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Little Eris releases Wreck n Rollin through Original Human Records on 1st May 2014 .

Set against the backdrop of austerity in the UK, South Wales unique multimedia artist Little Eris hits back with Wreck n Rollin, an unstoppably rocking power pop anthem thats heart beats with a social conscience.

A punk gymnast of a song Adam Walton, BBC Radio Wales

Wreck n Rollin was produced with Charlie Hoskyns and mastered by Topfloor Studios in London. Its the second official Little Eris(aka Bronwen Davies, former vocalist and bass player with Freaky Fortnight) release through Original Human records, its the follow up to her 2012 wondrous synth pop debut So Many Nights. Wreck n Rollin will be available on 1st May 2014 through all the main digital distributors. Pre-orders will be available through itunes from

Wreck n Rollin is accompanied by a 2 minute 20 second action packed mini B-movie complete with Men in Black, flying saucers and stars like TV actress / model Holly Rivers and Anthony Burns actor/model and Big Brother 13 Wildcard. The video was directed and edited by Alistair Parkhurst, head of Cardiff Independent Film Festival. Filmed on location in Cwmaman, near Aberdare and at the Wells Hotel in Cardiff in the studio of the late Kim Fielding of Tactile Bosch. The Boss scene was filmed in the home office of Welsh broadcaster Nia Medi.

Little Eris has been on the scene since 2008 she previously released a 13 track debut album Molecules R Us comprising a collection of demos available as a free download in the spirit of providing music for the masses and to circumvent the credit crunch, which was also released as limited edition CDs featuring personalised DIY artwork. She has shared the stage with Viv Albertine of the Slits, and toured the UK with The Great Wreck and Roll Cirkus alongside festival veterans Here & Now and Eat Static.

Little Eris next live dates are

17th May at the Lady Rave, The Moon Club, Cardiff

27th May at How the Light Gets In, Hay on Wye

The sound of a helicopter buzzed overhead as the terrified Welshman cowered in his impromptu sand dune bunker.The soldier dressed in green khaki combat gear stood out like a pork pie in a Jewish buffet against the yellow sanded backdrop of Helmond region in Afghanistan. The war on terror wasn't working as far as Harry R. S. Crack was concerned.

The sound of explosions all around him sent him deeper down the steep sides of the bunker as he began to suck his thumb for comfort. He suddenly realised that he was not alone, as a ginger haired soldier dressed in a German Africa Korps uniform complete with Nazi swastika and black armed band dropped into his hidey hole.

"First Crusade Old Boy?" questioned the stranger. "My family has been at it since the Middle Ages! You get used to those dumb-shit Americans. I ran too...they cant read a map reference to save their lives, or ours come to think of it......it's only friendly fire, it wont harm you!" said the soldier trying to reassure the nervous Harry."

"Tell that to journalist Terry Lloyd!" replied Harry from his foetal position.

"Whats your name soldier?" said the Erwin Rommel lookalike.

"Harry Sir!" said the scared squaddie staring at the pips on the black tunic.

"What a spiffing coincidence, so am I ....although most of the boys call me Captain Wales!" said the stranger.

"What regiment are you with?" asked the Sandhurst-trained officer, as shrapnel flew over their heads.

"I am not in any regiment. I'm from the TA's. I signed up in a drunken stupor in my local pub on Friday Night, the Tredegar Arms in Dowlais, do you know it ?.... and got press ganged into coming here by accident. They shaved my beautiful hair off while I was drunk and that bloody military policeman from Brecon mistook me for someone else from Merthyr who was AWOL and shipped me out here under protest!" said Harry.

"Oiks.. so you could say you went from the TAS to the TAS and from Jarhead to Jarhead!" said the Captain.

"Rough deal, its like being born WITHOUT a silver spoon in your mouth!" he continued.

Shells exploded all around them as a Yank induced Sirocco wind blew about the pair.

"If it helps I was like you the first time. This desert and these sand dunes, its enough to drive ONE Barchan mad, still do you know what is under this sand and the REAL reason why us Brits care about this Allah-forsaken Hell-Hole?" said Captain Wales.

"Like Iraq and Kuwait its got oil reserves and rich mineral deposits....war on terror my royal arse...I want to grab a piece of this for Granny!" said the military man.

"Take a tip from me too and collect as much of this shrapnel as you can find ....the price of metal back home,  like this casing shell, has gone through the roof....... slip a couple of quid to the RAF pilots and it'll be home in Brize Norton before you know it!"

The shelling stopped for a brief moment and silence returned.

"Never worry about those Taliban weapons, we sold them too them years ago. They're rubbish! Even the Thatchers sell better quality ones than those old bangers!" continued the Captain.

"Me..I prefer Eton Rifles, like this one when you are in a Jam!" said Wales producing an enormous sniper rifle with a telescopic lens from his lederhosen shorts.

"Dear me,..now that is an enormous weapon!" said Harry unfurling himself from his hedgehog ball.

"This was what I was concealing in that photograph of me in Las Vegas playing strip billiards. Being a Royal isn't just about rest and play. Britannia still rules the waves with a little bit of help from across the pond against these terrorists. President OBomber, I mean..at least I can understand him because I thought the former President Dubya Bush with his Texas drawl had declared war on tourism and the causes of tourism to boot!" continued Captain Wales.

"But isn't one mans terrorist just another mans freedom fighter?" asked Harry nervously.

"Do you want me to shove this telescope sight up your arse and send your balls into orbit around Pakistan?" asked the Captain menacingly.

"Sorry, it's not that I am a traitor to the crown. I just think that young men dying and being disabled for a couple of sand dunes isnt right!" replied Harry.

Captain Wales ignored this last comment as his focus was on the horizon. Laying down the gun stand on the ridge of the sand bunker he closed one eye, held his breath and squeezed gently on the trigger. In the far distance about 1.5 miles away a black shadow dropped to the floor.

"YEEESSS!" said the new Prince of Persia clutching his hand into a fist in an aggressive way. Handing Harry a set of binoculars he pointed silently ahead.

"Why are those women walking in front of that group of men. I thought in the Muslim culture women were classed as second rate citizens and had to walk five paces behind men!" said Harry ignorantly.

"That was BEFORE landmines!" said the Royal. This McMillan TAC 101 sniper rifle can blow the nuts of a fly on a camels back at 1.5 miles away....in the dark too!" boasted the Captain.

Taking off his military hat the young Captain scratched his ginger hair and reached into his pocket. He began gnawing away nervously at his fingers.

"Well, I am surprised with blue blood running through your veins. I thought you would have better etiquette than to bite your fingernails!" said Harry returning to his cheeky self now the bombing had stopped.

"Oh these aren't MY Fingernails! said the Royal. Want one?" he said tossing a dismembered digit towards the horrified Harry. "SAS training in Hereford....eat what you can when you can. PPPPiss Poor Performance and all that....nose to the grindstone...fingers to the bone! My Mum was Queen of Hearts and all that but I prefer something lighter!" said the Captain. "The vultures will only strip them clean anyway. Lets look in here to see whats for desert!" said the Windsorite Bear Grylls looking in his tucker bag.

"Scorpion leg?" he offered politely.

"I cant eat the pickled eggs behind the bar in the Tredegar Arms so what chance have I got of surviving out here!" said Harry returning to reality.

"Hubbly Bubbly?" offered the other Harry, cannabis stick in hand. Some great shit out here mind you. You want to try the Kandahar Poppy! Blow your mind it will, better than any IED !" said the Royal. "As my relatives would confirm. Its a Knockout! We better get a move on Tiger Woods mate.....you don't want to be caught in the same bunker for long." he said brushing the sand with his hat.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Harry.

"Covering my tracks mate. Out here there is a fatwa on me crown. That Zabihullah Mujahid put a price on my head. He's the only one that still thinks my real father is Prince Charles. Little does he know.!" he said pointing at his normal size ears.

"Gotta hide the prints of Wales!" he said brushing the area free of signs he was there.

Do you think it was wise to have HRH cut into the soles of those shoes then? asked Harry the commoner.

"Those aren't MY prints...look at YOUR soles mate!" laughed Captain Wales. "We are all Spartacus out here private. Except me of course! Never heard of Montys Batman?" he laughed.

"What me?...take a bullet for you?" asked Harry. "Im Welsh!" said Harry. "You only have to see a Wales V England Rugby match match to see how much we hate the English!" he continued.

"Common mistake.....but I'm not English......nobody truly is. We are a mongrel nation. We Windsors are German and can trace our bloodline back to William the Conqueror... French. Grandpapa is Greek and Prince of Denmark too and that doesn't even include the Hewitt strain.!" said Harry's new found pedigree chum. "Besides I have been to the odd rugger game. Quite good at it actually. We had a game once back at Kabul HQ.... wrapped a head of an Afghan Hound in a cloth and no-one could get the rag-head orf me!" boasted Captain Wales. "I booted it so high over the base that I nearly got put on report for taking down an Apache helicopter!" he continued.

"So how long does your average squaddie tour of duty last?" asked Harry.

"About 1001 Arabian Nights or three months if your lucky. I'm popping back to Blighty for a game of polo or something, perhaps you might want to crash at my place but don't expect a palace!" said Wales.

The sky suddenly darkened mysteriously. The Captain went back in to survival mode instinctively. As Harry looked to the horizon, he could see strange shapes of Afghan men and mercenaries from the neighbouring countries approaching cross-legged on beautifully coloured flying rugs.

"How bazaar!" said Harry. "Watch out those crazy insurgents....they are CARPET Bombing again...we need to find some cover!" said his Highness.

As they did so an Afghan policeman appeared at the edge of the wadi wearing a massive clock-face. Captain Wales wasted no time in shooting him dead.

"How did you know he was one of them?" asked Harry.

"Never ask a policeman out here the time besides he was ticking!" said His Royal Harry-ness.

The Captain suddenly lifted his head as on the hot night air in the distance could be heard a faint bell ringing.

"Whats that ?" asked Harry.

"It if rings twice it means that a new camel train has arrived and you don't want to get stuck with an ugly one do you?" said the Captain.

"I thought you had a girlfriend!" asked Harry.

"Chelsy has been relegated to the subs bench out here besides the bell rang five times!" said the Prince.

"What does that signify?" asked Harry.

"The only toilet in Camp Bastion is free and whilst I am third in line for the throne of England you need to get there before 20,000.00 squaddies on a diet of curry and beans!"

“ Blue Hawaii Sir?”

The voice was that of the bar-man at the Grand Pavilion in Porthcawl Holiday Village.

“ Aloha?...” said the undercover policeman Wolf Blass tapping his head which had become tit-shaped from years of wearing that helmet.

“Am I wearing a grass skirt…a lei garland.. do I look like a Hawaiian?” he said grumpily.

“ Hawaii 5-0…you’re plods…spotted you a mile off!” said Rocker Billy leaning on his beer pumps nonchalantly.

“ How come?” asked Wolf Blass dejectedly.

“ This is Elvis weekend…every September we hold a convention of tribute acts all connected with Elvis Presley….we have fat Elvis’….thin Elvis’….Chinese Elvis’ , Spanish Juans and even one from North Wales….Elvis Preseli…. Everyone here knows you are ‘dibble’..you both stand out like pregnant nuns in a convent!” said Billy.

“ Book him ‘Danno’ ….!” said PC Isaac Haynes.

“ Whatever, I am supposed to have done….I never did it !” said Billy.

“ You must have done something ….remember we have ‘suspicious minds!’ replied Wolf.

“ I am gutted …to refuse a drink but we ARE on duty.. where’s the John Doe?” moaned Mother Superior Haynes.

“ John Doe?” asked Billy confused.

“ The corpse….the stiff …the body….isn’t it just the Police who have names you know?” questioned Haynes.

“ Oh….in the police station ….sorry shithouse out the back where they found him…blood all over his blue suede shoes too!” replied Billy pointing in the direction of the gents toilets.

“ Just follow your nose!” he continued.

The two detectives followed the smell of the dead body which had been concealed largely by the smell from the toilets.

“ Who found him?” asked Haynes.

“ Me …!” said a voice clearly shaken by the discovery.

“ What’s your name son ?” continued the policeman.

“ For this week people call me Elvis Aaron Presley!” said the man in full Teddy Boy regalia.

“ Uhhuhu!” said Wolf Blass suspiciously.

“ But for the rest of the year my name is Christopher ’Kellogs’ Murphy …I’m from Merthyr Tydfil see!” said the discoveree.

“ It was such a shock finding the ‘King’ like that…sat on the throne burger in his mouth …trousers around his ankles….didn’t even have time to finish his paperwork!” Kellogs continued.

“ It must have been a shock…because you rang the Merthyr Police by mistake….why didn’t you ring Bridgend Police….Porthcawl is THEIR jurisdiction!” said Wolfie still a little disgruntled he was called in to do some-one else’s dirty ‘laundry’.

“ Well….the King there…” he said nodding in reverence at the corpse still sat on the toilet head bowed on the ‘Hollywood Bowl’ trousers and pants around his ankles….

“I assumed he must be from Merthyr!” said Kellogs.

“ How come?” questioned Wolfie.

“ A number of reasons….he is aged about 78… has sideburns…hair matted in rose oil and Vaseline….bloated up to about 19 stone…he must be from my obese-city in the Valleys…..oh and the giveaway was that the floor is covered in spilled barbiturates …!” said Kellogs.

“ Good call….you sound more like a detective than him!” said Haynsey flicking his thumb towards his doubles partner.

The look from Wolfie was enough..

“ Haynesy…you go and check on any possible witnesses who may have seen anything….while I check his pockets for id!” barked Wolfie.

Haynsey did as he was told and made his way to the Camp Office.

“ What the Hell is that?” said Wolfie looking down at the cardboard toilet roll covering the dead man’s manhood.

“ I covered him up – I felt that any one of the Memphis Mafia dressed like the King of Rock N Roll in that white star spangled banner cat suit at least deserved some dignity!” said Kellogs.

“ How did you know there was anything wrong in the first place?” asked Wolfie suspiciously.

“ I wouldn’t bother checking his pockets….there is no ID ….no wallet….no jewellery or watch…..I’ve checked first….I’m from Merthyr remember !” said Kellogs.

“ You haven’t answer my question!” said the hung-over detective.

“ Well I am renowned for spending a long time in the kharzi myself..because of my Irritable Bowel Syndrome condition….but after I had been in and finished the crossword and read the paper from cover to cover and smoked my pipe for a bit…it had been over an hour and I heard some ‘crying from the chapel’ next door….the guy must have been trying to lay some cable and died from the strain is my guess….apparently it is a common occurrence in hospitals…!” said Kellogs.

“ Anyway, I figured the guy was in trouble ….constipation can be a real killer…the closest thing a man can suffer akin to childbirth….!” he continued.

“ and some of those burgers you can get know….the triple whopper…they are walking heart attacks…..waiting to happen….!”

“ Well this ‘Burger ‘King’ is definitely dead…I will ring the Bridgend coroner now.!” said Wolfie feeling for any pulse whilst gagging on the stench from the trench.

“ You could say it is a case of ‘Return to Sender’!” said the officer fighting for oxygen.

As he rang on his mobile, he got put through to the Coroners Department of the boss man called Habeas Corpus.

He agreed to run some DNA tests to identify the dead man.

“ I think we have a lead Wolfie!” said the returning Haynesy.

“The site manager reckons his name is Eenis Tupelo and has been on this site in Trecco Bay since 1977….he reckons he has a caravan called Graceland out on Newton Point…..not far from where the old demolished pub ‘the Dirty Duck’ used to be!” said Haynesy.

No sooner than the body had been strapped into a large black body bag…and after Wolfie had paid South Wales Ambulance Service 5p for it….the paramedics wheeled the dead man away on a gurney, the pair of plods looked at each other knowingly.

“ What kind of name is Eenis Tupalo ….sounds like an alias to me…lets check out the caravan!” suggested Haynsey.

As the passed through the caravan site, the dynamic duo could see sand particles swirling around in September eddy’s as the sea breeze dominated the holiday camp and all manner of losers dressed as Elvis looking for companionship and a life.

“ Are you lonesome tonight?” sung Wolfie as he caught up with his partner as they headed towards the dead man’s caravan.

“ Don’t be cruel…!” sung back Haynsey -the singing detective –

“ While these people are here.. the rest of the people in the Valleys can sleep a lot safer !”

The wind whipped in off the sea and in the distance on Trecco Bay beach , the dynamic duo could witness dog walkers and children alike trying to avoid standing on upturned syringes buried in the sand by heroin addicts to catch the barefooted,

the bare pawed and the unwary.

As they reached ‘Graceland’ the caravan was encircled by a golden corona of sunlight as the sun started to go ‘ way down’ into the September late evening.

Wolf Blass put his hand on the metal door and immediately a bolt of blue in the form of a spark jumped from the metal door at the boy in blues -shocking the policeman into removing his hand very quickly.

“ Jesus…no wonder they call it a ‘static’ caravan!” he said as the life returned to his arm.

“He must have wired it up to the mains….if I was called ‘Eenis Tupelo’ I ‘d want to keep prying eyes away from my home too….!” said Haynsey.

“ Perhaps he is a part of one of our Witness Protection programmes?” asked the intrepid detective.

“ Give us your plastic credit card!” Haynsey demanded.

“ Isn’t that illegal….flicking the lock like that….. besides why are you using MY card?” Wolf questioned.

“ We’re the Police …nothing we ever do is illegal ….as far as your little ‘flexible friend’ is concerned I need it for ‘Access’ ….I’m not using mine in case it snaps!” replied Haynesy.

Wolfie glowered at his colleague but smiled as his partner managed to spring the lock and gain entry to the rusting sardine can of a caravan.

“ Jesus…it stinks…!” said Wolfie looking around at the contents.

A Glasgow Prestwick Aiport bumper sticker, bumper packs of colgate toothpaste, dozens of green bottles of Brut aftershave, Pepsi cans strewn everywhere.

Haynsey opened the fridge to find it stocked full of stale meatloaf, tomatoes and mashed potatoes.

There were several ‘black belts’ adorning the walls and a Special Agents badge marked friend of President Nixon ‘Federal Agent at Large’.

Haynsey opened the bedroom door and was shocked to see a huge waterbed in the tiny bedroom.

He proceeded to open the wardrobe door to make sure that there was no one hiding in there- as he had been caught out before that way by that Manchester lot.

He was shocked when a beagle dog flew out from behind the glittering stage costumes and started to worry his ankles.

The policeman went automatically onto protest march -mode and kicked out at the droopy eyed mutt .

As Wolf Blass heard the ongoing commotion, he considered vaguely about going to help his partner but decided instead to help himself to another piece of pink ‘jailhouse (stick-a) rock’ on the front room table.

“ It’s okay Wolfie…it ain’t nothing but a Hound Dog!” Haynsey continued choking the dog into unconsciousness with its diamond studded collar.

Wolfie stuck his head around the door , smiling and continued to lick his sticky fingers.

“ Guess what I have here !” said Wolfie bits of candy cane still stuck to his front teeth.

He produced a white note which was also stuck to his fingers.

“ It is a lifetime prescription for barbiturates….signed by one Dr Conrad Murray!” said Wolfie.

“ So you know who our John Doe ….Eenis Tupelo was!” said Haynsey.

“ I knew I’d make a detective of you one day!”

“ Yep….its Michael Jackson!” said Wolfie seriously.

Haynsey at that same moment got a text message sent to his phone.

“Eenis Doe or possibly Michael Doe here…the coroner has had his DNA and blood tests back….he has 30% Scots Irish blood 60% French Norman blood and 10% Cherokee Indian…!” announced Haynsey.

“So you don’t think it isn’t Michael Jackson …there was no mention of Afro-American…..do you think it is Lord Lucan?” asked Wolfie.

“ Or could be that Elvis the Pelvis had a twin brother?” asked Haynsey expecting the Poirot music to sound behind him.

“ Elvis the Pelvis …and Eenis the…huck of burning love from Porthcawl sounds about right?” thought Wolfie scratching his policeman’s helmet.

“ Funny what people leave behind…look a crossword puzzle ….with one clue left uncompleted….. anagram of Elvis…..five letters….L-V-S…L blank V blank S blank?” said Haynsey.

“ Loves?” guessed Wolfie.

A little blue light came on and Haynesy eyes opened wide .

“ A little less conversation and a little more action please!” said Haynsey.

“ We need to get back to the toilet as soon as possible !” said Haynes flagging down a two seater tandem bicycle cart.

“ Police business…it’s a matter of life and death…we need to commandeer your vehicle!” ordered the detective pushing the little ten year old kid out of the cart and pinching his 99 ice cream in the same movement.

As Wolfie joined him and argued over the flake he questioned his superior.

“ Why is it a matter of life and death…Eenis is already dead?” asked Wolfie.

“ It’s now or never …do you think we can run all that way without us joining him with our own heart attacks….besides I need to get there before the Scenes of Crime Officers finish!” said Haynesy.

“ If that John Doe is who I think it is …we need to get back before a vitally important piece of rock memorabilia gets flushed into Trecco Bay and we lose out on a million dollar finders fee!” said Haynes.

As they reached the toilet they were greeted by the face of PC Kenfig Hill , one of the Porthcawl Rival Constabulary.

“ Seconds too late boys….I’m afraid Elvis has already left the building!”

The father and son made their way through the underground car park of the Civic Centre in Merthyr Tydfil.

They were in luck.

They didn’t have to walk through the crowds of people that were stood in the forecourt outside the main entrance.

Pressing the lift call button repeatedly, little Thomas was happy.

At the age of seven , everything was a game….no money worries…it was like being on his own Civil List .

His father , Richard tried to fake a smile, he knew he was at the Civic Centre for more serious business.

He was there to see the Council Social Services department to see if they would call off the dogs and let him remain in his late mother’s house a little longer.

At 59 years of age and working for minimum wage, he was outside the criteria to prevent the sale of her estate assets to fund her social services care.

All levied on a house his mother and father had scrimped and saved during their work-shortened lifetime to buy…going without holidays and luxuries just to hold a small piece of the British ‘Empire’ for themselves.

An Englishman’s home is his castle…but in Monmouth Drive Merthyr Tydfil…the Welshman’s home in Castle Park was being slowly sucked away from him by a parasitic Government who had not budgeted for the working classes living beyond the biblical three score and ten and their usefulness to the ruling elite.

They could take his home- legally anyway…the Act of Parliament was given Royal Assent , but they couldn’t take his love for his only son Thomas he thought as he ruffled his fair hair.

Times were so hard, he had to cut their hair himself with a fruit bowl placed on their already rounded heads which caused his son to fight daily in the local Gellideg Infants Primary School Yard.

As they ascended, the clunk of lift mechanism , jarred him and his son, as the doors opened unexpectedly on the first floor.

An elderly woman and her husband were ushered in by a burly looking security guard.

Little Thomas looked at the woman clad in a headscarf and sunglasses, she looked somewhat familiar.

She looked like that woman who made his Christmas dinner go cold every year .

And if there was one thing he hated it was cold KFC.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a coin and checked it up against the profile of the stranger.

She didn’t have that jewel thing on her head but it still looked like her.

The lift clunked again and stopped with a thud.

The light went out for a split second before the emergency lighting kicked in.

At the same time to balance the Council’s tight budget the lights went out in the Queen Camilla Hospital Operating Theatre.

His father put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and told him ‘Not to worry’ it would start moving again soon.

The bodyguard was however having kittens talking wildly on his headset to someone in the building high above their heads.

The lift didn’t afford much room for four adults and a child and a tiny dog.

Thomas wasn’t worried.

He lived in blissful ignorance of the lift cable snapping or an electrical fire breaking out.

The risk increased somewhat as the noxious smell of a sulphur fart hit the nostrils of the little boy.

Normally, in such delicate social situations adults remain silent.

Little Thomas looked at the nervous security man….then the old wizened Greek Racist….then the old woman with the baggy trousers….and finally he sniffed lightly at the dogs rear.

He knew it wasn’t his father’s brand.

His father knew what was coming from his outspoken son.

Finally, the little seven year old broke convention and asked loudly.

Come on… who Shit?”

The regal strangers held their heads in the air, just above the green haze, whereas poor Thomas was trapped in the bad air pocket…like a miner in former Taff Merthyr Colliery after his mate had tuna sandwiches for lunch.

He didn’t give up.

Turning to Chris Ryan, the security man he tugged his sleeve and opened his coat in doing so…”it was you wasn’t it!”.

The one that got away!” he said refusing to give up as his nose had been wronged.

It wasn’t me…it was that Pembrokeshire Dog!” he said ….”Okay!” he barked.

Then you need a Corgi registered installer to sort out his gas emissions!” said the kid not believing Ryan ‘s tale.

As a result, Thomas got his first sight of a loaded gun up close and personal.

Cor Mister….can I have a go of that ?” he pleaded as the barrel was pressed into his nostrils.

The security man ignored the child…..

You are lucky it is only American troops that shoot civilian kids!” he said a little disappointed.

Although if you give me the Royal Assent Ma’am!”

How much longer are we to be kept here?” she replied cricking her fingers as if ready to snap a pheasant neck.

Speaking into his headset, he replied ….” Not long now…. Your Highness…the Council have confirmed it is a fault with the lift mechanism….they are speaking to the lift manufacturers Otis in Reading as we speak!” reported the ex SAS man.

Otis…. Reading!” interrupted the Duke.

I’ve heard of him….isn’t he one of those tar baby types that used to pick our cotton?” he said leaning forward past the corgi’s arse which was also in Little Thomas line of fire.

The Helen Mirren look-a-like just frowned at her husband and stood impatiently.

They do realise that I am over 80 years old now and trapped in a cold metal lift….at my time of life you can’t go too far from the throne!” she said fidgeting.

Look Missus…if you gotta piss….you gotta piss !” said the kid.

I’ve done it in here before and I know he did too!” he said pointing at his red-faced father.

He claimed it was payback for them trying to take my grannies house off him….if you go ill ….will they take that Buckingham Palace Place off you?” asked the child innocently.

For the first time the Queen looked down on her two subjects.

They were ugly, dirty, stank of old chip fat had warts on their faces and roundheads with haircuts from an old pudding bowl.

She noticed that the father, the one with the older warts was holding a Notice to Quit from her own Court .

I hope you lot haven’t got rickets, cholera or TB!” she said glaring at Ryan for getting her in this predicament.

These peasants are revolting!” said the Duke holding a silk handkerchief with perfume on his noses.

So what is the point of having a Royal Family in the 21^st Century…when we can’t afford to fund the working man?” asked the young Republican.

What is exactly do you lot do for your money….his family home and arrears of Council Tax paid for the last Royal Wedding?”

Tourism…!” replied the Duke.

That old chestnut…do many tourists come and see all of the other people on the Civil List too….what about tax….do you pay any?” asked the child of Chartism.

Of course, We…that’s the Royal We mind you pay lots of tax!” defended the Duke.

Might one enquire as to whom?” said Thomas sticking a finger up his own arse and talking poshly.

Revenue & Customs!” said the Duke .

Who’s exactly?” continued the baby Blairite condescendingly.

Her Majesty’s!” came the reply.

Exactly and we know where that is spent….not in Merthyr as you can see by our lift services!”

The captives were interrupted by the sound of the doors above being forced open.

The gap unfortunately was only one foot wide…only the corgi could get out.

Hurry up will you…she’s busting for a piss!” said Thomas eloquently.

If her waters go …I’ll be drowned first in the Royal Wee !” he said.

Remember, Britannia rules the waves…..not me!” he shrieked.

In the gap above, a selection of the Council members could be seen peering at them from a height above the lift.

At one time to be higher than the Monarch …I could have had them all killed!” said the Queen.

Like Diana…you mean!” alleged the straight talking kid.

Both the Duke and the Queen turned their heads of state, the child was below 10 and therefore below the age of criminal responsibility.

It was then the QE2 started to leak angrily.

I know it is your ‘Golden Jubilee’ but I don’t want a Golden Shower!” said Thomas.

Dad …get your camera-phone out….take a picture of the Queen in mid-flow…we’ll make a fortune….Hello Magazine here it comes….the other ‘celebrities’ take the piss…why shouldn’t wee…..we can save the house!” he declared triumphantly.

In a second the French made -camera flashed and all were blinded by the radiance of Louis 14^th the Sun King- .

I can’t allow that to happen!” said Ryan.

Why not !” protested the child….” It is not illegal!”

Taking a shot at the Queen is….now I’ve been Civil….give us the camera-phone!” ordered the soldier.

1789…Liberty, Equality, Fraternity….all them lot are my witnesses…democracy rules in Merthyr!” said Thomas pointing up.

Besides …dad has already uploaded it to my face-book account and only I know the password!” said the youngster.

What’s your surname kid….said the Duke….the British Government doesn’t negotiate with blackmailers.!”

Cromwell !” said the boy proudly.

Looking at the child with warts on his face, a roundhead and a puritanical attitude, the Queen felt a chill running through her blue blooded veins…..history has a nasty habit of repeating itself.

Her cavalier attitude changed.

Get ME out now!” she demanded as the level of urine reached ankle level.

Reaching up through the gap with her white Gloves…the gathered elite couldn’t be sure if it was Michael Jackson, the Queen or the snooker referee Len Ganley speaking.

If I am not out in five minutes…heads will roll….starting with you!” she said looking at the Council Leader.

After calling in the Council DSO, the gap was widened and she was pulled out albeit indignantly in less than five minutes flat.

The Duke followed.

The same way they responded to other pensioners trapped in the St Tydfils Court, Caedraw Lift.

What about the other three?” asked the Council workmen.

Tossing in to the lift shaft a jam sponge, a left over from the delayed bunfight, she said casually…” Let them eat cake!”

What’s to become of us?” asked the three sets of eyes peering out of the dark…like a cellar in Lower Thomas Street .

Send them to the Tower!” she ordered.

Thanks Ma’am…Tower Colliery!” said Richard Cromwell hoping at last to get a better paid Valleys job.

Tower of London…peasant!” she said shaking off the drippers through the gap.

The Divine Right of Kings and Queens had been restored.

“ This mist is a real pea-souper!” declared reveller Meirion Glyndwr to one of his accomplices.

“ I know ....it seems to have become stronger since that last farmhouse !” he replied holding onto the dead horse’s tail.

“ We are we?” asked Meirion his hands out in front of him like a methodone zombie, as he stumbled about the Welsh mountainside, holding the Mari Lwyd like it was some kind of compass.

“ Let the grey mare guide you bachgen!” said his companion Rebecca Iot.

“ Twm Shaun Catty.....announced the man (dressed as a woman) drunkenly...I do believe we are lost....hic !”

The trio had set off from the village of Llangynwyd, near Maesteg, on a very foggy New Years Eve to celebrate the pre-Christian Festival of the Mari Lwyd.

To those who were uninitiated, the pagan custom involved the practice of dressing up a dead horse’s skull with false ears and eyes and covering it with reins and bells and a white sheet colourfully decorated with ribbons all set on a S4C ‘television aerial’ as an impromptu pole.

The trio of Welsh speakers....the last three left in the heavily anglicised South Wales Valleys....had recently been granted £50,000.00 by the Welsh Assembly Government to continue the tradition and had spent the lot over the Christmas period boozing in the Maesteg pubs.

They had been at their ‘three horseman of the apocalypse’ tour since it went dark at 3.30pm in the ‘Nags Head’ Inn in Maesteg and 20 farmhouses later they stood pissed out of their ‘skull’ on a bracken covered hillside miles from anywhere.

“ This Mari Llyd must have been made by the Americans...!” declared Rebecca –a six foot three bearded Welshman with the same physique as Pontypridd’s Tommy David.

“ It has got us lost in the fog...it has all the accuracy of a US Bombing raid in Iraq...!” said Twm.

“ We are never lost as long as we are in Wales....we always get a ‘welcome in the hillsides’ said Meirion.

“ Did you spray those last cottages with my name...like I told you....so Hansel & Gretel here can find our way back to Llangynwyd?” he asked .

“ Yes....look there is an unlit dual carriageway in the distance...!” declared Twm pointing with the bony finger of the skeletal horse.

As the trio skipped down the hillside , rolling and cackling drunkenly they reached the roadside.

“ Look the AA emergency phone has had the wires bitten through...look at the human teeth-marks.... !” stuttered Twm

“ and the bottom of that road sign has been unscrewed and sold by the gypsies as scrap metal!” said Rebecca.

“ Where the hell are we?” asked the Mari Lwyd moving its jaw and looking like an equine grim reaper.

“ Nice one...Meirion...I didn’t see your lips move that time!” said Twm laughing.

“ With that aerial ...you’re more like Rod Hull and Emu....but I still think it’s a sick tradition having your hand up a dead horse’s arse!” said Rebecca.

“ Merthyr!” said Meirion.

“ Bollocks....!....you’re just trying to scare us... that place doesn’t exist...like Brigadoon!” said Rebecca.

“ Is it true they are still flesh –eaters ?....because I read somewhere in a newspaper that they had a huge find of cannibals in Bethesda Street!” said Twm nervously.

“ No... that was CANNABIS...and it was reported in the Merthyr Depress- you know the one that strives for accuracy and doesn’t have any printing errors!” said Meirion.

“ Talk about the Green, Green, Grass of Home then!” sighed Rebecca...

“ It is a sad fact when the bilingual road-signs have English, Portuguese & Polish but not Welsh!” he said putting a sticker ‘Ble mai Cymraeg’ on it in protest.

“ Look...over there on the banking marked A470- with that signpost and lay-by sponsored by Chris Rea ....there’s a farmhouse lit with oil lamps....it looks like there isn’t any mains electricity or mains sewerage in the town. !” said Rebecca.

“ We ARE in Merthyr then....someplace called Aberfan to be precise.... !” said Meirion.

“ They don’t need electricity anymore...no need for washing machines, vacuum cleaners or Sinclair C5’s since Hoover closed it’s factories!”

The three revellers looked at each other sadly then made their way towards the stone walled farmhouse cheering themselves up by shouting ‘Mari Lwyd’ repeatedly as one in Welsh.

Inside the rented Holiday Cottage, the Englishman put another log on the wood burner .

It was much colder at a thousand feet above sea level ...much colder than his native Norfolk, but then again he only had three months left of complying with his bail conditions before he could return home.

He looked around him at the 200 year old cottage and realised then why it had been given an F rating on the Energy Performance Certificate scale.

He shivered visibly and wondered when the promised global warming would start.

And then it went off.

The trip wire he had set in the garden sent up high, a flare which illuminated the area for 200 yards in all directions.

With the mud and pig-shit in the cottage yard, it was reminiscent of a scene from the Battle of the Somme.

The trio of revellers had set in motion a chain of events that they would come to regret.

As the passed the pig- sty, three Portu-geezers stuck their heads through the wooden structure and shouted in their native tongue to keep the noise down as they were trying to sleep.

Unfortunately, not being to converse in Welsh , the anger intensified.

“ Talk about Mi-grunt workers!” complained Rebecca as he approached the cottage carry the Mari Lwyd.

He banged hard on the solid wooden door and shouted his challenge in Cymraeg.

“ Cnocio, cnocio!” said the trio in bardic harmony.

“ Who’s out there?” replied the Saesneg nervously.

“ Cnocio, cnocio!” said the men of Maesteg.

“ Kinnock....I don’t trust you ....you slimy red-haired freckled Eurocrat....!” said the angry farmer aware of the custom that a red haired man on your doorstep brought bad luck.

“ Cnocio, cnocio.....!” came the challenge for the third time.

“ Is that you Kinnockio....you lying politician bastard....what time of night is this to go campaigning!” said the agriculturalist.

“ Try him with the pwnco!” suggested Twm.

“ Siarad Cymraeg?” demanded Meirion.

“ No...there’s no Sharon living here....wrong cottage ...this is Bleak House 2 ....what the Dickens do you want?!” said the Farmer reaching for his trusty shotgun.

“ Y Mari...dewch I mewn!” asked the drunken Welshmen.

“ I told you Portuguese before ....I’m renting this cottage.... I pay the bills....go and find somewhere to stay!” said the farmer patience starting to wear thin.

“ Bwyd i cefyll os gwelwch yn dda (Food for the horse please) ....cwrw dwyieuthog...(bilingual beer) ......!” demanded the Mari Party.

“ Dim baras?” they continued.

“ Dim Barras!” said the farmer eyes widening in fear and then rage remembering the gypsy burglars that had got him into trouble with the Police and Courts in the first place.

“ Let us in ....we only want food and drink for the mare!” said Twm in broken English.

To the cottager, who knew there was a £60,000.00 bounty on his head – it was a trick and that he would be a dead man if he opened the door to the thieving gypsy clan.

“ Pull the other one...it’s got bells on!” said the farmer defiantly.

There was more than ‘reasonable farce’ at play here on ‘Nos Galan’.

Looking through the spy-hole, the elderly farmer could see three young men, one a transvestite and a skeletal figure of a horse with huge bony teeth.

Clutching his only friend, a 12 bore shotgun for comfort he released the safety catch.

He could understand why the men were here but why did they have that bony mare from the One Show Christine Bleakley as a hostage .

True it was coming up to ‘Daybreak’.

The trio were determined to get the last free food and nosh before setting off home and once again beat forcibly on the wooden door.

“ Try him with a Christmas Carol instead!” suggested Twm.

As they struck up the first verse of ‘We three Kings all Ospreys are!”, Rebecca felt his dress lifting unnaturally and cold steel tickling his whiskers below.

“ Bachgen, cenned yn awr!” (Boys... we need to leave now).

The three , realising they were outgunned decided discretion was the better part of valour.

They turned ‘tail’ and fled.

The door opened and the now confident farmer seeing his quarry running, blasted the closest one in the arse with buckshot.

Poor Rebecca’s first thoughts was how he was going to explain to the Maesteg Casualty Department why he was wearing C & A knickers....besides he had the labels mixed up and had them on back to front.

As they raced passed the Portuguese with the dead horse at the front....England’s oldest ally....they had to dodge pig-shit missiles as the Catholics were terrified it was the ghost of Shergar riding abroad on New Years Eve..

“ Who the Hell is living there?” asked Meirion as he ran for his life.

“ Kevin McAllister?....Macaulay Culkin....Homo Alone?” he asked through panting breath.

“ No, Senor... came the Iberian reply.

“ His letters .....they say he ees called Senor Tony Martin!”

It was the Night Mare after Christmas.

As she woke from her first nap of the day , the carer wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth, with a BUPA emblazed napkin.

As her 100 year old eyes adjusted to her surroundings, Miss Dee Mentia , realized that she was still in her reality show nightmare- the oldest living dinosaur on the Tara Ward of Gran-Yr-Afon Nursing Home in Merthyr Tydfil.

Her eyes met those of her close friend for the past decade, Miss Bette Whetter, who too was slumped in a chair staring at the bland magnolia walls of her BUPA prison.

" It's a good job we didn't smoke , drink or partied all our lives ................or ....we would missed all this!!!!! Slurred Dee in exasperation at her surroundings.

Bette for once, understood her friend and began merrily to chortle at Dee's dry sense of humour.

It was the only thing dry for Bette , as for the last year she had unfortunately lost control of all her bodily functions and literally pissed herself everytime her fellow 'Bad Girl' cracked a funny.

Dee , on the other hand was physically fit but 'mentally challenged' .

" Can I get you anything? ......asked Nurse Allitt... before Doctor Shipman does his rounds."

" Death.... please.....!" begged Dee ..I can't afford to stay here any longer...this Labour Government have sold my house, taken all my savings and I am down to my last £500 .....I don't want to spend the rest of my days in that dump!"....

Allitt and Whetter didn't need to look out of the window to know which dump Dee was moaning about.

The 'dump' was the former Kirkhouse Nightclub which had been converted into an NHS Nursing home...turning former ravers into real ravers.

" Even my children and Grandchildren have gone before me....Dee continued..." Why am I still here!"

In her heart , she thought she knew the real answer....in her late teens she had gone " Skinny dipping " in the Taff Fechan River in Pontsarn , taking an illicit naked shower with a German Prisoner Of War ... like the Rider Haggard character played by Ursula Undress ..... SHE...... had become immortal in the " Blue Pool" ....with what was his name....Al ...something..... she had forgotten...

" Al Zheimers!"....interjected Bette.....

" I didn't realize I was talking out loud....said a startled DEE.

" You weren't..... you were strumming the tuna banjo again...and I don't want my lucky Bingo pen back now........laughed Bette Whetter once again living up to her name.

The two friends , like a scene from a surreal Ziegfield follies, dripped in liquid harmony as the waited for Doctor Shipman to arrive.

Out in the car park , the Blue BUPA ambulance screeched to a halt..... suddenly driver Rees Susitation remembered that he was actually driving his ambulance and not his quad bike across the Gurnos Road Gardens....opening the back door he helped the occupants up ,swapped their false teeth and glasses and helped them onto their Zimmers and into the reception of the Gran Yr Afon Nursing Home.

" Gott in Himmel...Zat man is a menace! ....barked the taller man...."63 years ago I vood have had him shot..."

" Now , now Al....said the Welshman as he comforted his former Prisoner of War...times have changed!..people have changed...nobody has a minute to spare these days..... for us old folk....who fought and died for King & Country! "

The Jerry-atrics were met on reception by Nurse Allitt.

" Morning gentleman and your names are.....!"

" Corporal Dai Young Member of the Royal Signal Artillery .....and my prisoner of war is ..... Al Zheimers" the Welshman replied.

The look from the ex-SS German Captain was enough to freeze a Jewish stool in midair.

" Sorry old habits..... die hard....do you take Nuremberg Nazis in here? Apologized Dai.

" MRSA's are always welcome here...but Germans.....!"snapped Allitt

" Do you take ze Nazi Gold Card?" enquired Zheimers

" That'll do nicely...replied the Nurse changing her tone.

" See ...only the good.... Dai Young...." Barked Zheimer in Teutonic Triumph..

" Tell me about it....die young....I'm hundred and still going strong!"...moaned Dee in her bath-chair.

As the new arrivals were led away to their rooms, the German turned his head as in the distance he thought he had heard a female voice familiar to him.

" I have tried everything to die Bette....pills...... poison.....I even tried Merthyr Council's Electoral Registration in case they did Munchhausen's Syndrome by Proxy...... after Nurse Allitt told me about it....but nothing works.....all my friends and family have all predeceased me .....but I am still here.....with only you to talk to.....but after tomorrow ....I have to go... I have no money left.....what am I going to do!"....sobbed Dee.

" Let's escape then....!" suggested Bette

" Where to....besides I can't take you ...you'd leave a trail....."moaned Dee

" Pontsarn....we could hide in the old Sanatorium on Pontsarn Road !" laughed Bette

" What would we eat!..they don't do meals on wheels" whinged DEE.

" We could visit the Blue Pool and have a picnic....or eat insects like on the reality shows !"

" Why not ...today I am 100 years young....I 'm a Centenary get me outtahere!"

" Vie leaf it til tomorrow..... interrupted an Arian Clark Gable ....after all Scarlett....tomorrows another day!"

After a moment's hesitation, like Margaret Mitchell before her in her hospital bed, Dee's jaw dropped...... as the love of her life walked into Tara Ward and back into her arms.

Bette spoilt the romantic moment .....the excitement was too much for her...letting out a death rattle that Father Jack in Father Ted would have been proud of ..... she too was Gone with the Wind!.

Clutching onto his Zimmer frame the scrawny German ordered..." Yes..... let's run away together..... for one last Golden Shower!"

" Can I come too .....to watch? Asked Bette

" Yes...lassie I'll take you, even ......If I have to carry you....promised Dai...not realizing the effect that would have on his Berwick tweed jacket and trousers.

The tryst had been set .....and the last of the Summer Wine would be poured.

" Give me ten minutes to pack my BAG.....asked Dee coyly....

" Pack lightly ....ordered the former Nazi

" Colostomy".

As Prince Charles descended the marble stairwell of Buckingham Palace he had some strange looks from his footmen as the Furry Tail of a Vixen hang down from the back of his head.

In place of the Crown, the Clown Prince wore this latest offering designed to have animal rights protestors in a frenzy.

As he entered the drawing room , Camilla made a contorted face and asked Charles where he was going with that monstrosity on his head.

"Merthyr Tydfil....he replied ..."where the fook's that!".....puzzled expression on her face Camilla asked .....

"yes, it is a fox hat and I have it on!!!" replied Charles indignantly.

" It's our oldest resident 's 100 Birthday today.......whispered Doctor Shipman.

" I know and she has two surprises lined up later....!" Answered Nurse Allitt.

" We have arranged a publicity stunt for Prince Charles to come to Merthyr to read a telegram from the Queen.

" How did you manage that?" queried Allitt.

" Well you know that we are a flagship of the new Privatised NHS ......I had a word with that Blair-faced liar..... and we got taking about the fact that before we took over the home..... we had over a hundred patients....we are now down to two..... at Prince Charles Hospital we have cut waiting times for Hip operations.......increased bone donations and saved the NHS massive costs on elderly care....as Camilla will confirm Prince Charles LOVES pensioners.....and more spaces in our care homes...means more houses the Government can illegally take from vulnerable pensioners......Tony....was only to happy for another photocall....before he goes to the Lords.

The pair were too engrossed in their conversation to notice the ex-SAS and German Military veterans escape from Stalag 17 with their females hostages.....Dai Young, in true Andy McNabb style ensuring none of Bette's stools were left at enemy HQ for tracking purposes.

During World War 2 , Dai Young had escaped from the real Colditz , captured countless German Tanks but this was his first ambulance.

'Dai Hard with a vengeance' became his nickname.

He soon had the vehicle hotwired and the four wrinklies became the oldest joy riders (but not the first) Georgetown had ever seen.

As the ambulance zigzagged through Cyfarthfa Road at break-neck speed, they dodged members of the congregation of the Church of Latter days Saints crossing the road ...pausing only for a Mormontary lapse.

" Tell us the story of how you two met !" enquired Bette eager to find out the romantic Mills & Boon tale of forbidden love between a Welsh teenager and a German Prisoner of War.

" Vell, It was 1945 and the last week of the War, I was aboard a German Fockewolf Airplane flying over Wales on a mission to negotiate the peace when some dead-eye anti-aircraft gunner caught me in his searchlights and shot me down over Treharris...I thought I was Fockkered but at the last minute managed to parachute out..... but ended up landing in the former open-air Swimming Pool in Edwardsville......!" reminisced Al Zheimer.

"Unfortunately ze Pool was drained and the subsidence in the area meant the shallow end was 15 metres deep and I was kept prisoner there for one week .......which was worse because the War was over!!!!!

" Ze Tommy that caught me was Dai here....who apologized....eventually...... but made it up to me by taking me to a Barn dance in Pontsarn .....where I met the lovely Dee here....who taught me ze reason why it was called ze Blue Pool.!"

Dee blushed red .

The ambulance reached the Spanish Villa in Pontsarn before detouring off Meredith's farm onto the edge of the Pontsarn viaduct.

Heading down the Viaduct embankment on zimmers , like veteran- creased Tony Hawks.... they slid on down to the Blue Pool plateau doing 360's and Ollies as they went.

Stopping only to gather handfuls of the brown capped fungi of their youth, the drugged fuelled Mamas & Der Papas made their way to the Pool entrance at the other side of the Aberglais Bridge.

A bemused Portuguese taxi driver , Speedy Gonzales , actually slowed down at the narrow bridge entrance seeing the pensioner crossing sign.

He was not expecting four naked pensioners with more hanging skin than a pack of bloodhounds......nor Dee's elongated breasts dragging in the dust.

The taxi driver thought he had stumbled on a scene from out of the Living Dead.....and accelerated away up the Sanatorium Hill .

He sped faster than the time he sprinted through the Channel Tunnel when it opened chased by the first rabid dog in Britain for 20 years and it was the most frightening thing he had seen since Cherie - The Blair Witch- opened the door of 10 Downing Street after the election victory....

Pulling into to the Picnic Area below the Wall House Farm, the Taxi-Driver tried to make sense of the scenes playing out in his mind ...the obscene images burned into his memory like an the old Beta-Max video horror tape …still replaying but this time in the Blue Pool hidden below the tree-lined slopes of the River Taf Fechan.

As the four zombies slid and swallow dived into the foaming waters their ‘skinny dipping’ seemed to cleanse them of their added years , after each dive each swimmer seemed to regress 80 years and resurface at the prime of their recaptured Hitler youth.

As the LSD in the magic mushrooms took effect on their fragile minds , it became like a scene from Cocoon , as Al Zheimer forgot everything and became Johnny Weizmuller for the day.

Bette & Dee free from all inhibitions, swam like Esther Williams save that their empty mammary glands floated on the surface of the water like two punctured air bags .

Dai too became the breast stroke champion of Pontsarn but the cold water prevented him arousing muscles he had not used for 40 years .

Al Zheimer didn’t have such a problem as he floated on his back pretending he was a U-Boat Captain periscope in full view.

Dai had to put a stop to this show and tied some cord around a pebble, lassoing the German Sausage “ Shouting Depth Charge”.

“ The water is bluer than I remember….!”shrieked Dee in delight splashing wildly

Pimping down from the Road Bridge at the Gerry-atric Day ’Trippers’ , Speedy Gonzales knew the real reason.

The chemical spills from the Water Treatment works HAD turned the water BLUE and poisoned the fish and the illegal dumping of tyres by a local garage owner had turned this Area of Special & Scientific Interest into a ruddy Hell Hole.

All he could see below him in the River was Spare Tyres and Old Blue Trouts and there was also the pensioner swimming posse .

By now, the pensioners had rigged their own version of the bungee by draping Al’s braces off a gnarled old oak and took turns to leap from the moss covered limestone into the air space over the plunge pool.

As Dai bungeed off the bridge, in successive recoils he lost his teeth , his wig and finally his glass eye to the eddy swirling below the water fall.

Below on the rock ridge, a fond embrace between Allies & Axis stretched back over 80 years as the promised Love Tryst took place and the German once more invaded British Territory.

It was Dee-Day relived,….as the reunited lovers Al & Dee became entwined , just like the Aldi carrier bag caught in the current which began to wrap itself around an ancient tree root .

After 80 years of hurt Dee had had her wish…a brockwurst breakfast in the Blue Pool…

Poor Dai was experiencing his own hurt as his over exuberant bungee swing meant he had just stung his manhood on a stinging nettle and was frantically looking for a Dock Leaf and a soft landing.

Bette was laughing so much it cured her incontinence.

Free from their Warders the old fossil fools burnt up their remaining life energy in one day.

The Taxi Driver stared for twenty more minutes until he realised that Dee and Bette were in fact swimming naked and not drowning any puppies as he had first thought….. eventually , like the Duracell bunny’s rivals…. they all collapsed one by one exhausted on the river bank.

He had never seen such a happy but surreal scene….. and agreed to give the four blue pensioners a lift back to Town in return for being included in each of their respective Wills.

The look on the face of Nurse Allitt was one of ‘resident evil’ as the four blue pensioners arrived wearing only mini Speedy Gonzales sombreros covering their dignity.

Dai still had a dock leaf under his to ease the swelling.

The look on Prince Charles face was of total disbelief as he suddenly realized that his Centarian Telegram victim was amongst the arrivals.

“ Dee Mentia? ….he asked croaking through a bout of laryngitis.

“Charles ‘Asnovoice’…..

In her mind Dee could hear the strains of “She….may be the face I can’t forget!!!!”

Charles continued “ My mother wishes you all the best on your 100th Birthday….but please die soon……… cos the Government can’t afford to keep you on the NHS and us on the Civil List!!!!”

It was the last thing Dee remembered as she was lethally injected by the Royal handshake containing Polonium 210.

“ Euthanasia comes to us all….whispered Charles ….even Di had to die …..Camilla next….Heather Mills too on the waiting list….”

Looking round at the three trembling remaining pensioners….Charles laughed maniacally …..like another Prince of Wales in the White-chapel fog .

“ Four more hip donors Mr Shipman!!!!....................by Royal Appointment.