sounded shrilly and Shelley jumped nervously.

Unlucky cabin 13 almost claimed another victim, as Shelley hadn’t taken her heart tablets with all the events of the early morning.

She remembered then that both her and Dave had booked earlier in the week to go ashore together and visit the ancient Roman site of Pompeii & Herculaneum.

It was a must for history lovers to go and witness the unlucky people in 79AD, caught in a pyroclastic flow whilst eating Anno Domino’s Pizza.

Dave particularly wanted to go as he had heard that one of the dead bodies frozen in volcanic ash from Mount Vesuvius had had his boner preserved for over 2000 years.

He always said that the fellow should be recorded in the Guinness Book of Records for such a feat, as he himself couldn’t last much longer than 20 minutes.

What a way to go he had marvelled.

Shelley now faced a difficult choice.

Did she fold her late husband up like a medical student’s anatomy chart and hide the remains under the bed and tell everyone truthfully that her husband had ‘done a bunk’ or did she dress her dead husband up and try and pass him off as a living corpse?

After all she had been a talented ventriloquist back in the days when she had trod the boards of the old music halls.

It was how she had first met Davey Jones backstage waiting to go and perform her act with a camel puppet called Hump-Free.

His compliments had ‘resin-ated’ with her, and soon after, he played with the strings of her heart too, as the couple got married with their respective parent’s permission at the tender age of 18.

Most people said it wouldn’t last, but they were all now dead, so they never got to see the longevity of their marriage, principally down to the intake of secondary smoking which was prevalent in the theatres at that time.

Shelley used to have to wash her puppet weekly as it stank of cigarettes -a different kind of Camel smell.

The puppet eventually died too of nicotine poisoning.

After years of puppeteering, Shelley’s next logical move was as a prostate examiner at her local hospital, she did this for two years but she then had to give up the job as it was costing her too much by way of lost jewellery.

All this time, Shelley had wanted children of her own, but as Dave was now earning more from his musical tours of Great Britain and the occasional trip to the continent, it was put on the back burner.

The road was not the place to bring up a child.

And all of a sudden at 40 years of age her body-clock had stopped ticking and that was that.

They still enjoyed practising of course, but her ovaries no longer bore neither eggs nor fruit.

“Are you ready?” asked a female Korean voice in the corridor.

Shelley knew she had to act quickly and decided to lift her husband into his wheelchair, dress him up in a carnival mask, acquired a couple of days ago on their stop in Venice and prop him up with pillows to keep him upright.

She opened the door and the suspicious Mrs Sun suddenly gagged at the smell.

Sensing the fact that her new neighbour was close to vomiting she bluffed the stink off.

“That’s the last Gwyneth Paltrow candle I buy from Goop…does something smell fanny to you too?” said Shelley fronting up.

She quickly shut the door but being extremely careful not to push the corpse forward and out of the wheelchair. 

They walked in silence for a few floors until they reached the lift.

“Is there a reason why your husband is wearing that mask in this heat?” asked the Widow Sun.

Shelley wanted to punch her, but didn’t want to start World War 3 with Asia.

“That’s private!” snapped back the newest member of the Widow Club.

Shelley tried to distract her fellow tourist with small talk until they reached the gangway ramp.

“Are you looking forward most to seeing Pompeii or Gracie Field’s holiday island?” asked Shelley.

“Where’s that?

“Capri… Sun!”  said Shelley taking an orange squash from a waiter holding a drinks tray for those tourists embarking on the day trip.

Now came the tricky bit.

Keeping her dead husband upright on the slope.

She couldn’t bring him down backwards, as it would be too suspicious- so she plonked a rucksack in front to wedge him in.

“I always take supplies with me when I go ashore!” she said to Mrs Sun as looked on at the roughness and speed that she did so.

There was no reaction from Davey Jones.

“Your husband is a bit quiet? …. isn’t he?” said Mrs Sun.

“Are you OK indy chair Mr Jones?” she continued in broken Eeenglish.

The Welsh Widow then came out with the internationally recognised phrase used all around the modern World.

“F*** Off ….!” before adding “Short Round!” said Shelley out of the side of her mouth make it sound like it had emanated from beneath the Venetian Carnival mask.

Mrs Sun was taken aback at being sworn at and mistaken for the Asian boy character in the film Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom. 

“Sorry for that!” but my husband helped build the bridge over the River Kwai in the Second World War and as you can see, he wasn’t ever able after to put any weight back on due to the trauma!” said Shelley talking and lying through her back teeth at the same time.

“This way to the mini-bus for Pompeii & Herculaneum!” interrupted handsome Italian tour guide, Toni Belle.

Shelley fiercely resisted any attempt to help with her husband and motioned to Tony that she wanted a private word in his ear.

“My husband is a very private individual and is deeply embarrassed that he has developed late in life a flatulence problem- it is so bad he cannot stick his own smell- hence the Venetian Mask-he asked me to ask you if he can travel in the trailer instead!” said Shelley.

“This ees no possible Madame…the Polizia would… how you say pull me ….if we didda that!” replied the Italian Stallion guide in pidgin English.  

“I’d pull him!”  offered the frustrated Widow Mrs Sun.

“Mrs Sun would you be kind enough to tell Mr Belle what my room smelt like this morning!” countered the North Korean.

Mrs Sun did a Princess Diana mime of placing her two fingers down her own throat.

“If you don’t believe me sniff him yourself!” said Mrs Jones in an assertive way.

Tony Belle did what he was told and lowered his head above the Welsh version of Ironside.

“F*** Off!”….” Mussolini!” said the ventriloquist.

Tony Belle recoiled not only in shock but also due to the deathly aroma of the corpse.

“Vecchia Scoreggia” he said in Vulgar Latin to the mini-bus driver.

“Okay….but only if you sitta wiv heem….I will tell the Polizia that you must have jumped on board without my knowing!” said the Italian using his Roman Nose discretion.

“What did he say?” asked Mrs Sun.

“Old Fart!” replied Mrs Jones.

“Was he referring to him or to you?” said the Korean.

“Both!” said the Welsh woman.

Having loaded both her husband and herself onto the back of the trailer and applied the brake on the wheelchair, the mini-bus set off with the other twenty tourists for the UNESCO World Heritage Site.

In the distance, the passengers could see the shadow of the volcano Vesuvius – the fiery mountain that had caused the tragedy nearly two Millenia ago.

The driver then put on his Phil Collins CD from the eighties and started singing….

”Oh oh oh… VVVV Vesuvius…. “

Mrs Jones could hear the Latin Lover’s wailing from the back of the trailer and was now grateful she had chosen to be outside the bus instead.

Her husband was now literally buzzing, as lots of flies were following and landing on the dead body- just like they automatically radar in on fresh dog shit.    

As the bus swung its way around the narrow streets of the Italian Riviera, it was all Shelley could do to keep her husband upright and stop the masque of red death from slipping.

It was even worse when they arrived at the main street of Pompeii, the Via Dell’Abbondansa, as it was made out of cobbles of Roman marble.

Fortunately, the way ahead had been barred by stepping stones from that classical period to stop chariots from striking civilians on their way to the Forum or to pray at the Temples of Jove, Isis or Artemis.

Shelley let out her own silent prayer to Jupiter.

Perhaps with all these dead bodies around preserved in ash one more might not make much difference?

Shelley suddenly felt homesick for her hometown of Merthyr Tydfil, as she wheeled her departed spouse around ruined buildings, surrounded by graffiti and plastered bodies lying prostrate on the floor covered in ash.

She marvelled at the Gladiator Amphitheatre and the writing and the names of the authors from 2000 years ago.

‘Vibius Restitutus slept here alone and missed his darling Urbana’

‘Commodus era qui’- Russell Crowe

‘Titter Ye Not’- Frankie Howerdus.

She parked the wheelchair and it’s decaying occupant in Casa di P Casca Longus  and sidled out of the ancient but restored Roman Villa.

“I say….. you slinking out ……you can’t leave him there…..it’s not an OAP creche you know!” shouted a visiting History Professor from Oxford University.

Ashen-faced, Mrs Jones turned around and felt obliged to go back to reclaim her excess baggage.

What was she going to do for two hours with a dead body?

In the heat, the smell was starting to get worse and she had a number of evil looks off a variety of Europeans and not just because of Brexit either.

They suspected that her husband’s colostomy bag needed changing.

As she wheeled her departed husband around, she marvelled at the splendour of the buildings.

She had been to the Roman Baths in Bath before but this was nothing compared to the size and layout of an entire city frozen in time.

A snapshot of living history albeit a dead one too.

Reading the graffiti and looking at the nature and layout of the buildings- little had in reality changed over the 2000 years of humankind.

There were still bakeries, public baths, independent local shops and of course amphitheatres and Forums.

The only difference was humans could frequent all of these places without fear before the Coronavirus came.

“Gottle of Geer?” said Mrs Sun offering her new friend a cool refreshing drink.

This had a sobering effect on Mrs Jones who wondered if her ventriloquist act had been rumbled by someone who looked like Eve Polastri.

“How is your husband feeling now?” asked Mrs Sun looking down on the motionless figure of Davey Jones.

Mrs Jones wanted to blurt out ‘Still dead’, but she knew she had to continue with the charade in the hope that the politeness of strangers would win the day.

“Better aren’t you?” said Mrs Jones gently tugging on the back of the corpse’s hair to give the appearance of a nod.

“Amazing place isn’t it……like the land of living dead…!” said Mrs Sun.

“Yes, a bit like B&Q Store on a Thursday afternoon!” replied Mrs Jones still wondering if her North Korean shipmate had smelt a rat.

“I dumped my husband at the local refuse tip!” said Mrs Sun suddenly revealing her hand.

So did the corpse- as one of his lifeless fingers chewed off by a hungry maggot dropped onto the floor.

“Different rules in North Korea…..people disappear all the time there!” said Mrs Sun.

“What do you want?” asked Mrs Jones….”in return for your silence?”

“What do all us Johnny Foreigners ever want?…..a blue passport….NHS Health Tourism….not to have to queue for a single brand of foodstuff on a supermarket shelf…. !” replied Mrs Sun.

“How would that work….I can’t get you and HIM back to the Britain through Customs now can I?” said the frustrated Mrs Jones.

“Well for starters I can help you to dispose of the body!” said Mrs Sun going from Eve to Villainelle.

“Then you report him missing and in seven years’ time and we in clear!”

“Next you have to get one of your friends to marry me…Male or Female… I don’t care its only one night….of course it will be a sham marriage and only until I find my feet!” she said kicking Mr Jones’ left foot under the wheelchair, so that it was not spotted by any nosey third party.

Mrs Jones knew now she was out on a limb.

She wondered what the Hell disease had now killed her husband.

Was it not the coronavirus but leprosy?

If she had told him that he would die in this fashion on one of their many Poker nights, he would have thrown his hand in before laughing his head off.  

Either way she suspected that she would be quarantined for two weeks- time a 79 year- old woman could ‘ill’ afford to spend.

Looking up at some grey smoke puffing out of the top of Mount Vesuvius, realised she had to get a move on.

 Shelley didn’t think it was a sign of them electing a new Pope in Rome.

“Let’s get out of here Mrs Jones….this living cemetery gives me the creeps….!” Said Mrs Sun.

“I agree… let’s go find the gift shop to buy some tape to put his foot back on and get him back on the ship!” suggested Shelley.

“There is Gift Shop?” said Mrs Sun excitedly.

Back inside Cabin 13, the scheming pair had managed to avoid the gaze of Camp David on return to the cruise ship, but he had knocked on the door once again but this time with an invitation for Mr & Mrs Jones to dine at the Captain’s Table.

Shelley knew she would have to find a place to store her husband until after dark, when she could help Mrs Sun to dispose of the body into the Briny Sea.

Mrs Sun was concerned as her preliminary enquiries of the crew seemed to point to the fact that the ship had CCT cameras and the latest on-board Norwegian technology which could detect a body falling overboard into the sea.

An alert would then be sent to Captain and their plot would be uncovered.

Mrs Sun had noticed that the crew stored their shiny uniforms in full size lockers on the same floor and close to one of the stairwells.

There was also an empty one with a rusty key in the lock that the sailors seemed to be reluctant to use.

It might prove a good hiding place until they could pretend that Mr Jones had been lost at sea but cause doubt over the accuracy of any technology.

Her plan was to use the locker to hide ‘Jones the Bones’.

Observation had shown the on-ship stewards to be busiest between 5.30pm and 7.30pm in preparation for the evening’s entertainment.  

That was the optimum time to move the body.

“It is best if you do not know where I hide him, that way, any suspicion that falls on you will enable you to pass any lie-detector test!” said the North Korean. 

On checking the corridor for people, Mrs Sun had to move fast like an Asian version of grave-robbers Burke & Hare as she single-handedly carried the sack of bones and fly magnet towards the locker.

She bundled the bony remains inside, only for it to collapse like a Ray Harryhausen skeleton warrior in the film Jason & The Argonauts.

Mrs Sun forced the key in the lock to turn with all her might and fortunately it closed shut with a clunk.

She snapped the rusty ‘skeleton’ key in half and look around nervously to make sure no-one had seen her doing so.

When Mrs Sun returned to the cabin not having been spotted by either crew or guest, the pair of Widows were ecstatic, hugging each other as if they were already Wife & Wife.

The finishing touch had been for Mrs Sun to place the Venetian Mask up on the top deck in one of the CCT camera blackspots, near where the sun loungers were stored overnight.

That way any investigation would assume Davey Jones would be just another statistic of a person missing from a cruise ship as the result of a freak wave or had been standing too close to the railings with sea-sickness.

Looking like Old Rose in the James Cameron film Titanic, Mrs Jones sat at Captain Birzai’s top table.

She was dressed to in the nines and wore her fake costume jewellery bought third hand from a Merthyr Charity Shop.

She was expecting quality gourmet food but was disappointed to see the appearance of fish fingers yet again.

But then again what did she expect from a budget cruise.

She was sweating uncomfortably but couldn’t be sure if it was the SARS-CoV-2 virus or her guilty conscience at handing her late husband of 60 years’ body to a total stranger for disposal.

“My husband’s late!” she said to Captain Birzai trying to cover her tracks.

Her dinner companion was dressed all in a dark blue uniform and peaked cap with a white beard and had a tendency to wink a lot- which , a hangover from his TV advertising days.

“Where is he……in the cabin?” asked the seasoned sailor.

“He was but he said he wanted to go onto the deck to smoke one final cigarette….I didn’t even realise till I came on this ship he still smoked to be honest with you!” lied Shelley.

“Do you want me to ask the Steward to look for him if you are worried?” replied the Former King of Breadcrumbs.

“David would you mind checking the top deck for Mr Jones for me?”  ordered the salty old sea dog.

“Aye, Aye,  Cap’n!” said Camp David hamming it up.

Shelley sat nervously, picking at her food and expecting at any moment an alternative cry from Camp David of ‘Man- the Lifeboats’.

She assumed that was where Mrs Sun had hidden him.

She was glad she didn’t know.

Camp David returned some twenty minutes later looking all flustered and this time whispered in his Senior Officer’s ear.

“Speak louder man, all I can hear in my ear is the sound of the sea!” said Shelley.

“I can’t find him, I have checked everywhere, the Top Deck, the Lower Deck even the Poop Deck just in case he was busy having a shit!” said the Sailor.

“What about the Cabin Man?” asked the Captain.

“Sir, I used the skeleton key to get in but there was no sign, sorry Mrs Jones but it still smells a bit funky in there, so I only had a cursory glance!” reported Camp David.

“This Corona Vires cruise ship is not the Marie Celeste ….nor are we anywhere near the Bermuda Triangle now is it?” said the Captain asserting his authority.

“Take two of the crew with you and comb the ship again and ask the Bosun to check the cameras for any suspicious events!” ordered the Captain.

“Do you think he has killed himself after years of my nagging?” asked Shelley putting on her puppy dog face that she usually used to use on her husband in the days of terrestrial television, whenever she wanted to watch Coronation Street at the same time when the FA Cup was live on the BBC. 

Fast forward to 2027 and the Cruise Ship was finally being decommissioned from the fleet.

It had sailed the World over many times, and after the acceleration of Global Warming had been even become a rescue vessel on a number of occasions, as sea level had risen to engulf large parts of London, Cardiff & Dublin.

One such mission rescued people from their passenger capsules on the London Eye in a flash flood after the Thames Barrier gave way.

The leaky Cruise Ship was now in the Mid-Atlantic heading for Northern Ireland.

It’s final destination was Belfast, the port that had once been home to the ill-fated White Star ocean liner the Titanic.

After the respiratory plague that had wiped out a quarter of the Earth’s population, the Corona Vires Cruise Ship had been renamed in 2020 the Black Pig.  

It’s last voyage had been a pleasure cruise of the Caribbean in a reverse ‘Windrush’, taking rich white Caucasians overseas to visit their tax haven savings. 

“Have you finished clearing out those staff lockers yet?” shouted the First Mate, Seaman Staines.

“Not quite -just the rusty old one on the end left to go!” shouted back Roger the Cabin Boy.

“Slide me the hammer and a flat head screwdriver please!”  the youngster shouted.

The metal tools slid along the ship’s floor and clattered into the now empty locker bases.

Roger, placed the flathead of the screwdriver inside the lock and hit it hard with the hammer.

The rusty old lock mechanism refused stubbornly to budge.

It hadn’t opened for over seven years.

He hit it again harder this time but still the locker refused to give up its grim secret.

He angled the blade again and hit it diagonally this time.

The lock popped and the young boy was rocked by the smell that left the airtight cubicle in a rush.

“Jesus!” he said as the putrid air flew past him.

Inside the darkened recess, he could make out the shape of a skull and cross-bones.

“Look at this!”  he called to his mate.

“Do you think this is real or just a Pirate Prop?” he continued picking a bluebottle out of the gap between his front teeth.

“I don’t know!”  said his colleague looking at the full skeleton as it emerged from its confines.

“What shall I do with it?” asked Roger…

”Do we tell Cap’n Pugwash?”

“Do you really want to spend an extra couple of days unpaid explaining to the Port Authorities where that came from?” replied the more experienced crewman.

“F*** No!” said the youngster

“There is only one thing for it then…Davey Jones’s Locker it is then!” replied Staines.

“Ello ‘Ello ‘Ello what’s all this then?” said Constable Grunt, as he arrived onto the Barry Island Seafront promenade.

Before him sat a group of mixed children and adults, all staring up at a fairground booth, beautifully painted in red n white stripes.

As the Policeman strode forward on his size twelve feet Dr Marten’s boots- the sound of a kazoo playing the theme from Laurel & Hardy was heard emanating from behind the curtain of the booth.

“Very funny!” said the Constable.

Contrary to popular belief, Constable Grunt had originally possessed a sense of humour but it had been extracted at birth together with his umbilical cord – besides, it had been a long day trying to enforce the unworkable rules on social distancing imposed due to the Covid-19 pandemic- so he was in no mood for humour.

Especially humour at his expense which undermined his authority.

The Punch n Judy booth was set up with it’s back to the railings on the promenade and was surrounded by the audience in a semi-circle, who had paid a small fee to the performer’s assistant- known as the Bottler- for the show.

The Bottler had lived up to his name and bottled it upon first sight of the long arm of the law.

The children and adults swung their attention from the booth to the Constable, who was accompanied by the latest version of a female Hobby Bobby- a Boris Johnson Covid- 19 Beadle.

Yet another attempt by the Conservative Government to return the former United Kingdom to Victorian values.

“Is there a pwoblem Officer?” asked the hidden puppeteer through a rasping kazoo.

His speech impediment didn’t help the intensity of the laughter from the crowd.

Nor did his strange accent.

“ We have had a complaint about suitability of the show that you are putting on for children and also a flagrant breach of Covid- 19 social distancing rules from a Member of the Public!” grunted Grunt.

There was no sign of any person in the booth.

“Can you tell who complained…eas it someone from Bawwy Island?” came the kazoo voice.

“No!” replied Grunt rocking on his size twelve heels.

“I bet it was Pwetti Patal again watting on her neighbours!” replied the invisible puppeteer.

The Policeman just smiled.

The Home Secretary was his boss – just like that other Nazi regime from 1945- he was just following orders.

It was a perk of the job and purely coincidental that he enjoyed making other people miserable.

Constable Grunt began to make contemporaneous notes in his South Wales Police Constabulary state of the art notebook.

The silence was broken by the reply from inside the Booth.

“Don’t you know that the Punch N Judy entertainment at the seaside has been around since the 1600’s – Comedie dell’Arte – even Samuel Pepys wrote about in HIS diary too!” complained the voice of the unseen puppeteer.

“Looks like someone has been studying British History!” said the non-laughing Policeman.

“Perhaps that may be a fact…but the complaint has come from a source high up in the Court system complaining that your actions are prejudicing a High Court case on libel proceedings!” said Grunt.

“How come?” said the vibrating kazoo voice- this time much higher pitched- almost female.

“Well your choice of the leading characters- being Hollywood A- & C-listers Johnny Depp and Amber Heard!” ordered Grunt.

At the mention of their names up popped the two characters who took a bow to the audience.

The children cheered loudly as the puppets appeared.

“I don’t understand -no-one complained when I used a puppet of Caroline Flack?” said the invisible man.

“Look it’s not acceptable to portray a Wife being beaten up at a seaside booth for children- it sends out the wrong message!” said the female Hobby Bobby.

“Who are you when you are at home?” asked the puppeteer hidden below the wooden stage.

“ Barry Island’s first appointed Covid- 19 Warden Stephanie Fiddler!” she boomed proudly.

There was silence from the booth and then came the ‘Punch-line’.

“Tell me children when you grow up… do you want to be a Fanny Fiddler just like her?” said the voice.

The children laughed as did most of the adults present.

The Covid Beadle blushed redder than Neil Kinnock after seeing the General Election result of 1992.

“It’s not just a complaint about the violence it is the content of the act!” continued Grunt.

“The way that the lead character handles the baby too!”

“That is as traditional as the appearance of the crocodile and the sausages!” protested the Puppeteer.

“Okay but why threaten to hand the baby over to Lost Profit’s singer Ian Watkins?” countered Fiddler regaining her confidence.

“How do you know?....you have never paid to watch the act?” queried the Puppeteer.

“I was standing on the rooftops…!” she said.

“What rooftops?” asked the hidden performer in a Turkish dialect, this time pronouncing his r’s immaculately.

“We are on the Barry seafront promenade!”

“The complaint was principally about the violent conduct which portrays Mr Depp as a wife beater!” said Grunt in the best assertive voice, that which his Bridgend Police Training had instilled in him.

“Violence?” protested the kazoo-man.

“At a Punch and Judy Show….haven’t you guys ever watched anything on Sky Atlantic or the internet….everything is much more graphic now- much more than two characters threatening each other with sticks….it’s not exactly as if it is the film Zombieland now is it?”

“Why don’t you pay 2.00 lira each and I’ll put on a show for you!” offered the Puppeteer.

“Can I claim it back on expenses?” asked Fiddler.

“The MP’s usually do when they watch the petty puerile childish squabbling …it must remind them of the House of Commons!” replied the invisible Hands.

Both Fascists looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders and sat on the promenade wall, helmets and stab proof vests unbuttoned.

With that the show began once again.

Up popped a new character in the place of the Hollywood A-Listers.

“Hi Sprogs, hope you are having a bonzer day in the light drizzle here at Barry Island Prom….it’s the last day of the Poms too….as you are soon to be invaded by that lot in the Channel from the Calais Jungle!” said the character in the worst Australian accent since Dame Edna Everage merged with Sir Les Patterson and became Barry Humphreys.

It was almost like he was from Afghanistan rather than Oz.

“Look Sprogs. I should know about my sea creatures because I took them all to my Heart!” replied the character clad in khaki shorts.

As he did so he opened his khaki shirt to reveal a massive hole where his heart should be.

“He could be a Tory MP!” said little Billy Booger, whilst picking his Covid-19 encrusted nose and then flicking it at his mate.

“Oi…I saw that!” said Fiddler the germ warden.

Back in the booth, up popped a crocodile and the Aussie promptly wrestled it down like it was his pet dog.

No sooner than they had disappeared than a string of sausages popped up from below the counter.

“Oops….give us my intestines back… you naughty boy !” came the same Aussie voice from Down Under in Istanbul.

As soon as the Crocodile Man disappeared the Hollywood Titans reappeared and continued their clash.

“Have you seen the mess down there is it ‘From Hell’ said Heard anger level on green.

“A bit like you before make-up on the set of our film Rum Diary (2011) in the morning!” taunted Depp.

“You can talk – ‘you monster’ you will be ‘Finding Neverland’ the next time you try and mount me for a ‘Late, Late, Show!” spat back the Spouse.

“Drop Dead Sexy!” replied Depp.

“Oh you are Sauvage….just like that awful Dior aftershave you advertise on telly…I gave it to the Down and Outs in Beverly Hills – they already smell like you after your Rum Diary entries!” said Heard turning Amber.

“I only took that advert to select where in the desert sand I am going to bury your body!” snapped back the Pirate of the Caribbean or Somalia.

“It’s not just dead men that tell no tales…..remember that!”

“Did you hear that children?.... Tonto Johnny here making threats ….it’s the last time he will have a bird on his head….it’s just like you witnessed at home during lockdown before you were forced to go back to school to catch Covid-19 to infect your parent’s with!” said Amber picking up a cut throat razor.

“Come here….I’ll show you Sweeney Todd for real!” said Heard turning in’candy’escent with rage.

“Bring it on baby!” said Johnny affixing his Edward Scissorhands.

“Let’s see if you really do have ‘Heard’ immunity!”

“Woah, Woah, Woah!” shrieked Constable Grunt- pointing his hands up and then pointing his index finger at the booth.

“Stop the show.. that’s an offence under the Offences against the Person Act of 1861!”

“In case you not know… dem not persons…day Puppets!” replied Kazoo- this time with a trace of Nigerian.

A collective gasp came from the adults in the audience.

They didn’t expect the ‘Fourth Wall’ to be breached.

The kids didn’t care as long- as there was a steady supply of Haribo sweets they were content.

The Puppet Master was correct but Constable Grunt couldn’t back down now not in front of the children and his sidekick.

Before he could react onto the stage came a third puppet.

“That’s clever….three puppets on the go at one time…he must be extremely talented in the trouser department!” said Fiddler.

It was a Hangman wearing both a wire and an F.B.I emblazoned jacket.

They were both followed by a ghost.

The ghost of Jeffrey Epstein.

The puppet of Johnny Depp opened his mouth to looked scared.

The puppet of Amber Heard looked even more scared as she misread the name on the back of the Savile Row shirt and thought from first glance it was disgraced Film Producer Harvey Weinstein.

“There must be two of them in that booth!” whispered Fiddler captivated by the show.

“I thought that!” whispered back Grunt.

“Me too!” said Heard listening in on the conversation.

“What shall we do now that Home Secretary Priti Patel has repealed the Human Rights Act children?” asked Kazoo- this time in a voice deeper than Brian Blessed’s bollocks.

“ Hang him again!” screamed the young crowd.

“That’s the way to do it!” said Constable Grunt getting carried away enjoying the spectacle.

“Oi…that’s MY line!” protested Johnny ‘the Punch’ Depp- this time sounding Kurdish.

“Dew…this Kazoo Puppet Guy is brilliant with those different voices – like Rory Bremner or a male version of Nina Conti!” said Constable Grunt approvingly to Fiddler.

Their fun was suddenly stopped by a millionaire professional sea-watcher from Kent.

“The Great British public is being fleeced every day by Health Tourists and you guys are too busy watching ‘ seaside special?” moaned the Frog Faced Toad.

“Look…behind the booth!” he continued his right arm raised like he was at Nuremberg, pointing towards the beach behind the booth.

Breaking on the waves were six empty small rubber dinghies bearing bumper stickers of Turkey, Italy, Germany, and Calais France.

“I suggest you check the booth!” continued the Kent Kermit.

Constable Grunt waded through the children and peered down into the booth.

It was completely empty.

No puppeteers or puppets at all.

“You Muppet!” said the Englishman.

As Constable Grunt slid the booth to one side- it became apparent that the booth was over a Welsh Water manhole surface water drain cover.

Placing his truncheon under the handle with a bit of ‘force’ he lifted the lid and peered into the darkness.

Just like the Black Hole of Calcutta peering back at him was around 20 pairs of eyes.

More eyes than a peacock’s back.

“Whilst you were distracted by the puppet show ‘ Johnny Foreigner here was busy helping that lot make tracks up the sand and into their bunker – awaiting the cover of the night to slip away to places like West Bromwich and Birmingham to add their numbers to the Black Country!” continued Dad’s Army’s latest recruit.

“If it was up to me with my Churchillian spirit I would fight them on the beaches and bite them on the features too!”

“But YOU are the one in Authority ….what are you going to do about them?” said the anti-amphibious amphibian.

Constable Grunt smiled knowingly, as he unclipped from his belt a cannister of CS Gas.

“Where did you get that- that’s not Police issue?” asked Fiddler.

“Extinction Rebellion!” said Constable Grunt removing the pin and casually tossing it into the stagnant surface water below.

“Deppth Charge!” he replied.

“Saves on the paperwork!”