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The camera pans to the grey-haired Welshman sat behind his desk.

“Good Evening and welcome to this special BBC edition of Celebrity ‘Evil’ Mastermind!” said presenter John Humphreys.

“On tonight’s edition – my last ever for reasons that will become apparent later – we have a special show lined-up for you and in order to show balance we have three Right Wing narcissists and one Commie here to answer a series of questions in the allotted time of two minutes!”

“Let’s meet them!” continued the former newsreader.

“From the USA- President Donald Trump!”

The POTUS turns and smiles at the wrong camera.

“From Islington London – former Leader of the Opposition – Comrade Jeremy Corbyn!” said the presenter.

The Cameraman adds a special Newsnight filter to make it look like he is wearing a Red Ushanka hat complete with hammer and sickle on the front.

It is plainly visible as an add-on- as Corbyn nods towards the viewers at home.

“Liberty Peace Prize Winner and former Prime Minister Tony Blair!” announces Humphreys.

His Royal Tonyness, smiles cheesily, just like a ‘Cheshire Pony’ at the little screen whilst looking around for the autocue.

“And last and by all means least- current Prime Minister of the United Kingdom but mainly England- Boris Johnson!”

Boris is slouched in his chair, dishevelled blonde hair pointing in all directions, just like a schoolboy who hasn’t been dressed by his Mother/Nanny that Morning.

“Who Me?” replies Johnson as the studio goes quiet – all the time looking around for Dominic Cullings.

“So first up, we have the Leader of the Western World, President of the United States of America, Donald John Trump- if you would like to take the chair?” invited the presenter.

“Take it where?” replied Trump.

“It looks GREAT (showing all of someone else’s teeth in his mouth) but I have better one back in the White House in Washington back home in the US of A- it is probably made in China anyway….!” He continued unabated.

After a hand gesture from Humphreys towards the Hot Seat- Trump made his way slowly – just like a bear nurturing a ten pound turd but unable to find any woods close by- .

No sooner than he had sat down heavily breaking the thing than he uttered –

“Definitely China… look how easy it broke under my nine stone frame- Do I have to raise my right hand for the Holy Book like the Grand Jury?” asked Trump.

“‘No-there is no book for you to swear on!” replied Humphreys.

“Good-not a bigly fan of books anyway-don’t colour or read them anymore!” replied the President.

“So, your chosen subject is?” asked Humphreys.

“Me!” replied Trump

“Okay -you have two minutes on your specialist subject starting now!” said the Presenter speeding up towards the end of the sentence.

“ You were born on 14 ^th June 1946, what sign are you?”

“Cancer!” replied the POTUS.

“Incorrect- you are Gemini- the Twins” said the Presenter.

“Fake news….there is only one Donald J Trump!” replied Trump.

“What number President are you?” asked Humphreys.

“Number One- better than Osama- less impeachable than Nixon!” said the Don.

“Incorrect- 45 was the answer!” continued Humphreys.

“Fake news- 45 was the answer I gave to the N.R.A to stop the school shootings- I told them to arm the teachers and the children too, that way they would have a fighting chance if the terrorists attack- it’s the in the American Constitution – the pursuit of happiness- Will Smith or Kayne West told me- I can never tell them apart-!” replied Trump.

“Are you referring to the second amendment and the right to ‘bear arms’? “replied the quiz host getting all confused by the replies.

“Who wants bear arms?- there’s nothing wrong with these human ones I got!”

Humphreys shook his head- half of the allotted time was up and he had concluded that this President’s head was more shot than JFK.

“Which political party do you represent?” asked the interviewer.

“Is this a trick question? Oh KKK… because I am tempted to say I was ‘Putin Power” by my good friend and good friend to America….to help turn back the clock…return to the use of fossil fuels and that fake global watering ….install coal burning fires and surrounds and make America ‘Grate’ again!”

Humphreys just shook his head and ploughed on.

‘So, what excuse did you give to dodge the Vietnam War Draft?” asked Humphreys.

“It WASN’T an excuse… said Trump glaring at the Welshman….”I had bone spurs…if you don’t believe me ….ask Stormy Daniels ‘She will confirm… I had them on when riding her dressed as a Dallas cowboy!”

“‘I’ll accept!” said Humphreys.

“What did you claim was your favourite rock album on Radio Station Minneapolis Burning?” asked Humphreys.

“Houses of the Holy by Led Zeppelin!” replied the Orangeman.

“Incorrect- it was the Wall by Pink Floyd!” said the presenter.

“Fake news- I don’t like any rap music by protesters from Dixieland or is that Disneyland?” replied the walking Tango Advert.

The end of round claxon sounded.

“Congratulations Mr Trump you scored one and pissed on two -Russian Prostitutes that is-!”

Trump smiled to himself- remembering that experience warmly- whilst sleeping in the shallow end of that impromptu Moscow waterbed.

He had beaten his own high score and now deserved a UK tax-free Costa Cofefe for his efforts.

As he had been sat in the Hot Seat under the BBC studio lights- there was a pool of orange liquid underneath the chair and a familiar stain on the back of his fawn golfing trousers.

“Second Contestant would you please come to chair!” asked Humphreys.

‘Please state your full name for the record….I would remind you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you probably out of context and to our own ends…do you understand?” asked the BBC Griller.

“I understand…Jeremy Bernard Corbyn… but known to my followers simply as JC!” said the former Leader of the Opposition.

“ Bernard!” sniggered Humphreys.

“As in Bernardo O’Higgins, the Chilean Communist Guerrilla Leader?”

“Yes but No but he was a Freedom fighter!” replied Corbyn made to sound like Little Britain character Vicki Pollard.

“And your chosen specialist subject is?” asked the questioner.

“Allotments that changed the World” replied Corbyn.

“Okay!” sniggered Humphreys once again.

“You have two minutes starting now!”

“How do they arrange the ‘radishical’ movements of root vegetables in the Moscow State Allotment Society?”

“In Red Squares!” replied Corbyn.

“Correct!” announced Humphreys.

“Which vegetable was King of the Hippies, John Lennon promoting with his bed lie in protest with Yoko Ono in Amsterdam in 1969?” asked the presenter.

“Peas!” – replied Corbyn.

“Give peas a chance!” he said quoting the dead Beatle.

“Correct!” said Humphreys.

“He is giving him the easy ones!” moaned Trump as he put his tiny ‘GI JOE’ sized hand up and whispered behind the back of it at the other two contestants.

“What luminous vegetables did the Conservative UK Government import in bulk from Mother Russia in 1986 because they were cheap to supply to the poor?” asked Humphreys glaring at a different kind of luminous vegetable for the interruption.

“Chernobyl Carrots- they came with a ‘glowing reference’ and a shelf life of 1-5 years!” replied Corbyn.

“Correct!” said Humphreys.

“A bit like his chlorinated chicken then!” said Corbyn nodding at the Political Oompa Loompa.

“Fake News!” came the broken record reply.

“What was the name of your Palestinian cook book about your fresh allotment produce penned in 2016?” asked Humphreys.

“From Hummus to Hamas!” replied the weirdy beardy.

“Which record did you say you would take with you if you were castaway on a deserted atoll off Cuba on Radio Four’s Desert Island Discs?” asked Humphreys.

“Rhapsody in Blue by the Gershwin Brothers” replied Corbyn.

“George always stole the limelight from his elder brother so I felt a little sorry for him!” he continued.

“Correct-so, we can confirm on the BBC that you are now an admitted IRA sympathiser?” said Humphreys seizing on the slip.

“Do you know -there are thousands of women in this Country on NHS waiting lists and I am always the first to get smeared!” replied Corbyn- red smoke then liquid emanating from his ears- just like a poisoned Communist Pope.

“What group are Angel of Islington blood oranges?” asked the interviewer.

Corbyn shook his head and looked doubtful for the first time.

“Blood Group A Positive- as they contain a red wedge?” said the fairest Prime Minister this Country never had.

“Incorrect- it was O-Jeremy Corbyn- O- Jeremy Corbyn!”- sang Humphreys in a Pre-Covid-19 Glastonbury 2017 White Stripes tune….”But your Trotskyist Red Blood Group is noted!”

As the claxon sounded- Humphreys announced that Corbyn had scored 5 out of a possible 6 and not passed on any questions- unlike the current Prime Minister Boris Johnson in his time at the Despatch Box in Parliament.

“Fair play- the many and not the few!”

Corbyn flicked a V at Humphreys before turning and heading for his vacant seat.

“Next up- we have former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom Anthony Charles Lynton Blair!” said Humphreys.

The darkened BBC studio was lit up by the most enormous set of gnashers to grace the place since Esther Rantzen had a ‘sausages’ face- off with Theo the Poodle.

“Hi, I’m Tony!” announced the politician.

“Well would you like to tell the audience at home what your specialist subject is tonight?” asked Humphreys.

“Spin Doctoring, manipulating the media and how to win elections!” replied the former PM, whilst continuing to smile at the camera the whole time just like a ventriloquist dummy.

“Okay , Mr Blair you have two minutes on the subject starting….NOW!” Said Humphreys.

“Can’t I have three?” asked His Royal Tony-ness.

There was a pregnant pause before John Humphreys replied

“Okay- because you put it so nicely, you can have three!”.

There were howls of outrage from the previous two contestants who were busy muttering the phrase ‘BBC Bias’.

“That’s spin for you!” Blair said smiling all the while.

“Question one- Who did you recommend to be your successor in the Labour Party in 2010?” asked Humphreys.

“Anyone BUT him!” said Blair pointing a manicured finger with painted nails with a red rose on each one in the direction of Corbyn.

“Correct!” said Humphreys to howls of protest from his Left Wing.

“The Momentum is really with you now Tony!”

“Who do you think will lead the party to victory in the 2023 General Election?” asked Humphreys.

“Someone in my own non-spitting image- a fellow barrister- someone with a Christian Name of a famous Labour politician to sound like a convincing socialist but in actual fact is further on the right wing of the party than Charles Lindbergh!” continued the Blair Rich Project.

“As a politician are you going to give me a straight answer or what?” asked Humphreys.

“Keir Starmer!” announced Blair.

“Correct….at least he can eat a non-antisemitic bacon sandwich correctly!” replied Humphreys.

“What is the difference between WKD and WMD?” continued Humphreys.

“They found WKD in a bar in Iraq- but no WMD?” replied the Blair faced bliar.

“Correct!”- said the presenter.

“Phew….!” replied Blair with a noticeable single bead of sweat added by the BBC make-up department to give the impression he was under pressure.

“What is the difference between Bosnian Serbian leader Dragomir Milosevic, Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goring and Tony Blair?”

“Pass!” said Blair as quickly as possible.

“Who was responsible for securing the Belfast Agreement ‘Good Friday Peace Process in Northern Ireland?” asked Humphreys.

“It was me- I should have got a ‘Tony Award’ for it!” Blair said modestly- nose enlarging slowly.

“Fake news!” came a shout from the dark- but not from the USA Orange State but from Corbyn instead.

“It was ME that met with Sinn Fein over a couple of McGuinnesses!” protested the Allotment King.

“John Hume would be turning in his grave if he heard THAT!” replied Blair.

“Conveniently- you would have to EX-HUME him to validate that- and that would take some special SPIN DOCTOR to boot!” said Corbyn.

“I Trimble at the very thought!” replied Blair.

“Correct!” said Humphreys much to the bemusement of Corbyn.

“It would appear for a man who believes in unilateral disarmament, you have a strong militant tendency -any more interruptions Mr Corbyn and I will have you removed from the studio and your gulags sent to the four corners of the former United Kingdom!” threatened Humphreys.

“I will have you know that Saint Blair of Edinburgh here has a history of receiving Peace Prizes- he won a Liberty Medal for his ‘commitment to conflict resolution’ in 2010.!” Said the BBC presenter.

“Which immigration barrister is set to defend the Shamina Begum appeal case?” asked Humphreys.

“My Cherie Amour!” sang Blair just like Stevie Wonder.

“Correct!”

The Claxon sounded and the presenter announced.

“At the end of that round Mr Blair, you have scored five and passed on one-what is the difference between Bosnian Serbian leader Dragomir Milosevic, Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goring and Tony Blair?”

“The answer to that is you were all born under the star sign Taurus and capable of talking a lot of bull!”.

“I can think of a different one!” shouted Corbyn- as he was dragged away with his arms restrained by two burly undercover policemen wearing Rachel Riley tee-shirts marked ‘Taking the Countdown!’

“And to think you Guys are part of the same Labour Movement!” chortled Humphreys.

“Of course- we are!” smiled the Grinch that stole a Party.

“Next up we have Prime Minister Johnson!” announced Humphreys.

Boris was slumped in his chair, lolling like he was Jacob Rees-Mogg, lying across the front benches of Parliament.

At the sound of his name, Boris put on a smirk across his face that Stephen King Horror Clown character IT would have been proud.

As Bozo the Buffoon, slid his way towards the chair Humphreys’ manner seemed to change somewhat.

“Please would you fasten your seatbelt Mr Johnson- it is a conditional requirement by the BBC Director General in your case!” ordered the wily Welshman.

“Bloody EU Health & Safety!” mumbled Johnson under his alcohol enhanced breath.

Boris did as he was told.

No sooner than the seatbelt was clicked shut- Humphreys ducked down behind the desk just like the bar tender in the custard pie throwing scene of Bugsy Malone.

And in his place appeared BBC News Presenter Andrew Neil.

“Crikey….I have walked into a giant elephant trap!” Boris spluttered.

“Good afternoon Boris….it seems like you won’t get away from me after all!” said Neil.

“Yikes- why do I get the feeling I am about to be scoured by a Brillo and his I-Pad?” gulped the PM.

“So, please state your full name for the audience and chosen specialist subject!” asked Neil.

“Boris Johnson….sex. lies and the odd videotape!” said the blonde former Etonian whose hair made him look as if he had been dragged through a hedge fund backwards.

“Incorrect!” said Andrew Neil.

“It’s Alexander Boris De Pfeffel Johnson!” came the reply.

“I say old boy that’s a bit below the belt!” mumbled the man of the people.

“So why did you give the home address of a journalist from the News of the World to your friend Darius Guppy in 1993?” asked Neil.

“Uhhh….I thought he wanted to send him a ‘Get Well Card’…!” stuttered Boris.

“But he wasn’t unwell at the time- now was he?” countered Neil.

“Well he was about to be- I was just a little ahead of time on that one!” said the PM.

“So- an easy one next- How many biological children have you spawned so far?” asked Neil.

“Pass!” said Johnson.

“When you were Mayor of London you made more U-Turns than Dick Whittington but did you try to erect your own version of a ‘garden’ bridge whilst trying to ‘remain’ at the top of the poles?” interrogated Neil.

“Let’s just say it is not just Britain and America that has a special relationship!” replied Bojo.

“Unless you give me a straight answer… I can’t award you the point!” said Neil.

“Granted!” replied the PM.

“I’ll take that as a different kind of ‘pass’ then!” replied the interviewer.

“ Can’t I get Philip Schofield and Holly Willoughby instead?” asked Boris trapped in the hot seat like an inadequate stunt man in the movie Fifty Shades of Grey.

“Wrong channel!” replied Brillo off the top of his head.

“Nigel Farage keeps going on about that!” replied the Eton Mess trying like all politicians to witter on about nothing to run down the airtime.

“Tubby, what Planet are you on?- You can’t hide in a fridge this time!” replied the former Hard Times man.

“Zanuzzi?” mumbled the buffoon.

“So, why did you grant permission for Dominic Cullings suffering from the coronavirus to drive five hours to Durham at the height of a pandemic?” barked Neil.

“Or allow Pa Churchill to fly off to Greece when everyone else is stuck with quarantine?

Boris placed his fingers in his ears and started to make ‘la- la noises’ to override the tough questions.

“This isn’t PMQ’s!” shouted Andrew Neil as he administered a 15- volt electric shock direct to the PM.

Boris’ eyes widened for the first time and his blonde hair suddenly went like it had been combed and immaculately groomed- just like Max Headroom or the new Keir Starmer look.

“You can’t torture people…. this is England not Saudi Arabia!” protested Boris.

“Don’t you remember your 60 MP majority voted through to repeal the Human Rights Act when you left the European Union!” replied Andrew Neil evilly.

“I don’t remember that!” said the shocked laboratory monkey.

“It was just after Christopher Chope vetoed the up-kilting mobile phone ban in Scotland !” recalled Brillo.

“Is that the one that upset Nicola Sturgeon and made her a little Krankie?” asked Boris horrified.

“Here is a Presidential Order signed by Donald Trump that as part of the US/UK trade deal negotiated by Pork Baron Liz Truss that this studio is now controlled by the Walt Disney Corporation of Florida and thereby all Federal Laws of that Orange County State now apply in this Studio!” continued Neil.

“To include the electric chair and death penalty for failure!”

“So Boris, you REALLY are in the Hot Seat!”

“But answer me one last request before you push that button and fry my brain what did the UK get in return?” asked Boris.

“Silk stockings and chocolate!” came the reply.

“Nothing changes!”

(Jeff Bezos

Mark Zuckerberg

Tim Martin

Sir Phillip Green

Sir Richard Branson

Sir Alan Sugar)

he sees them on the TV 

reads about them in news apps 

he declines to subscribe to 

he thinks they're contemptible 

and wouldn't urinate on them if they caught fire

all vocal

all opinionated

all money grabbing modern style barons 

with no shame or few scruples

the unacceptable faces of capitalism

the unacceptable faces of humans

three of them are titled

wonder what the Queen really thinks about that

when he’s tired he thinks “titles”

reads a little like  “titties”

maybe he needs new spectacles

maybe he needs a new world

where wealth and health

are distributed more equally

Please keep your distance

I don’t want to catch anything from you

and I'm sure you feel the same way

staying indoors like a rained-off

summer holiday but this time

with endless advice on

how to fill our days as if

we can't be trusted to function

outside the tethered thinking

of workplace diktats

I tell you how I will spend my time

I will memorise the confusion

incompetence and untruths

that have led to this moment

while I fashion my response

among the sawdust of my lockdown lock-up

I will weaponise a disarticulated 

wooden garden chair leg

convert it into a crude war club

a coup stick for future skirmishes

over toilet paper and chocolate digestives

sand it a little

scrape a chisel along its length

adorn it with smart black Gorilla tape

and a libation of teak oil

a camouflaged and concealed weapon 

that still looks like a chair leg

as that was what it was made to be

ordinary domestic now deadly

like any household object

I choose it because its shape presents 

itself to me from among 

the other fractured wood

the flotsam of my materialism

because I assess that I might need it

to defend myself in the resistance

against the unelected 

super rich rulers of the world

the "supremacists"

the dark money and dirty companies

...

Dai Commando looked just like any normal person.

Average height, average weight even average shoe size.

But underneath he was no ordinary G.I. Joe.

You would never hear it from Dai’s own lips, but the regulars in his local public house in Dowlais- the T.A.’s (The Tredegar Arms) would tell you- whilst he may have served in the Royal Marines – ‘He was Made in Merthyr’.

Mainly because he was conceived on top of a wheelie bin behind Wetherspoon’s in Post Office Lane.

Dai Commando turned his I-pad on ready for his 11.00am Zoom Meeting.

It was top secret and confidential stuff.

Punctually was Dai’s middle name and he hated people who were late even more than he hated foreigners- and that was saying something.

After inputting his own version of the Enigma Code into the Apple device, he promptly ate the piece of paper that contained the sequence.

Up on the split screen appeared three men, two of which most people would recognise from television and the other as anonymous as an alcoholic deed poll clerk.

“Good Morning Mr Perkins!” said the figure on the left of the screen.

Dai’s commando training noticed that the background behind this man was very bland indeed.

Magnolia walls and no discernible trace details of the location.

The middle man had a mop of unkempt blonde hair and appeared a little of out his comfort zone.

He was sitting on a green leather bench reminiscent of those that MP’S sit on in the House of Commons in Parliament and immediately sticking out from underneath him was a thick document marked ‘Russian Report’.

The third individual had bulging eyes and looked like a human version of a frog.

Behind the human Freddo was a huge bookcase with an array of books thereon with Mein Kampf, Der Fatherland, Uncle Tom’s Cabin and the Al Jolson Story clearly visible.

“For the purpose of this interview, please refer to us from left to Far Right as Philby, Boris & McLean!” continued the Oxbridge voice.

“So, Mr Perkins…. if that is indeed your real name…the big question is why do you want to register as a spy with MI5?”

Dai Commando had wanted to be a spy his entire life.

Now in one 30-minute interview, he had to justify exactly why that was to people far less qualified than himself.

None of these three had ever waterboarded a prisoner- none of these three had killed a man with his bare hands -nor spent an Arabian night sleeping inside the rotting carcass of a dead camel.

“My name is not important, I just want the opportunity to continue the excitement of foreign travel and the kind of freedom of movement that has been curtailed following the EU withdrawal bill and not to have a 14 day quarantine period just like Pa Churchill…. I want the ‘buzz’ of the chase- but more importantly I want to be licensed to kill like the Russians over Litvinenko or any member of the Saudi Consulate in Istanbul!” said Dai.

Boris interrupted.

“I get aroused by foxhunting too but may I suggest the DWP rather than MI5 if you really want a licence to kill a much greater number?”

“Austerity can only last for so long, before the general public rumble you-I want the adrenaline rush of defending these shores from Foreign influence and carry a knife in London without being stopped and searched every ten minutes!” replied Dai.

“Are you prepared to place a limpet mine on the bottom of a refugee boat in the middle of the English Channel?” asked McLean.

“What again?” replied Dai.

“Do you want me to beat the ‘Living Daylights’ out of George Galloway too?”

“Sounds like my kind of man…your hired… let’s all meet down the Saracen’s Head for a pint then!” said McLean.

“Not so fast…I have a few questions before you begin Putin Britain First!” said Philby with a Freudian slip.

“Why are you dressed as a Babushka woman from the Motherland ?” he continued.

“I am incognito!” replied Dai.

“Great- he can speak French too, pub it is then!” said McLean licking his frog-spawn like lips.

“Whoa, hold your chevaux-what experience had you had in such stealth matters?” asked Philby of the Babushka.

“I served in the Special Boat Service, did two tours of duty in Iraq- I am pictured on the internet- in disguise of course- helping the locals pull down the statue of an evil man with a rope - !” replied Dai.

“In Baghdad?” asked Boris.

“Bristol!” replied Dai.

“I served in Afghanistan too- where I had my leg blown off by an IED-!” said Dai lifting his long hippy skirt to reveal a metal leg and curved Oscar Pistorius scimitar foot and a fine pair of bollocks too.

Dai Commando alright.

The reaction on Boris’s face was priceless, as he recoiled in horror.

“Don’t let this little thing put you off hiring me- this is like a Swiss Army blade and contains a bag of killing tools that Villanelle in Killing Eve would die for!” said Dai Commando.

“See this sonic screwdriver attachment…I once killed a man with it on the Jeffrey Epstein’s ‘Lolita Express’ private jet and then used this handy Dyson attachment to ‘hoover’ up his remains before dropping them Mid-Atlantic into the sea!” boasted Dai Commando looking like a QVC salesperson.

“How did you get on that plane?” Asked Boris....I heard it was reserved for Royalty and had a 14 year old waiting list?”

“The Old Boy Network of course!” replied Dai.

“It was full of shady characters that you expect to see as Bond Villains in Spectre…there was definitely more than an Oddjob or two going on by the cabin crew- ‘bobbing for diamonds’ – after all they do say diamonds ARE forever!”

“I really miss the other Old Boy Network!” sighed Boris.

“But now I have a new born one- year old gargantuan baby and a puppy to support- handy for the election photographs but hard work for Nanny Carrie ever since!”

“Times are hard, with half the Country unemployed after the Pandemic and Brexit fiascos, I can’t even afford to re-join the Bullingdon Club and burn £50.00 notes in front of the homeless anymore on my ‘chickenfeed salary’…I wonder sometimes if it REALLY was worth avoiding the EU Tax Directive after all…I blame David Cameron for his pig’s breakfast and the entire Eton Mess!”

All the while the real Head of MI5- known professionally as Malcolm X- sat silent.

He knew he could kick up a fuss like Rosa Parks on a Cleveland Avenue bus but just like the work in progress on the Civil Service- his secret organisation would be disbanded by the real hand that rocked his cradle- Countryman and Comrade Dominic Cummings.

“Cummings?....is that the Guy who writes for the S*N newspaper on page 5 every week or am I thinking of a different Fifth Columnist? ’

“Out of curiosity… was that Fat Cabbage guy on there?” interrupted Boris nervously.

“Fat Cabbage?” asked Dai Commando perplexed.

“You know.... the one that produced the Bondage Films?” continued Bo Jo.

“ I think he means Cubby Broccoli!” said Philby deciphering another Bletchley Park code instantly.

“I think so….I will check this little black book I copied on my mobile camera-phone lifted from the Maxwell House….let me see in the A-listers we have Allen (Woody), Andrew also filed under H and even more Woody…Bill Clinton, Bill Cosby, Blair…sorry I can’t see any Broccoli….although it appears that some of them did have their five a day and some as many as eight!” replied Dai Commando squinting at the allocated lists of Octopussy.

“Can you turn that phone to the screen?” asked McLean.

Commando Dai being in an interview wanted to give his intended new employers what they wanted to both hear and see.

“I wonder what the phrase had a B.J. stands for?” asked McLean innocently.

“What time does that Pub of yours close?” said Boris trying to change the subject.

“ It’s not in Leicester is it?”

“The Saracen’s Head you mean?” asked McLean thoughts turning automatically to being given head.

“Can we get back to the task in hand Gentleman?” ordered Philby politely.

“So what makes you think you are the best man for the job over Idris Elba?” asked the MI5 Chief.

“This IS a secure link is it Sir?” asked Dai Commando.

“100% British telephone company from Tyneside- the Huawai the Lads network of 5G!” boasted McLean.

“Only our friends at the CIA, Microsoft, Apple, Google and Siri have access to this network- so it is unlikely to be shared anywhere- please be assured- it is as safe as Jennifer Lawrence’s I-Cloud!” said Philby.

“Well I possess a Polonium 210 tipped Umbrella, some Novichok cakes and a phial of Covid 19 that our lab techs created at Porton Down research place to f*** up the Chinese economy!” said Dai Commando.

“I also do the Thunderball lottery religiously every week!”

“Sounds good to me!” said Kermit McLean thin green legs dangling on the stairs.

“Pub anyone?” he continued looking at his Swiss watch and both his British Blue and Red EU passports.

Boris nodded enthusiastically.

“Do I get a certificate marked Cobra meeting for the haters?” he continued.

“One final question- Mr Perkins if I may?” asked Boris.

“How would YOU stop Russian infiltration of the Security Services producing fake election results in the UK?”

“Asking for a friend of course!”

“Read Peter Wright’s banned Spycatcher book- don’t employ people on your staff people who have worked in Russia for three years, don’t except donations from oligarchs for party funds, don’t play tennis against anyone wearing a sickle n hammer tee-shirt instead of a Fred Perry one and make sure the only Computer Haka you allow into the civil service is a Rugby- playing one!”.

“That way just like Jennifer Arcuri you will stay top of the polls and won’t suffer a ‘Skyfall’ replied Dai.

“Employ me because I am not easily shaken or stirred!”

“After all my word is my Bond!”

In the pews

mouths open

to out spew

the hymns

known off by hearts

in heaving chests

the rote

the rota

the cheeks

redenned and

redeemed

corrugated teeth

framed by yellowed collars

and furtive eyes

on servant girls

and recent widows

this interior world is shadow

and that which inhabits

its shade

the weight of the Bible

its brass clasp keeping

the colour pictures

of faraway places tight

until the right moment

the envy

the avarice

so many reputations at stake

in Adam's grove

where Lucifer takes over

the sêt fawr

sitting side by side

with the faithful

as the Word is heard

but no longer received

(sêt fawr-great pew)

If someone says the word "unprecedented"

one more time I will not be held accountable

for what comes next

what about the Spanish Flu

the Black Death and other plagues

including the Bible ones?

did they not happen?

did they "unhappen"?
~

does no one read history books any more

and did no one look at what was happening

in China in these supposedly connected times?

what about those warnings from the World Health Organisation?

are we no longer a part of the world?

do we think that we exist in a bubble

and that nothing or no one will burst it?

what about our own scientific community?

what were they thinking or couldn't they agree?

and why is there always a "lag" 

in official data on weekends

can't they rota staff to give a 

24/7 pandemic

24/7 coverage 

in the information world

as figures received on Tuesdays sometimes jar?

where are we on those charts 

those peaks and troughs of our lives 

our deaths?

why don't we learn anything any more 

particularly now that we really

do have something to learn from?

it's almost as though our minds 

are erased as we sleep 

making everything appear unprecedented

as it's harder to have a viable past this way

I want my past even if I don't always like it

...

Robert Godber was the last Punk left in the South Wales Valleys.

It was nearly 43 years since the Sex Pistols had shocked the Rock N Roll Community with their slogans of Never Mind the Bollocks and God save the Queen.

How times had changed.

So had the slogans too.

Never Mind the Botox and God shave the Queen was more relevant to 2020.

However, strangely enough he was still Public Enemy No 1 in the little valley Town of Merthyr Tydfil, as despite the health warnings of Covid-19, the dirty bastard still insisted on spitting on the pavement everywhere he went.

All the colours of the rainbow- but mainly shades of yellow and green paint you could only find on a B & Q paint chart.

In fact, the streets around where Rob squatted on Brecon Road were so full of spittle, most visitors thought that Merthyr had seen an influx of Premiership Footballers.

At 56 years, Rob the Gob, as he was known locally, had become quite an accomplished shot with his mouth.

He put it down to a misspent youth and his upbringing in the 1970’s as a latchkey kid, developing his oral skills, by using his pea shooter and box of hard- boiled Leo peas to take out the bulbs on the top of the wooden lampposts.

His Norwegian music teacher in school, Mr Per Cushion, had noticed that Rob had both strong lungs and a powerful trachea and therefore had him marked his strong voice out in his class as a potential trumpeter, nicknaming him the ‘new Sachmo’.

Rob thought to himself ‘What a wonderful World he lived in’ back in his halcyon schooldays, when all he had to worry about was avoiding his drunken Father’s fists and how much ‘bingo’ money he could steal from his Mother’s coat pockets before she noticed.

Now being a rebel all his life, hadn’t helped him one iota.

He had no job, he lived in a squat house that was overdue demolition, with no means of heating or lighting or mains sanitation and worse still, his advanced hair-loss had meant his green and blue Mohican/Stegosaurus had gone the way of the dinosaurs too.

His foray into the World of Punk Rock, busking outside train and bus stations under the band name of ‘Dogs die in Hot Cars’ had ended prematurely, after his backing vocalist, Flob the Dog, had been bitten by karma and died in his former mate’s hot car.

Rob the Gob didn’t care for anyone anymore- human or animal, especially after another traumatic event in his sad existence.

He was nearly 30, when his 16 year old running mate, Rusty Pinn, had died at the Reading Festival in 1992 at the Carling ‘Monsters of Rock’ Festival, whilst watching Nirvana- drowning in the Mosh Pit in a sea of what smelled like Teen Spirit and he had a held a ‘grunge’ against the World ever since.

He was the only person to cheer at the TV, when he heard that Kurt Cobain had blown his own head off with a shotgun.

There wasn’t much Love lost.

Rob the Gob didn’t have many material possessions but he was quite a follower of fashion with his proudest possession being a pair of Vivienne Westwood trousers from the Punk era with 40 different zip fasteners sown into them.

Which was great when you are 17 years of age but not so good when have a dodgy prostate at 56 with a failing memory too.

To add to Rob’s woes, he had also had an unfortunate accident whilst off his head glue-sniffing in Aberfan Cemetery.

Whilst listening to the Punk Band ‘The Skids’, he had pogoed himself into an uncharted mine entry inadvertently going ‘into the Valley’ in a totally different way.

His dyslexic sniffing mate, Alf Abett, would have saved him but unfortunately, he was arrested for importuning after he was caught ‘sniffing aerosols’.

When the rescuers found him three days later, he had to have an emergency operation to remove three days build-up of mucus, which equated and weighed three Pounds in weight from his throat.

He was given an emergency tracheostomy and had a tube inserted into his windpipe.

He was only capable of communicating with hand gestures or by placing a kazoo next to his larynx, making him sound like an effeminate Darth Vader.

Strangely enough, it didn’t stop him spitting.

Perhaps it was because of his past addiction to Camel cigarettes, but he could still produce more Phlegmish works of kerbside art than Belgian painter Peter Paul Rubens.

But when life gives you lemons, I suppose you have to do something with them.

And in this life, when one door closes a new airway opens.

Rob’s tracheostomy was to hand him an unexpected lifeline.

After the local pub, the Catholic Arms had reopened its’ doors to a limited number of visitors due to the new social distancing provisions, by accident Rob had discovered a strange new talent.

Whilst sitting in the snug, a fellow drinker, Ystradgynlais’ own Rory Railtrack had complained to the barman about the smell of Rob’s breath and the barman decided to take matters into his own hands by placing a Glade Plugin Air Freshener in Rob’s throat-hole.

It worked for a short time, but Rob suddenly realised this was an infringement of his human rights.

In anger, he thrust down his diaphragm internally with mind control and pumped his lungs with all his might.

Aiming for the sweet-spot between the ‘Neath’anderthal’s complainant’s eyes- just below his unibrow- Rob let fly.

The Glade Plug-in shot out and smacked the caveman right between the eyes and just like the Biblical confrontation between David & Goliath, the giant man of orange apparel dropped like a stone to the floor.

This brought out a loud cheer from the rest of the room, as the dazed railway worker was led from the bar in the direction of the casualty department of the Queen Camilla Hospital.

Rob had never been so popular.

He had rid them of the pub version of Simpsons’ bully Nelson Muntz.

Pints were passed to the Down and Out in Brecon Road Hills and whilst he may have had the dishevelled look about him of Nick Nolte- he no longer felt like a Poor Man but a Rich Man too.

He was even more surprised to be offered a game of darts by one of the regular more sporting patrons, Len ‘The Bull’ Taurus.

Rob felt honoured but his attempts at hitting the board failed miserably despite being given a 200 point head-start by his fellow ‘dartiste’.

He bounced more times off the tyre than Brazilian racing driver Ayrton Senna.

And then Rob had an Epiphany.

By placing the flight in the hole in his throat, he then followed the same diaphragm and throat manoeuvre that he had with the Railway Bully and all of a sudden, he was hitting treble twenty with each ‘throw’.

Len the Bull was astonished.

“Hit double top!” came the request.

Rob concentrated and the repeated the procedure.

The dart struck it’s intended target.

Again and again repeated requests from the bar to hit a certain spot were met by Rob.

He was now more accurate than a US Drone strike over Iran.

The Pub Landlord, Alan Murray, was shocked to see that Rob could hit more doubles than even he could and he was suffering from ‘Publican’s disease’.

However, the entrepreneur realised this was the chance he had been waiting for.

Kismet had ‘thrown’ this golden opportunity his way and he was determined to seize his chance.

He had read in the Industry Newspaper that local businesses were being given a kickstart by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and despite the scientist promised second wave of Coronavirus not occurring, people had changed their habits and were no longer using pubs, inns and taverns with the frequency that they once were.

His Commercial Landlord based in the Tax Exile Cayman Islands, had come up with a series of promotions to encourage more punters to return in numbers by arranging for celebrities to visit their establishments.

But at the same time expected full rent for the three -month period the pub was unable to open.

Who could possibly resist missing a Karaoke Night with Jedward or a Mixed Martial Arts wrestle with Conor McGregor (before the real action happened at closing time) or visiting a newly refurbished Punch Tavern hosting Tyson Fury.

But the one that stood out to him was an evening of ‘Red Arrows’ with Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor, the Stoke-on Trent born, 16- time World Champion.

He was aware that the Olympic athlete was currently touring the UK and was prepared to take on all and sundry with a prize of £250,000.00 to any amateur pubgoer that could beat him over 3 legs.

Alan Murray pulled up the full rules on his mobile phone and began to read them.

If only he had taken this much time and scrutinized his pub tenancy agreement in the same way he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

His Tenancy Agreement with no Coronavirus provision meant he was still liable for full rent during the pandemic, and worse still he was obliged to buy his beer from the tied brewery at inflated prices, despite not having anyone to sell it to for over four months.

He now had more barrels than the Great White Shark in Jaws.

He scanned the rules in depth:

No Professional Players.

No discrimination- Male or Female players or combinations of both were eligible to enter the Contest.

B.A.M.E players to be given a discount off the entry fee.

DISABLED PLAYERS TO BE ENCOURAGED TO TAKE PART.

No re-throws allowed.

Only one entry per person allowed.

Referee’s decision to be final in all circumstances.

Free Goldfish to be given to all participants.

One phrase that jumped out at him was that of encouraging the disabled to take part.

Surely, Rob the Gob would fall into that category?

So what that he would have to spend thousands widening the doors, put in ramps and an mechanical lift near the dart board in the main bar- but IF an agreement could be reached with Rob and THEY won that prize then it would be the solution to their problems and they could BOTH breathe easier.

Not only that there would be a book in it and the spin-off film rights too.

Go ahead Punk and make my day!

Alan Murray the Pub Landlord was on his own self-induced Flight of Fantasy.

He decided the best course of action was to run an internal darts contest to test Rob’s new found ability.

The Evening of the Warm-up started well and despite a mere sixteen entrants turning up Rob had won the contest hands down.

So much hands down in fact, it was almost like the first ever live darts and ventriloquist act ever performed.

Come the final against Len the Bull, he was so confident of hitting his intended target that he had shouted the phrase ‘a gottle of gear’, as the dart made its way towards double top.

As Rob was crowned Catholic Arms Pub Champion much drunken celebration took place, with celebratory Covid-19 hugs all round.

Alan was now happy to submit the application form for entry online and provide a £500.00 bond.

The Bond was too ensure that the former World Champion would not turn up to an empty pub with few punters present to the embarrassment of Phil Taylor.

They didn’t want a Power Shortage or a Blackout like had previously happened at a Jim Davidson gig.

Due to the size of the bar, only 100 people were allowed as this was the maximum capacity for Health & Safety purposes.

In recent years, this had never been a problem but Alan had to take precautions and had charged £10.00 per punter entry fee to come in.

Rob was allowed one free ticket and had chosen to invite his fellow homeless friend, Pierce Head to the gathering.

He wanted Pierce to bear witness to his big payday by beating the Power in his own back yard.

Rob also had a grudge against the local electricity company, who had discovered his abstraction of electricity and shut the Power off at his squat.

His mate, Pierce Head, had already hit the jackpot by being temporarily rehoused in the 3star Castle Hotel for the period of the pandemic.

Very soon, he was being turfed out onto the street by Central Government immediately once the subsidy stopped.

In the meantime, Pierce was making merry lying on the floor in a pool of his own alcoholic vomit and piss.

Rob was getting nervous as the Competition was due to start at 7pm and it was nearly 6.15pm, as he stood outside the hotel trying to waken his friend who was busy doing an impression of the late Keith Moon of WHO fame.

Rob called up from Glebeland Street below for Pierce to hurry up.

He eventually came to the first- floor window, grey faced looking like all the blood in his body had been replaced by alcohol- which in truth it had.

“I am locked in – my religious parents are trying an intervention!” shouted back the living flagon.

“I have an idea!” shouted back Rob.

“Do you remember the Children’s story Rapunzel?”

The other grim brother from above replied “Yes!”

“Step away from the window now!” ordered Rob.

As Pierce did so, he sucked in his diaphragm and hocked a twelve- foot green ‘loogie’ skyward towards the hotel room window just like Marvel character Spiderman firing a web.

“Rapunzel, let down your hair!” shouted the drunken Pierce, as he slid down the impromptu builder’s chute funnel to safety below.

The pair raced their way to the Catholic Arms.

They made it with two minutes to spare.

Pierce was let in first but Rob was held back as Phil Taylor made his entrance from the lounge with dry ice to the song ‘I have the Power’ by Snap.

He looked the business in his flashy satin shirt with ‘The Power’ emblazoned on his back.

Rob hadn’t even chosen a song.

All he could think of was a Marc Bolan and T-Rex hit.

He asked the Landlord if he had ‘’I hock a loogie…jitterbug bogies- on the jukebox- which fortunately he did.

His Sports Direct tee-shirt had Rob ‘the Cuckoo’ Godber written in permanent black marker pen on the back.

As the pub crowd cheered their local hero, the pair went to warm up at the oche.

Rob was under orders from Landlord Alan not to show too much in the warm up, and threw the darts conventionally at the board with his right hand, scoring a composite total of 26 with his first three darts.

Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor rocked up with Shanghai just for openers- single twenty, triple twenty and double top.

The watching crowd went wild.

Rob started to get nervous.

He had never played darts in front of so many expectant people before, nor in a pressure tournament.

The sweat began to roll down from his forehead onto the rusty safety pins that he had inserted many years ago into his face.

He looked like the Mothercare version of Hellraiser.

The decision would go first would be decided by one dart closest to the centre of the dartboard bull.

Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor rocked up and hit the bull with ease.

Rob placed the dart in his neck aperture and fired.

It split the flight of the 14- time World Champion knocking it out of the board before striking the exact centre of the dartboard.

Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor looked at veteran Darts referee Tony Green who was equally stunned.

Neither of the pair had witnessed anything like it in their 40-year professional careers.

After a quick check of the PDA rulebook, Green allowed Rob to ‘throw up’ first.

As he inserted the flights into his neck, the gathered crowd could clearly see the name of the sponsors on display.

Strongbow.

Rob fired off his first three darts scoring a treble sixty with each one.

Tony Green announced over his microphone the now familiar ‘180’ to raise the excitement in the packed bar area.

People leaned on their friends, peered under armpits with some stood on tables and standing on the bar area.

All the while, Alan continued pouring pint after pint.

Irrespective of the outcome, he would at least achieve some great beer sales if nothing else.

Phil went up and replied with his first three arrows which brought the house down as another ‘180’ boomed around the room.

Rob then repeated the action.

360 points from 3 darts.

Anything Rob did- so did the Power.

A perfect twelve dart match so far.

Both players were three darts away from a nine- dart finish- the ‘heavyweight’ equivalent of a 147- maximum break at snooker.

Rob wasn’t very good at mathematics but fortunately Barman Alan was good at both doubles and trebles.

He also had to do a bit of ‘creative accountancy’ by using his awful handwriting to blur the figures over the years just to stay afloat, so he wrote the sequence required on the chalk board next to the bar for Rob.

Treble 20, Treble 19 and double 12.

Rob was never very good at following orders being an ‘anarchist and a trainee Anti-Christ’, but follow them he did, as he promptly completed an amazing 141 out sequence.

He turned around to the acclaim of the audience, arms raised aloft so proud at his achievement.

Holding a pint of Strongbow- supplied by his sponsors, he poured the golden liquid into a plastic funnel and let that slide down his tracheostomy.

Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor applauded the actions and skill of his opponent sportingly.

He knew he was in for a real challenge this time and would have to raise his game.

He did so by producing his own 9 darter to level the match at 1-1.

He did the 501 in a different sequence.

Treble 20 x 7, Treble 15 and Double 18 outshot.

The crowd gathered knew they were witnessing something special really special, especially as both players had started the final game with two rounds of treble twenties each.

Both players were on 141 out-shots, but crucially Rob the Gob had first chance.

As long as he held his nerve, he would beat the 14 times World Darts Champion at his own game.

But pressure does strange things to a man and more so to 56 -year old punks with a history of glue-sniffing.

And to Sports Direct Tee-Shirts too in a jungle environment.

The Cuckoo became the Suckoo.

Rob looked up at Pub Landlord Alan Murray, who was willing him on with ever sinew of his body.

The crowd too wanted to see the underdog turn the tables and finally win one for the underclass.

Rob was now sweating more than Liberal MP Cyril Smith in a Rochdale children’s play park.

He had developed a continuous cough and a really high temperature (103) and his throat felt like it was closing in on him.

Was it the pressure of the big occasion or the onset of Covid-19?

His body was all of a ‘quiver’ which normally was handy for someone dealing with arrows.

He looked across at the chalk board by the bar and saw the sequence written down for him.

Treble 20, Treble 19 and Double 12.

The Landlord gave him a cheery second wave.

Three darts in the correct places on the board and he would never have to work again- not that he had ever started in the first place.

He could hear the Mark Knopfler theme tune to the 1983 film ‘Local Hero’ playing in his head.

He knew his opponent was in Dire Straits.

First Dart from the Puff Daddy hit its target.

81 left.

Treble 19 next.

Rob the Gob set his ‘sights’ on the tiny patch of green separated by two thin metal wires.

Flob- and the missile sailed towards its destination.

He got it.

Only the double left.

He glanced at the chalkboard.

He sent the dart on it’s way and it hit the double.

Rob jumped in the air -the finest pogo he had performed since that Siouxsie & the Banshees concert in 1981.

“Bust!” shouted Tony Green, as he brought the Punk back down to Earth quicker than the NASA Space Shuttle Challenger.

“But I hit the double 13!” protested Rob.

He glanced up at the Landlord who had his head in his hands.

His shaky chalkboard writing looked from a distance just like double 12.

“Unlucky thirteen!” laughed Taylor, as he replaced the gutted Rob at the oche.

“Yet another ‘Choker’....141 eh…I can do that blindfolded!” boasted the Professional.

Pulling up his Coronavirus mask over his eyes, he proceeded to do just that.

Treble 20, Treble 15 and Double 18 out.

“Well normally Rob I would shake your hand but….!” Said the Power.

“Time for a ‘Merthyr Blackout’!” said the Punk.

Rob could take no more -his flights of fantasy was over in true Valleys way, he just lifted his fisted hand to land an uppercut on the fifth chin of his opponent.

Anarchy in the UK soon followed.