Town Cryer Barry Short took his usual place in the Square of the little South Walian Hamlet of Merthyr Tydfil and ascended a wooden crate. Short by name and short by nature, at 5 foot 4 it was a strange choice of job given his diminutive stature but needs must when the devil calleth and with most of the men having been killed in the Napoleonic Wars there was not that many men to go around -Short or tall.But at least he was more difficult to hit with a musket ball. As he unrolled his parchment written by a quill on velum, Barry summoned up all his vocal strength to announce the week’s entertainment to the paupers and the very common people ofthe South Wales Valley area.“In the Year of Our Lord 1844, on the forthcoming Sabbath of 14th March, there shall be a duel to be held on the Morlais Castle Common at 11.30pm at Night between local publican,Morris Dancer of Ye Crown Inn, Merthyr Tydfil and his opponent Bartemius Pugh to settle a point of honour!” shrilled Barry.The great unwashed that gathered around now had something else to look forward to -to ease their plight which was filled with malnutrition, rickets and cholera- their own version of Match of the Day.“A duelling scheme up at the Heads of the Valleys is long overdue” muttered Old Hag, Bubo Popp in her native Welsh tongue clad in her Welsh shawl and Stove-pipe hat.

As usual, the tiny hamlet had become turned ‘Rumourville’ with idle tongues wagging as to the cause of such dispute.The real reason was that Morris Dancer, the Innkeeper of the Crown – a local hostelry and stage coach departure point - had accused Bartemius Pugh, a Venetian traveller o fgentlemanly standing, of groping his barmaid, Melony Toby, in front of several witnesses,who would swear blind that was what Mr Pugh had deliberately done, when she had bentover to pick up the Landlord’s latest culinary invention.A bar snack of potato origin mixed with fish into a pie – the ancestor of latter-day scampifries. A ‘Me-too’ list was chalked up on the Inn blackboard but one or two of them had to be ignored as they were actual requests. Bartemius also swore blind (as he was in fact truly blind after taking a pistol shot to the face in a previous duel in Paris).The Italian was well versed in duelling by pistol- it was in fact his tenth such duel, as he had been raised by fellow Venetian Casanova and was on the Grand Tour of Europe and just like his mentor- he was in fact a crack-shot.Somewhat ironic really, as he was now in another potentially deadly contest over a different crack that he was alleged to have fondled. Barmaid Melony Toby,- (or Toby Jugs as she was known to the local sheep farmers and swineherds that frequented the establishment with its solid stone slab flooring covered in sawdust & straw and spilt Rhymney Brewery Ales) was a lady of loose morals but only with gentlemen that took her eye.As Bartemius didn’t have any of his own, she wasn’t prepared to give him any.The Venetian tried to defend his actions by claiming that hadn’t realised that he was in fact in an Inn but thought that given the smell of the ‘plaice’ that he was in Olde Morgan’s the Fishmonger’s Shoppe.Toby Jugs, like most Merthyr residents past and present was not known for her love o fbathing – in fact B.O. was another invention that had been credited to the Hamlet. But then again Merthyr had little access to clean water- a Well at Tydfil’s and of course the River Taff often polluted with dead bodies floating down from the rough area known as China being the only options.“Why are they holding a Duel at night under the light of the Brecon Beacons?” asked another wizened old hag, Gwennie Turnip, a great grandmother at 40 years of age- though her solitary remaining tooth in the front – used for central eating her diet of thin porridge.It was a very ‘gruel’ existence.

“It is to even out the contest- replied the local Beadle- Jeremy-it was at the insistence of Morris Dancer’s friend and brave Second Mr Thomas Cooper!” continued the lawman.“Why is HE a brave man?” asked Gwennie looking puzzled.“Mr Pugh is blind but is known to have killed several men by accident in such events most of whom were Seconds!”“With a pistol?” asked local crazy cat woman Nut Meg.“It would hardly be with an epee now would it .....otherwise it would have been over in a split Second? “ Chortled the Beadle at his unintentional quip.The Beadle was not a big fan of the Landlord who had refused to pay him protection money or the manner in which he kept the Tavern going.“But I heard that the Blind Venetian only agreed to the terms put forward by Mr Cooper if Mr Morris Dancer would wear his traditional May Day costume to the duel!” whispered theBeadle as if imparting knowledge not readily available to the public- which had in fact been his own condition.“Pull the other one it’s got bells on!” replied the disbelieving Bubo.“Exactly!” replied the Beadle.“ Be careful who you tell that to mind .... you don’t want that Scold’s Bridle on again now do you?”Gwennie Turnip shivered at the memory of that metal cage around her mouth as punishment to stop her gossiping – she was still left with a drooling problem and mouth fatigue- but at least for the month that she was compelled to wear it,- she didn’t have to perform the usual matrimonial blow jobs.“Are you going on the Black Sabbath Night?” asked Gwennie to her fellow gossips.“Count me in!” – said an eavesdropping local pest controller from high up on a thatched cottage roof- Ozbert Osborne, as he bit into a fruit bat- in doing so risking COVID.“Why are you eating a fruit bat?” asked Bubo Popp confused.“Got to get my five a day in haven’t I ....-Herbie- the man who makes the potions told me that I should have a balanced diet ......”So I will bring the magic mushrooms! to sell at the Event””

Fast forward to the weekend and poor old Morris Dancer was cacking himself.

He was too young to die.He had never fired a flintlock pistol before let alone had a duel with a European Marksman.Thomas Cooper formerly of Caerphilly, took off his fez that he had once acquired from a tradesman when he had ordered by mistake some salad in.“Look ....said the second....I booked the last duelling slot available just before Midnight as there is an Act which went through Parliament making duelling illegal- it comes into force at12.01am....so you only have to delay the event for 30 minutes and then it’s over!” “To shoot you after that would be illegal and he would hang for murder!” Thomas continued. “Just like that?” “THIRTY minutes .....you are getting ahead of yourself .....how can I a simple Publican know when it is closing time?.....in the future there may be devices to measure the time like hour glasses or a device that can read the movement of the sun and moon .....but at present Iam governed by crows of the cock....!” moaned Morris .“That’s what got you into this mess in the first place....an argument over a woman!” said Tommy.“Just like twat!” he said mumbling but trying to create a family catchphrase.“Crows?” replied a confused Morris .“Sorry... I thought you said Grows!” replied the Second.“There’s me in less than two hours about to die and you are telling funnies....who do you think you are some kind of comedian?” said the nervous Innkeeper.“How the Hell am I going to delay the duel anyway!” asked Morris still sitting on the po on the floor of the food preparation area of his pub.“I’ll think of something!” replied his friend.

It is near Midnight and a crowd of villagers gathered around the light of a brazier.“How the Hell am I going to know when the time is up?” whispered Morris nervously to his second.Tommy Cooper said “Don’t worry I have arranged a few distractions to take us passed thewitching hour and save your bacon!”

“Besides I have asked Evans the Coal to pour some tar on the pitch to signify the end of legal hostilities....he has agreed to burn the ‘midnight oil’ as he is a hard worker in exchange for a few groats!” he continued.The independent Magistrate, Judge Jeffries Junior called for silence from the gathered throng- as he was of the opinion that people that were involved in duels deserved be hung-but then again he thought that way about every person that came before him – they all deserved to be hung- sheep stealers, thieves, highwaymen who ruined the safe passage of coaches around the Country- especially the highwaymen as the bastards took your road tax but didn’t fill in the potholes on the turnpikes.He had got himself stuck in a rut many a time and even hung hungry children as young as eight for stealing apples from overflowing gentry orchards.They wouldn’t do it again!The combatants were called together- and after they had turned Bartemius round in the correct direction first were read the rules of the day as to the duelling scheme.“Do both of you gentlemen wish to continue this dispute over honour or will either of you apologise and admit they were wrong?” questioned Jeffries.“He groped my barmaid....the foreign bastard!....he should be sent to Rwanda once it opens for business!” declared the future Brexit-loving Morris with false bravado not wishing to lose face in front of the majority of his xenophobic clientele.“I didn’t .....it was an accident....there was something fishy about the ‘hole’ place...I can’t see ....so how was I know it wasn’t the fish shop.....besides ask him why all the cats in the area follow her around otherwise?” grumbled the Venetian Blind marksman.“In that case, do both of you Seconds have the pistols?”“Yes!” declared Thomas Cooper and Casanova simultaneously.They both held mahogany boxes with green velvet inside and of course a single shot flintlock pistol.Toby Jugs stared at Casanova, cleavage poking out over the top of her Nell Gwynne style dress.Casanova fumbled with the pistol before using the ramrod to force the bullet down into the chamber.“Ooh I do love Sloppy Seconds!” she declared licking her lips and adjusting her ample bosom for the benefit of Casanova.“Are the pistols loaded?” asked the Judge.“Both barrels!” said Casanova staring back at Toby’s Jugs- not concerned with the single barrel flintlock pistol.

“Yes!” replied both seconds.“Now Gentleman you will both take ten paces back each and then turn and fire a single shot!”ordered the Judge.Morris replete in his May Day outfit started to ring out, as he went with the bells giving his opponent a big clue as to his direction.The time was now 11.40pm with twenty minutes left to kill without being killed.With that came the first of Tommy Cooper’s distractions. He had paid local harlot Erica Roe a few groats to invade the pitch topless.Obviously, this didn’t affect Bartemius as he couldn’t see the titties.But it did have some effect on the timing. Bartemius on 5 steps just stopped hearing the commotion and feeling the milk from the cowpox suffering merry milkmaid splattering on his face, wondering what the Hell was going on.Judge Jeffries ordered a reset and that as punishment Erica was to be sent to his room in the local law courts whilst he administered the cat of nine tails.He wasn’t just the local Magistrate but the Chief Whip too.“What you got there then Megan – a handwarmer?” asked Bubo Popp to her friend.“No...it’s my black cat!” said Megan.“Looks Familiar!” said local refuse collector ‘Dennis’ Norden.“He is missing half his ear only one eye and three legs left and has the mange!” continuedMegan.“He has been run over twice by Dennis’s ‘bring out of your dead’ recycling cart.“I thought I recognised him!” said Dennis.“What’s he called?” asked Bubo looking at the poor wretched creature and then at the cat.“Lucky!” replied Megan without any sense of irony.“What’s that around his neck?“ interjected Gwennie.“It is a home-made collar- he is a terror to kill local song birds -so I attached some metaltubular chimes around his neck to warn them he is around!” said Megan.“I found it by the Old Field!”

The duel continued with both Bartie and Morris standing back- to- back, pistols pointing upward to the full moon as they came together. It was now 11.45 and still plenty of time for the duel to continue legally. Morris was sweating under his horsehair wig and tricorn hat. All around him the common was busy filling up.The local brotherhood of monks had appeared in their ‘Dry Robe’ outfits so prevalent for the Merthyr area.They began a ‘Modern Talking’ chant about one of their order - Brother Louie, Louie, Louiewho apparently was a big fan of duels and being ‘undercover’. This had been arranged by Thomas to distract one of the few senses that had been enhanced by Bartie’s loss of vision.Bartie’s objection was lost in the chant. Magistrate Jeffries ordered the recount.“Ten paces each... then turn and fire...no more delays!” he declared with some authority.Both combatants began to pace out with Morris so nervous, he could feel the urine running down his campanologist trouser leg.Like a newly expectant Father filling his babies bottles with breast milk from a lactating milkmaid , he had lost count of the strides he took away from the Venetian crack-shot.Was it seven or eight?It was now five to midnight.Did he risk the wrath of the Magistrate and local reputation if he ducked?That decision was taken away from him by the appearance of Gwennie’s black cat Lucky which had crossed his path. Frozen in terror, Morris looked on helplessly as the Blind Venetian turned in one fell movement and fired his single shot in the direction of the hapless moggie that had been making a bee-line for Toby Jugs .“Talk about a black cat crossing your path .....how lucky was that?” said the open-mouthed Magistrate.“Did I get the Welsh bastard?” asked Bartie.“You killed my beloved cat!” wailed Gwennie.

The blood drained to the feet of the blind killer. He had not heard his opponent fire his shot and in terror and the heart of darkness stood there awaiting the impact of a bullet from Morris.Morris was in a quandary. He had never shot another human being before - especially one without sight. But on the other hand, he had called him a Welsh bastard and groped his barmaid. He owed it to all the women in the World to take out this sexual predator. Morris took aim at 10 seconds to Midnight.He pulled the trigger and out of the front of the flintlock pistol came a home- made flag withthe words B A N G written on it.“Watch out ....Beadle’s about!” said the local Magistrate before blowing his whistle to signal the end of legal duelling in Britain.

Poor little Brad Stick was a natural victim. He was only 11 years and had just started going up to the big wide World of the Comprehensive School. Now separated from his earliest friends since Primary School it was a huge culture shock coming from a cossetted little school that he had spent seven years known merely ‘as the Nerd in the corner’. His only friends were imaginary and he was more of a loner than alleged JFK Kennedy assassin Lee Harvey Oswald but in the little school he was tacitly accepted and tolerated by his first school peers.

His emaciated frame, topped by Michael Gove ‘Milhouse’ glasses, struggled to carry the spanking new leather satchel his Mother had bought him, which she insisted he carry to school every morning on his daily 20 minute hike from his house in Brecon Road, Merthyr Tydfil to his new educational version of Borstal. It was a Sisyphean task for the puny schoolboy, as the satchel with his exercise books weighed nearly half his bodyweight and made him look like a myopic hunchbacked King Richard III, as he struggled up the steep hills that led up to his new Alcatraz.

To get there he had to go through hostile enemy territory – well named as ‘territory’ as he was terrified of who or what he would encounter each day on his journey up the ‘Red Lane’ though the notorious Gurnos Estate. The Lane was so called because it was bloodstained from beatings and muggings in this little corner of Paradise. He often sang THAT 1980’s Phil Collins song that he had heard on Spotify for confidence, usually as he passed rough sleepers with their rabid XL Bully dogs, lying in unbridled layers of dogshit, broken glass and used syringes.

But the worst of all- was the elder groups of boys- who hunted in packs of threes for someone to bully and steal their lunch money. His Mother (who had separated from his Biological Father Gordon) was his only protection – as his Mother had told him that his real Father had left for Silicon Valley years ago. He had no recollection of this Father but as he had a penchant for computer sciences -he was always proud of this fact -until the day he discovered that Silicon Valley was the nickname his Mother had given to the big breasted implanted woman he had eloped with.

Which was somewhat strange as his Mother had told him that his Father was only a little over Five Foot in height- she told her son she should blame him for his genetic shortcomings- so he innocently assumed that he must have used them as ear muffs. His Mother continued to be embarrassed by the doorstep gossips as some years later his Father was caught indecently exposing himself to Women in Cyfarthfa Park. She wanted nothing to do with him and made up a story for her young son that his dad was into science fiction whenever the pair were cruelly shouted at in the street about ‘Flash Gordon’.

Brad felt given his wan stature made him a more akin to a test tube baby, as his Mother had worked in the Sekisui science laboratory for years. She claimed to be responsible for the discovery of Viagra but her test case had failed to stand up in the Patent’s Court. Puberty had not yet kicked in for little Brad- the hair on his head was brown and very wavy and every morning it stuck up in all directions for fine weather. During his first ever PE lessons he could remember being assaulted by some older boys trying to discover if the school rumour was true in that he had one solitary pubic hair downstairs. 

Sadly for him it was. He had gone from being known as ‘the Nerd in the Corner’ to ‘One Pube’ in an instant.

A Tik-Tok moment that is when he was held down and filmed while one the bully boys put on a David Attenborough voice over – with the infamous words- “ And here we have the Amazon rainforest....decimated by illegal logging with only one tree left standing!”

He particularly hated cross country and was always last finishing last with all of the children returning hours before him but at least it had taught him how to run. One of his local sheep farmers had accused him of interfering with his livestock – suggesting he was seen lying down in his pasture smoking but it wasn’t certainly him- as despite his Mother’s claim to fame - he was incapable of Vape.

Brad had no social life- not surprising considering his face was permanently in a phone or computer screen. He like modern schoolchildren no longer sat around the dining table and actually spoke to his Mother. He only communicated with her by text. A lot of the time she was in work but it was often when they were in the same room. She – like most modern working single parents had little time to actually cook wholesome food- Brad survived on takeout meals from MuckDonalds & the bogus Colonel.

To get by she also worked part time in the evenings in a care home. Not surprisingly he was seriously malnourished, as his Mother was always taking part in clinical trials and was never there to ‘care’ for him. The only time he had nutrition in the form of fresh food was when one of his Mother’s ‘inmates’ went sick and the relatives brought in fruit. But even that stopped when Covid came.

His Mother would however bring home lots of old-fashioned clothes which were destined for the landfill when the old ladies died- which made Brad a little bi-curious when he put them on. He thought he had an alter ego which he called ‘Granny Tranny’. It was not his only alter ego though as he had discovered a new means of escapism from his miserable life. Online Gaming.

Here in the Meta Verse he was no longer called ‘Nerd in the Corner’, nor ‘One Pube’- he could be a virtual hero without challenge. Here he didn’t have to rub his Bitcoin with shit to get back at the bullies.

In cyber space, he was a keyboard warrior under his online masculine name of Arnold Schwarzawigga – which was totally inconsistent with his real life – as he was thinner than supermodel bulimia diet soup.Here in the Meta Verse he had an online presence that was noticed by his fellow female space aliens from all over the Universe. He loved his online Space Crusade game as part of World of Warcraft, where he could teleport into strange Alien Planets and spawn as his Schwarzawigga Hero or other sci-fi hero.

Brad, when walking to school, had his face in a mobile screen and then for six hours every night in a computer one. No wonder he had glasses thicker than the bottom of a milk bottle and that was even before he discovered the other ‘joystick’ evolution had given him.

At 11 years of age, he was like a mini-version of Mr Magoo – everything outside the end of his nose was a blur as he was always bumping into fellow pupils in the corridor as he passed in his own personal i-cloud. This didn’t engender to making new friends and he was often met with the jibe- “Careful One Pube or you will knock it off!”- not from the schoolchildren but from the cruel teachers, who doubled as Prison warders in his new reality Hell.

Academically, Brad was bright but sitting at the front of the class and raising his hand to answer questions just gave the bully majority more cause to pick on him. As soon as the teachers would turn their backs, the innocent child would endure more missiles than those in the Gaza strip. Brad wanted to learn- but the Neanderthal Bullies didn’t and disrupted the class at every opportunity.

He looked forward to the day that the knuckle-draggers were separated out into the remedial classes and he be placed into A-Band where he could actually learn something. Today had been particularly tiresome as his fellow classmates had discovered the art of chewing paper and then spitting it out like an old- fashioned pea-shooter through the hollow plastic tubing of Bic pens. His curly hair in the back was covered in them as he now contained more white spots than a septic tonsil. Even the teachers frustrated him by referring to him as ‘Boy’ when he had a perfectly good name.

No sooner than the school bell had rung for the end of the day than Brad was off running. Like Indiana Jones in the opening scene of the film Raiders of the Lost Ark, Brad sprinted towards the exit trying to get a head-start on the other Amazonian tribesmen throwing discarded cardboard boxes like boomerang frisbies, hoping to reach sanctuary before he lost his new adult teeth to a fist. Jogging down the Red Lane with a gravity assisted satchel the Nerd World Man made his escape. He had outwitted his tormentors once again who had paused to pick on some slower animals on the Gurnos/Serengeti Plain. In a race with a cheetah only the slowest of two men get devoured and he was determined today it would not be him.

That cross-country training must be finally paying off. In through the front door he leapt, stopping only to grab the remains of last night’s pizza delivery as he went upstairs heading for his safe space. His computer and the Meta Verse. He soon became immersed in an alien world of strange characters with blue hair and tattoos everywhere.

A World not dissimilar to James Cameron’s Avatar – a World he controlled and could interact with fake humans just like on Love Island. As he ‘spawned’ his character onto a planet with moon like craters. He was suddenly approached by a three-breasted semi-naked woman.

“Hello Muscles....why aren’t you handsome!” said the stranger. Brad suddenly had a picture in his head of a slim Ariana Grande. But just in case Brad kept his fingers poised above the X button. This was the button that enabled him to raise his gigantic Highlander sword.

He had encountered virtual sirens like this one before and always erred on the side of caution. “How old are you?” asked the virtual stranger in bubble speak. Brad looked at his spawn clock.

“Two minutes old!” the keyboard warrior replied also in caption form.

“What’s a good- looking thing like you doing in a place like this?”

Brad wasn’t sure whether to press the X button and strike or continue the Artificial Intelligence chat. He decided on the latter.

“Why don’t we go over to the power juice bar and I can buy you some liquid steroids ?”

Brad followed the stranger – interested to see where this new emotion of affection might lead him. He did after all have some stirrings in his Nether Regions that he could not explain even if he could put his finger on it.

“The bar takes payment by bitcoin or if you go to your Mother’s handbag and get her credit card its free!” said Three Tit. Brad paused the game and went downstairs to get the requested card.He could hear that his Mother was in the shower.

“Schwartzenwigga .....do you have the card?” asked the stranger. Brad typed back “Yes!”

“Good Boy!”

“ Now read me the long numbers off the middle there should be 12 of them!”

Brad started to get suspicious. “Why did the stranger call me Boy when I am a man in this World?” He still typed in the numbers but more slowly this time.

“Well done Boy!” replied the stranger. 

She called me Boy again he thought.

“What do you want to drink?... Power Juice....Steroid Surprise.... or a Tiny Cocktail?” questioned the Tri-mammoried Avatar.

“Power Juice please!” Brad replied knowing his character would take on extra energy for the game ahead.

“Okay Boy can you read me the expiry date on the card?” continued the stranger.

“Why do you need that?” typed back Brad hackles beginning to raise. He then typed the numbers.

“And finally Boy ....what about the three numbers on the signature strip....its so we can both pay for the Power Juice of course!” replied the Alien Avatar.

Brad began to smell a cyber rat.

“I can’t find them!” he typed.

“Boy ...look on the back of the card!” demanded the stranger.

“Sorry I can’t see it....the numbering is too small for my limited eyesight!” replied Brad frustrating the efforts of the Avatar who was now paused with three tits swaying angrily like a cat’s cradle.

“I say there Boy.... do you have a web cam?” asked the stranger.

The Avatar had now called Brad ‘Boy’ more times than cartoon rooster Foghorn Leghorn.

“Yes....a Spiderman Web cam from my Mother for Christmas!” said Brad.

“Good...then switch on then Boy and put the card up close to the camera!” ordered the stranger.

From his early schooling through to present day, Brad was hard-wired to do what he was told by adults but coming from Merthyr he had been born with the rebel streak. He was no longer confident that the alluring semi-naked space alien that was the other end in cyber-space was who she claimed to be, but in his innocence, he didn’t know what harm it could do to give his mother’s information out. He did however, reach across his desk fumbling for something. As the two-way camera whirred into action, the sight that met his bespectacled eyes was not what he had expected.

It was not the beautiful US cheerleader schoolgirl that he had imagined but a fifty year old man sat in stained vest and y-fronts squinting back at him trying to see the card. Brad turned the laser pen on full beam blinding the Yankee Con-Man as Brad took on the mantle of his old man -an alternative Flash Gordon and ‘Boy’ had he been ‘merciless’ to that Minging creature at the other end of that lens. Just like Mannfred the other Man had been ‘blinded by the light’ and the Nerd World Man had triumphed over the First World one.

The Welsh worm had turned.

It was December 13th 2023 and the delegates at the United Nations Climate Change Conference known as C.O.P 28 in Dubai the capital of the United Arab Emirates were just about to conclude matters, when the heavy golden double doors flew open and a size 10 Railtrack Boot appeared followed rapidly by a leg belonging to Welshman Morgan Chamber.

“Now hold on everyone......sorry I am late but I am the Official delegate from the Green Party of Wales...and I want to say my piece!”

Morgan Chamber, known locally as Mog the Smog, was never one to go or come quietly, as his Fifth Wife on their second Honeymoon would undoubtedly testify.

He strode purposely towards the 24- carat golden podium.
The assembled delegates from over 400 countries looked somewhat confused as he had a small round wooden boat attached to his back.

As he took to the stage – Security was on high alert- fearful of a terrorist attack from the World- renowned Free Wales Army- whose military wing had first formed in the Former Lamb Inn in Merthyr Tydfil- and understandably the Arabs were worried about their monopoly on the stage and the prospect of there being different Martyrs to the Cause.

The Head of the Conference, Prince Al Bin Chopiz Ed Off raised his oily palm for Security to hold on. He was a fair man and wanted to listen to different cultures just like his ancestors had done sat around their Bedouin campfires at the oases in past centuries blowing camels and smoking cigarettes too. He believed that everyone from the Third World should be entitled to voice their opinion before ignoring all recommendations on the reduction of fossil fuels.

Mog was not phased seeing so many different coloured faces before him wearing different white robes and multi-coloured attire -after all he himself was dressed in the new National Dress of Wales- the bright luminous orange Railtrack jumpsuit -which made him look like an escaped prisoner from San Quentin Penitentiary in California. He stood before World Royalty and influential power people – the actual ‘illuminati’ that kept the lights on and controlled Global economies and decided policy for innumerable Nations.

“Evening all!” he said upon reaching the Magic Mike.

By some unknown technological wizardry his words were instantaneously translated into over 400 different languages, except of course for Welsh, for the 1001 Arabian Knights sat in the Blue Zone of the Great Hall of Aladdin.

“I am here so that the World can hear the voice of Wales- one of the oldest continuous Celtic Nations now consisting of 4 million people and eleven million sheep-who have been subjugated by our English Ironmasters- men, women and children have toiled in the bowels of the Earth and have been subjugated and forced into economic slavery and to mine the black gold from the Planet’s soft underbelly, in doing releasing thousands of tonnes of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere  helping choke the lungs of the Earth- just like the English Ironmasters who filled the lungs of our little ones with pneumoconiosis and all for profit and greed- You the good people of the United Arab Emirates or the United States of America would never force anyone into slavery- just for greed, money and power – now would you?”

The room fell silent.

“We in Wales have tried our best to put in place many measures to reduce our genetic carbon footprint such as becoming the first Country in the former United Kingdom to impose a mandatory 20 MPH speed limit in urban areas – not just to reduce the number of accidents- but also to reduce traffic pollution from petrol and diesel engines- the extraction of oil and natural gas must stop otherwise we could turn the Planet into desert regions just like this one!” Mog continued.

The room was more silent than a Trappist Monk fart.

The Prince rolled his eyes but let Mog continue as each speaker was allotted 15 minutes.

Mog picked his nose and rolled it in-between his right thumb and fore finger and stuck the bogie to the underside of the podium- just like he did with his chewing gum in secondary school in his native Rhondda Valley.

“No more greenwashing- no more green credits for companies who burn wood from trees and claim tax relief on it.....otherwise the Ice Caps in Snowdonia will melt leading to the extinction of the endangered Welsh Yeti.....!”

Mog paused for dramatic effect.

“We conducted a survey in conjunction with Friends of the Earth and Greenpeace and it was found that one of the biggest sources of greenhouse gas was old cow farts...so we immediately recalled the Senedd and insisted they wear Michelle Mone PPE masks to cut down on their Bullshit....we also send a message on Facebook to our online followers to ensure that if they were returning from England that it was manda-TORY to defecate on the English side of the Owain Glyndwr Prince of Wales Bridge!”

“It had 11 million likes and was clearly a popular policy with the second generation ovine voters too!”

“Westminster has reduced the amount of money it gives to the Principality Post-Brexit- under the ‘Trinkets for the Natives’ budgetary policy recorded in Hansard- the Welsh people now have to have a roads curfew as the street lighting and road lighting gets turned off by most County Councils at 7pm-!”.....”We even had to pull the slogan of the extra £350 Million a week for the NHS off the side of the former Pit Ponies!”

“We have tried alternative green measures to increase the amount going into the National Grid but just like our Welsh Water it is syphoned off by our colonial masters- Water Mills, Wind Turbines (personally I am not a big fan) and solar panels on the roof.....we even attached a lead to the Pelaton of Olympic cyclist Geraint Thomas but it wasn’t enough and he crashed yet again as a result....!”

“We stopped burning down holiday homes in West Wales too – although the advent of Ring doorbell technology was a deciding factor too...!”

Looking directly at the Papua New Guinea delegate- “We even took a ‘leaf’ out of your book and started eating Pro-European Vegans- as they were filled full of vegetables- but Port Talbot’s Anthony Hopkins confirmed he preferred to eat a liver and a nice Chianti and not just the ‘Remains’ of the Day!”

Mog cast his eyes to the back of the hall where two delegates were leaving.

“India and China.....I can see you sneaking out”  

The heads of the audience turned towards them – shaming them- and then back. Just like a Wimbledon Tennis Umpire when Anna Kournikova has bent over to pick up a ball.

“We Welsh and you Arabs must stick together....we go back over 2000 years to when Welshman Hugh Griffith playing Sheik Iderim in Ben Hur!”

“We must together stop the new chariots polluting our Cities ....I live in O.P.E.C that this generation of children will still be able to live on the Earth....after all there is no Planet B only a Cardi one....there can be no RE-GRETAS....we must (pointing at the sleeping or possibly dead US President Joe Biden) educate these Fossil Fools!”

“The two biggest perils to the Planet are caused by air pollution- how many of you 8,000.00 delegates walked in your Jesus sandals to this Climate Change Conference- you three (pointing at the British delegation consisting of Tory Prime Minster (this month) Rishi Sunak, Foreign Secretary & Pig F**ker David Cameron and King Charles III ....I bet you all flew here separately on private jets!”

“I, on the other hand set out a month ago arriving on this trusty coracle!” continued Mog.
  
 “How much damage did I do to the environment and ozone layer?”

“Admittedly, I had to dump all my daily faeces in the Palm Jumeirah & the World Islands but it is only what the Former United Kingdom Government is doing Post-Brexit to our Welsh rivers anyway- the ‘Bog’ Snorkelling Championship is no longer confined to Llanwrtyd Wells!”

“And the second one from Silicon Valley- all the Earth’s precious energy is being wasted on mobile phone charging, I-Pods, I-Pads & Laptops.....just like your close neighbour from your friends in Israel- Moses- we need to take the tablets away..... !”

“And Swedish Doom Goblin Greta Thunberg has her part to play too- unless we change the ways of the young as well as the old and their addiction to selfies and social media- as time is running out -Tik- Tokking away if you like!”

“The only electrical appliances to be charged into the National Grid should be the Sinclair C5 electric trikes- pioneered by the late Sir Clive Sinclair- the purported Saviour of the Hoovers Washing Machine Factory- before it was hung out to dry in my native Merthyr Tydfil-!”

“What do you need a mobile phone anyway- except if you are hanging off a cliff precipice?...and with the exception of the Burj Khalifa how many off them do you have in Abu Dhaba?”

“ That is why the Swiss yodel!”

“The Global economy should not be built on a house of fog and sand!”

“It’s time to shut down the reliance on oil and natural gas before it destroys the Earth and the Planet overheats and turns us into Mercury!”

“You lot sit here and play Good C.O.P but outside its bad and please remember that ULEZ stands for Ultra Low Emissions Zones in London and should not be a reference to the lead lady in a Pride March- you bunch of Shi-ites!”

Prince Al Bin Chopiz Ed Off now made eyes at the security guards that Mog’s time was up. In his muslin robe, he looked as white as a Sheikh. Mog’s fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Warhol he had raved on about was now over.

It was his time in the sun. The Hosts would peg him out naked in the desert with no Boots Factor 50 to help him. Either that or take him to the Turkish Embassy.

“Good afternoon and thank you for finally attending this Job Start Interview!” Said the Civil Servant.

“You’re welcome Mr Isious!” replied the attendee politely-reading the name badge on the Official- with all the charm of a gentleman that had been to Gordonstoun and then Dartmouth Naval College.

“ Mr Andrew Albert Christian Edward Windsor I presume,…do you have any photographic identification on you to prove this fact?” asked the former DSS snooper.

“Sorry…one doesn’t carry a wallet around with me…money is vulgar…hang on …One has a photograph of oneself flying a helicopter in the Falklands War …would that suffice…is that what you are Sea King?” Asked the eighth in line to the throne of England, passing over a tattered old Kodak snapshot, now yellowing with age.

“Not really but it will have to do…don’t forget you won’t be allowed to vote at the next General Election without proper identification documents you know!” replied the know -it - all Government employee reading from the YouGov site.

“ So why is one here….is one in trouble?” asked the disgraced Royal.

“Not compared to recent events….you are here because officially you have not worked since 2002 when you left the Navy!” Replied the jobsworth.

“That’s 21 years to be precise and you are only aged 63 and therefore still of an age that you are eligible to work!” He continued.

The Duke of York gulped nervously but didn’t sweat it.

“So according to our Government records, you are receiving State benefit from the Sovereign Grant , formerly the Civil List, to the tune of £250,000.00 ….the question is are you actively looking for work?” the interviewer said looking over his bifocal glasses.

“Well ….stuttered the Prince….my Mother has only recently died …!”

“That was over six months ago in September 2022!” Continued the Questioner.

“And what about the previous two decades….were you just F***ing about?” asked the Civil Servant turning very uncivil.

“Look…one told that BBC Lady, Emily Mattress, in my other interview that one doesn’t drink coffee and therefore haven’t been anywhere near a Maxwell House!” denied the Duke.

“So what exactly have you been doing since your last recorded job in 1982?” Asked Mr Icious.

“Do you have a first name ?” Asked Andrew.

“Of course…it’s Malcolm!” Replied the Government Employee.

“May one call you Mal?….Mr Icious?” Queried the Duke.

“Most certainly NOT!” Replied the Job Centre Plus Interviewer.

“This is a formal interview to determine if you deserve to continue to receive handouts from the state!” He continued.

“So other than playing around with your chopper for two decades…what exactly have you
been doing?”

“Well…one has been waving a lot …!” replied the Royal with absolute sincerity.

The interviewer furrowed his brow and stared at the Duke.

“Mainly from the deck of the Royal Yacht Britannia…!” he stuttered.

“ Do you know the song a life on the ocean ‘wave’ is better than going to sea?” Said the posh
boy.

“Is that why you are called Handy Andy then?….I thought it was for a different reason!” said Malcolm turning the Royal colour Purple, apoplectic with rage.

“Well we both sponge money off the Taxpayer don’t we?” Said Andrew trying to find ‘common’ ground with the commoner.

“ You mean as a civil servant I am obliged to accept a below inflation pay award and work till I am 67 …five years longer than any Frenchman …whilst you live the life of Riley….it’s complete nonsense!”

“Some would say nonce-sense actually!” Replied the Sniggerer.

“And don’t mention Frogmore please….it’s still a sore point with my family!”

“So are you claiming too for any dependents?” Asked the Interviewer.

“Yes, for one’s daughters Beatrice & Eugenie !” The Royal outcast said.

“ And how old they…are they still in school or full time education?” Malcolm pressed
harder.

“Let me see Beatrice is 34 and Eugenie 32 and of course Sarah my other dependent is 63!” Andrew continued.

“Don’t any of them have their own jobs?” Asked Malcolm absolutely flabbergasted.

After three long minutes of laughing from Andrew he replied “Are you serious?”

Looking around the whitewashed walls of the Windsor Job Centre, he uttered.

“Come on…who set this up ….Michael McIntyre or Ant n Dec?”

“Can’t be Jeremy Beadle….he is no longer about after all!”

“This isn’t a laughing matter, Mr Windsor…I am here to make sure that you find work or we stop your State ‘benefit’ like everyone else in this Country!” said the official in a more Mal Icious tone.

“So what skills do you have?” Asked Malcolm.

Andrew racked his brain and repeated “Waving?”

“There are several job opportunities available working in the Pizza Express Woking Branch….do you know it?” asked the Interviewer.

“No!” Replied the Duke immediately.

“Never been there in my life….oops…on second thoughts one went there with one’s daughter on the night that one DIDN’T go to Tramp nightclub…!”

“What perks do you get ?”

“Well it is a bit like the Hooters restaurants they have in Canada and the US with young girls serving in skimpy outfits only with different ‘toppings!” said Malcolm luring the new Prince of Darkness in to bite.

“Interested?”

The Duke was now leaning forward at the desk.

Malcolm lifted the telephone up and spoke into it.

“Susan…would you be good enough to bring me in the Pizza Express bakery job application forms for the Woking branch….you will find them under the
P- Dough File!”

Andrew looked suspiciously at the Official he had heard that word chanted a lot when he was in Buckingham Palace ever since he had innocently paid Three Million Pounds to a charity suggested by a girl he had never met.

“You are aware that the allegations about One and Miss Go Free were never proved in a Court of Law do you? said the Duke rather testily.

“Not my concern really!” Said Malcolm.

“Do you know why One did that free interview with Emily Mattress?” Countered Andrew.

“Former BBC reporter Martin Bashir rang up the Palace claiming he had further evidence….bloody phoney wank statements….how dull does he think one is? …Princess Diana or something?” raged Andrew.

“Oh ‘hang on’….there is also an International Job going as a prison officer at the New York Correctional Centre….sounds like money for old rope…!”said Malcolm looking at his computer screen.

“ Are you still allowed to visit the United States ….?” challenged Malcolm.

“Come to think of it….One does have a lot of Air Miles left on One’s frequent flyer account to Palm Beach , Florida….but on second thoughts best not to go there again…you know with all those selfies of people One has never actually met….!” mused Andrew.

“Sauna Tester in IKEA in Kyrgyzstan?” proffered Malcolm.

“You could do that no sweat!”

The evil eye from the Royal followed.

“Why does one have to get a job anyway …surely with all those people coming over in those small boats ….they need a job more than One does…after all…One’s ancestors created the British Empire especially for people who DO have the ability to break sweat….!” Replied the oyal in a posh voice.

“Oh they are fast tracked to Rwanda these days…so the Post-Brexit fruit is still rotting in the fields without anyone to pick it!” said Malcolm.

“Do you fancy a try?….after all you have a plum in your mouth most of the time anyway!”
He continued.

Andrew leaned in and whispered

“One thinks we both know that neither One nor One’s family are ever going to do REAL work as we are too important to the British economy given the amount we bring in from tourism?” Replied Not so Handy.

“How much is that a year?”asked Mal.

“19 Million Pinds!” said the Royal gurning with the pronunciation.

“And the cost to the tax payer for the Sovereign Grant ?” questioned the Interviewer. “Don’t know or care!” Said Andrew churlishly.

“It’s amazing what you can find on the internet especially with a Freedom of Information form these days…..try £369 Million give or take a few clocks…!” Replied the clear Republican.

“ So what is your point exactly?” Asked the peeved Royal feeling more exposed than Prince Harry at a Las Vegas pool party.

“Everyone in Britain must now pay their way or get deported to Rwanda!” said Mal “That’s the most ridiculous thing one has ever heard!” said Andy channelling the late Kenny Everett.

“What about Stanley Johnson up for a knighthood?” asked Mal the inquisitor.

“Point taken!” sniggered Andy.

Tony Robinson looked nervously at the television camera. This was a first even for the ‘Time Team’ and its archaeologists. The deep scan of the Norman crypt at Morlais Castle in Merthyr Tydfil had revealed a hollow
chamber behind the inner walls and the readings for metal possible gold and silver were going off the scale.

Tony genuinely believed they had discovered a treasure hoard possibly confiscated from local Celtic chieftains in the 13th Century. He felt giddy at the prospect of being as famous as Howard Carter, who had discovered the
unopened the burial chamber of King Tutankhamen in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt in 1922.

What treasure lay beyond these limestone walls that had remained hidden for 800 years?

He wanted to be recognised and not just being remembered as that ‘Baldprick’ from Black Adder who was ridiculed and bullied by Rowan Atkinson.

Tony scraped away at the remaining millimetres of limestone rock concealing the chamber and finally managed to pierce its inner layer enough to get a flashlight in the tiny aperture. He had been excited at the potential find and had in his childlike state put off using the toilet in all the fuss- he wanted to be the one to have the fame. Besides, there were no longer any public toilets in the Merthyr Town centre due to Council
cutbacks.

As he peered inside, he suddenly frightened the film crew who feared a booby trap for a grave robber, as he came face to face with a figure of a Norman soldier completely dressed in armour. The shock made Tony piss himself uncontrollably, as the result of a mixture of fear and anxiety.

There was another more welcoming emotion too- relief -as like Magnus Magnusson on Mastermind he had started so he may has well finish.

“ Oi Slackbladder...do you mind ?...You’re pissing on my suede shoes!” said the hatted figure of Time Team regular Mick Aston.

The warm of the yellow liquid on a cold grey day in a Valleys cave was welcome, but pleasure quickly became misery as he had ruined his expensive corduroy trousers. The cameraman panned down at the front of them to compound Tony’s misery. Ever the professional Tony said to the screen “ Be careful if you go into limestone caves as there is a lot of water around that can splash your clothes indiscriminately- drips from stalactites go down and stalagmites go up!” he said trying to bluff his way out of the embarrassment.

“ Oh and be careful of incontinent television presenters too ....always give them room to go into a dig ...in case they shit on you!” said Mick taking the mick.

Tony looked at his sidekick with a stare that could kill. He concentrated on the task in hand. He continued to gouge at the circle of wet rock in a circular fashion with a small hand drill until he had enough of a gap to get his head in.

When he had done so, he placed the torch in his mouth and shone it around with a jaw movement . If he hadn’t had to hold the light source in his teeth he would have been open mouthed. “ Is the crypt untouched.....the Norman seal intact?” asked Mick impatiently.

Tony withdrew his head and pass the flashlight to Mick.

“ See for yourself!” he said almost whispering.

Mick peered through the hole like an amateur gynaecologist and his jaw dropped. He could see row after row of Norman soldiers clad in full battle regalia like they originally wore in the 1066 Normandy invasion.

“ We have found the limestone equivalent of the Terracotta Army!” said Mick leaping on Tony in his joy forgetting momentarily that Tony had pissed himself earlier.

“ This is a living Bayeaux Tapestry....its priceless!” said Mick punching the air.

“ I have dreamt of finding something of this magnitude and historical importance all my life -even when I was a homeless student archaeologist....looking for ‘digs’!” said the one time stand in for Worzel Gummidge.

The overpowering smell of urine reached his nostrils, as he too realised he now smelt like he had trench foot.

Tony & Mick began hacking at the remaining wall to allow full bodily access all the while watching out for ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ style booby traps for intended grave robbers.

Mick half expected a giant ball to come rolling out of the darkness or for a crossbow to hit him King Harold style in the eye.

There was however, a warning written in French on a plaque above the head of the first soldier which the pair took to be William of Normandy.

They guessed this was the case as the towering figure was well over six feet tall and had a massive Eric Cantona- style nose .

“I assume that is William the CONKeror!” laughed Tony slipping back into character.

“ Can you read that sign in French?”

“ Of CORSE I CANNES!” quipped back Aston purtting on a phoney French accent and talking quickly.

“ It is a warning that if the seal of this burial chamber is broken the nearby Hamlet will suffer 200 years of decline, depression , famine and flood!” replied Mick.

“ Bit late for Merthyr either that or someone beat us to it!” laughed Tony his voice echoing around a chamber not opened for over half a Millenia.

Tony checked to be sure there were no trip wires in front of him before approaching the Norman Warlord.

“Look at that armour...imagine the weight of carrying that into battle every day!” he said looking up and realising he only came up to the nipple line of the historical figure.

“ I wouldn’t have lasted long against someone his size!”

Mick too was in an orgiastic state seeing such historical splendour laid out in row after row stretching back into the darkness almost as if the army was ready to march on the command from their leader.

“ We are Sooo privileged to be the ones to find this lot!” he said.

The eerie silence was broken as a whooshing sound was heard as a projectile hit the wall near the newly created entrance in the limestone rock. The normally bluey-white rock was suddenly covered in an explosion of orange.

“ Don’t move or Baldprick gets it!” shouted a Welsh voice from the Darkness.

Mick Aston suddenly realised the projectile hadn’t come from the crossbow of a Medieval army but a more modern source of a paintball gun.

“ These figures and any gold and silver in their pouches belong to us!” said another voice.
“ Who are you?” asked Tony.

“ We are the guardians of this chamber and these soldiers are our ancestors- we are the Normans from Bramble Close in the Gurnos and you are standing in our family grave.!” said the first voice obviously the leader.

“ We are from Time Team from the television...perhaps you have seen us on the Discovery Channel?” replied Tony.

“ No!” was the straight reply.

“ We found them in the same way we ‘found’ those frozen cod steaks when someone broke into the Merthyr Tydfil Iceland store....we call it ‘Findus Keepers’ or you might recognise it as ‘Treasure Trove’ a rule established prior to the coming of us Normans in 1066 under Edward the Confessor.” said the musclebound Gurnos Warrior.

“ You on the other hand are trespassers!” boomed the voice filled with the sound of aggression.

“ Do you know what we do in Merthyr to grave robbers?” asked the leader, all 6 ft 8 inches of him enjoying terrorising the minor celebrity.

“ No?” gulped Tony.

“ We eat them!” said the Big Boss.....” Bones and all!”

Baldrick’s incontinence flared up again and he promptly shit himself.

A small trickle of a brown rivulet rolled down from his Don Estelle-style shorts into his socks...turning khaki into kak.

“ I wouldn’t eat him now if I were you !” argued Mick.

Mick had heard of some tribes in Papua New Guinea being headshrinkers and cannibals, but didn’t think it still went on at home in England & Wales.

“ Do you know what we call you English in these parts?” asked the Leader licking his lips.

“ Long Pig!” said the Norman.

“ Do you know why?”

“ We taste....like.... bacon?” stuttered Tony.

“ Correct....like HG Wells Time Machine we are the Morlocks and you the Eloi...!” said the voice.

“ Is that camera on...filming live to the Nation?” asked the Morlock Leader sharpening a barbecue spit knife.

“ Yes...!” lied the spluttering Tony...hoping it might be his Saviour. 

He knew Merthyr from reports in the Sun newspaper was renowned for having the laziest, un-fittest, workshy bunch of scumbags this side of the Great North/South Divide and had a lower life expectancy than Sierra Leone but cannibalism?

He bumped into the first soldier in the ranks and it fell backwards in a domino effect knocking down row after row of priceless historical limestone figures shattering and cracking them as they toppled one by one.

Tony’s heart was pounding and his blood pressure through the roof- if the Normans would eat him for entering their sanctuary what would they do to him in light of this sacrilege? He suddenly noticed another man stepping out of the shadows who had a familiar rubber face.

“ Rowan....is that you?” asked Tony clutching his chest.

The man responsible for Johnny English , Mr Bean and Blackadder bent over with laugh. He was joined by the fake Normans.

“ No... this isn’t Team Team or Not the 9 O’Clock News ...we are filming but a new edition of Candid

Camera as the BBC has run out of ideas....!” laughed Rowan .

“ Smile for the camera...it’s called Rowan’s laugh in!”

“ You bastard Atkinson....I nearly went the way of Mel Smith then...!” said Tony picking up his slurry filled pants that were hanging low like an MC Hammer video.

Looking at the grey limestone colour on Tony’s face , Rowan realised how close he had been to sending another member of the cast of Blackadder to that great Comedy Forum in the sky.

“ I think we both nearly made a grave mistake.!” said Atkinson.

Cast of Characters

Miss Arly Marble- a Septegenarian Tea- Total Lady from Yorkshire England (drinksYorkshire Tea)- deaf as a post – avaricious reader who mishears everything.

(Glenys)Mrs Eira Ray- an Irish Nationalist Poet who is on the Cruise to Map the Tombs & Pyramids.

(Abbie)Mrs Jane Dough - a retired Dental Nurse with an OCD complex and a limp.

(Alison)Doctor De’ath- A Doctor who switches accents at Will.-

(Curtis)Phil Le Delphia- A lawyer who specialises in Wills etc.

(Jack)Mr Rhodes Drage- an Oxford Professor who has anger management issues.

(Ron)Mr Len Scrafter- a former US American Football Referee, who has very bad eyesight.-

(Phil)Mr John Dough- a self- employed baker from Abercynon, husband of Mrs Jane Dough ( newperson)

Mr Nile Rogers - a honeymooner (new person)

Mrs Chic Rogers- a honeymooner (new person)

Omar God- an Egyptian Boat Crewman (new person or second part)

Opening scene- a Dahabiya Dream Boat on the Nile River in 2024

Miss Marble:“What a wonderful Asian country Egypt is- such history going back over five Millenia!”

Miss Eira Ray: “ Actually, Egypt is in Africa!” corrected the Irish Poet.

Miss Marble : “Who is a Freak?” countered the hearing challenged Miss Marble somewhatconfused hearing only part of the word.

Jane Dough : “Turn your hearing aids on Miss Marble-(pointing at her ears) NO-ONE is aFREAK….Egypt is in AFRICA!”

Miss Marble started to rummage in her travel bag and after a few seconds produced a case ofanti-perspirant called Lynx Africa.

Phil Le Delphia : “Well it is damn hot- he said taking the can from the table and spraying hissweaty armpits- “I hate these warm Countries!” he continued.

Rhodes Drage: “ So if you hate this heat that much… why did you book up a Nile Cruise on this Dahabiya Dream cruise boat …..in August of all times then?”

Phil looked down at his rubber Fitbit which had partially melted in a vain attempt to checkthe onboard temperature.

Doctor De’ath: “96% degrees in the shade- the Doctor said looking at his rectal thermometerwhich appeared to have chocolate still on it- sounds like a Third World record!”

(PoshEtonian accent)Len Scrafter: “Call this heat?.....try officiating at the Pasadena Superbowl in California…..it was Reffing Hell….96% degrees is nothing compared to that final between the MiamiDolphins and the Buffalo Bill redskins in 1996…….”

Rhodes Drage: “Correct me if I am wrong but I thought it was the Washington Redskins?”

Lens Scrafter: “In that Rosebowl- with no cover- they all had Redskins!”As the sailboat continued its journey from Luxor up river, the party of individuals thrown together on a narrow boat tried to relax but find out a little more about the strangers that they were sat around the wooden table with.

Phil Le Delphia : “ If you must know I am not here on a pleasure trip like most of you….I am here on business at the behest of my client…Mr John Dough…on my left , the Sole Director 28of Pudding Club Limited…. he came aboard this ship at first light….you know what baker’sare like….up at the crack of Dawn!”

Miss Marble: “Who is in the Pudding Club and been up the crack of Dawn?” – a lover of gossip and scandal with her Women’s Institute Friends

Jane Dough : “No… Miss Marble we are talking about my husband - a passenger called JohnDough!” said Jane lifting her hat and speaking into her ancient ear trumpet and pointing ather spouse with a knife.

Miss Marble: “There’s no need to shout….I am not deaf you know!”

John Dough: ‘ Well you are doing a damned fine impression then….you CoffinDodger!” shouted the irritated businessman.

Miss Marble glared at John – she had heard THAT- if looks could kill.

Enter to the breakfast time the newly- wed couple.“Do you mind if we join you?” Asked Nile Rogers.The Egyptian waiter added two more plates to the table.

Mrs Eira Ray:“Could I have some fruit please!”

John Dough : “Three Thousand Pounds each for this trip and I can’t even get a bacon sandwich !” He mumped miserably.The waiter bowed and returned with a platter of selected figs, dates and Palestinian not JaffaOranges.The two new arrivals giggled excitedly enjoying their honeymoon experience.“Pass the sugar… Sugar…!” Asked Nile of his spouse.“Pass the honey…Honey !” Replied Chic passing the Tate & Lyle.The other members of the breakfast club looked around at each other jealously.Mrs Dough sighed looking directly at her much older husband John Dough.“You never talk to me like THAT !”“0kay ….pass me the milk you old cow!” Replied the baker without looking up.Mrs Dough passed the milk alright as she poured the entire contents over his head.John Dough didn’t flinch Like Donald Trump he was used to a golden shower. He continued to eat his porridge with the Asses milk dripping off his bald pate.

“Talk about passed your eyes milk!’ quipped Len Scrafter.Mrs Dough embarrassed by the comment- threw her napkin onto the table and stormed off angrily.

Mrs Eira Ray: “Poetic justice if you ask me….you deserved that you chauvinist pig!”

“So I am pig now!” Replied John Dough milk dripping from his head and porridge smearedall around his mouth.“Somewhat ironic when I can’t get any in this Country!”Omar God looked on at the Westerners upset at the mention of the dirty animal that Jesus had cast a demon into.And looking round at the white devils sat around him he could see the results. Did they really deserve to rule the Planet?

Omar God: “Offendi , please do not mention such a dirty animal on my humble boat….it upsets me and my crew!”

John Dough:“Look Fuzzy Wuzzy…I am paying good money for this floating sieve…and I can say what I pigging well want…..when I want ….and I don’t care what you and Mo Salahover there think about it one jot….”

Omar’s face suddenly changed as the Protective Eye of Horus took on the look of the Osiris -the Ancient Egyptian God of death and the Underworld.He was ‘Thothing’ at the mouth at the arrogance of the Englishman insulting him in his own Country and the boat he had lovingly crafted with his own hands. It was all he could do not to put his hands around John Dough’s throat and squeeze the Pilsbury dough out of him. Lens Crafter pulling a yellow referee card from his pocket and waving it at John Dough.“I am booking you….I think you owe this A-rab an apology!”

Omar God: “Thank you Effendi, but I am not an Arab but a Coptic Muslim!” Replied theboat owner.

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall who is the least pharoahest one of all!” Said the poetic Eira Rayglaring at John Dough.

“Typical Brexiteer, still thinks Britannia rules the waves…..I have a message for you John Bull….the Empire ended after the Second World War….if I had my way I would rid the World of all you arrogant English and unify the Emerald Isle in the process!”“ Cromwell didn’t go far enough with your lot!’ said John Dough without looking up fromhaving his gruel.“Here’s your Orange Order …you bloody banshee !” He said picking up a Jaffa and angrilyslinging one at the Irish Molly Malone.

It was all Eira could do to restrain herself clutching her cutlery and muttering the phrase:“Remember Louis Mountbatten Imperialist Englishman!”Professor Rhodes Rage was now face to face and nose to nose with John Dough so close he could taste the porridge.

Len’s Scrafter reached into his pocket and pulled a different card out this time.“Red card for the red coat …..and you Oxford Don......anymore and you will both be sent offthis lovely boat too”.“

I think we need a Ready Break Boyo!” interjected Doctor De’ath separating the two (Welsh Valleys Accent) .“ I thought there was still a special relationship between the US and Britain!” he said trying to appease the pair.

John Dough: “What do you know…you bloody Quack….I bet those certificates in your offices were printed off the internet and authenticated by Former Tory Party Chairman,Jeffrey Archer!”

Miss Marble: “If there is one Nation I dislike more than the Southern English it is their mutant offspring colonists it is those from the New World!” said the Northern English Female Sleuth.“I haven’t forgiven that lot across the pond for tipping all that lovely Yorkshire tea into thatBoston harbour in 1773….those sons were really taking a liberty!’ said Miss Marble handover the silver tea pot pouring out a cup delicately.

John Dough: “ Shut up you old trout….no one cares what you think….and I have got newsfor you …you need to change those batteries in your hearing aids….that wasn’t a silent fart you let out earlier….with table manners like that you need to be sent back to Richard Branson…. no wonder you are still a Virgin and will be returned to God in a box marked‘unopened’!”

Miss Marble suddenly lost her own marbles and picked up a butter knife and started threatening him with a throat slitting gesture like she was a member of the Bloods or the Crips.“Are you determined to upset everyone on this boat before breakfast?” Interjected Nile Rogers.

“If the cap fits!” Replied John Dough.“And I would put one on with if my Missus looked like THAT!’” he said pointing at his newwife.“I have never been so insulted in my life!” Declared the outraged Chic Rogers.“Surely…with THAT face you MUST have been!” roared John Dough unashamedly.Nile Rogers stood up to punch the obnoxious factory owner but was restrained by Lawyer Phil Le Delphia.“Careful …you don’t want to be charged with assault like that Turkish Football Club Owner now do you?”“And you …John Dough as my client…. I would advise you to tone it down until at YEAST  you have SIGNED your new Will!”

Continued Phil.“Yes …ooh ah…think of your high blood pressure!” Continued Dr De’ath ( SwindonWiltshire Accent )The purple faced Gammon just glared around at the crowd of strangers he had already insulted.He looked like he would catch fire at any second.He loved his ability to upset other people and ruin their lives.It is all he lived for -as his lifetime accumulation of bread had not made him any happier- nor had his unlimited supply of crumpet over the years that his money had attracted.It would be a long week on this Dahabiya Dreamboat which would now probably turn into a nightmare.The guests one by one retired to their respective cabins below deck.

Scene Two

Thirty minutes later a piercing scream was heard from down below.It was Jane Dough- who had suddenly become the latest widow on the boat.

The tourists all rushed towards cabin 13-which bore the name of Julius Caesar.Each of the cabins on board the Dream Boat had names associated with Egypt.Ptolemy, Cleopatra and of course the Bangles. First to the doorway was Doctor De’ath, who complete with black medical bag rushed into tothe cabin to find Jane doing an impression of Edvard Greig’s the Scream - frozen in shockwith her hands over her cheeks like a version of McAuley Culkin looking through theNeverland Ranch window at an approaching Michael Jackson.

The doorway soon became crowded as the rest of the passengers and crew arrived one byone.The body of John Dough lay face down on the bed with a knife lodged in his back wedged between his shoulder blades.

“He’s dead!” Declared Doctor De’ath checking the cadaver’s pulse.As he moved the body slightly, the corpse let out a death rattle of his own which sounded like the horn of a cruise ship on the River Nile waking up Omar God asleep at the wheel with a start.“I think it was suicide and not a Murder!” Pronounced Dr De’ath looking at the entry wound of the knife.( Scottish Accent like Taggart)

“Are you REALLY a Doctor?” enquired Rhodes Drage suspiciously.“Please explain how the Hell he could have stabbed HIMSELF in the back?” said LenScrafter though his thick milk bottle glasses…..”

“I can’t see it myself!- although it is definite foul play!”Eira Ray :‘I agree with Mr Magoo here….what did he do ?……fall on the knifebackwards?….it is impossible - as he is lying FACE down!”.

Len Scrafter said what most of the innocent passengers were thinking“Good riddance to bad rubbish….he deserved to be sent off!”

Jane Dough: “Do you mind….where is your sensitivity?….he may only have been my husband for a year …but he didn’t deserve to be murdered in this way!”

Len Scrafter: “ I am a soccer referee …..we DON’T have any feelings!”

Dr De’ath : “We must inform the Egyptian Authorities immediately of the death….mainlybecause I get ash cash for pronouncing him dead….finder’s keepers!”

Len Scrafter: “ He was a goalie as well as a policeman?”

Jane Dough: “ Not that kind of keeper nor a Policeman-He was a baker !- that’s why Imarried him …. he told me he had loads of Dough!”Len Scrafter somewhat confused having been lost in translation.

Len Scrafter : “ But someone said he was a Pig earlier?”

Miss Marble: “ From experience….best not to involve the Police until we know what has transpired…..otherwise we could be held captive on this boat for days!”

Mr Nile Rogers: “ I agree ….if we tell the Egyptian Authorities they will stop the Cruise and ruin our Honeymoon and we won’t get to see all the Wonders of the Ancient World like Karnak and Abu Simbel “ he pleaded.

Chic Rogers: “ Please- it’s not like he was a good man now is it - you all bore a grudgeagainst him earlier!” The passengers all looked at each other and then back at the lawyer for guidance.

Phil Le Delphia: “ Well we could all be accessories to murder if we don’t report it to the crewbut we all have our individual good reasons for the Cruise to continue!”

Rhodes Drage: “What’s yours?”

Phil Le Delphia : “ His cheque for my services hasn’t cleared yet!….and he said whisperingin the ear of Jane Dough ….”His Will states you must survive him by a week before you get to inherit his fortune!”

Jane Dough changing tack like the wooden sail boat on the Nile she was on replied:“ Perhaps we shouldn’t act so hastily after all ….but we need to keep this quiet from thecrew until in six days time we arrive at the Aswan Dam!”

Eira Ray: “ In times of trouble we should do what they would do at the Stormont Parliament Buildings and have a democratic vote or blow up the boat with Semtex and destroy the evidence….I have a friend called Sean Finn you know!” winking with her eye.

Rhodes Drage: “ We could just wait till dark and tip his body into the Nile and report him missing later?”

Eira Ray: “ We wouldn’t want to give a Rivers of Blood speech to the Egyptian Authorities……besides there aren’t any Nile Crocodiles left this side of the Aswan Dam to dispose of the body!”

Jane Dough: “ We could just prop him up in the bed as if he is ill and tell the crew he is not to be disturbed…..I will bring him his meals to our room until Aswan !” she suggested.

Miss Marble : “ But there still leaves us with one big problem….there is still a murderer present on this boat and it could be any one of you lot!”

Nile Rogers: “ What about you….who do you think you are?....An amateur ColleenRooney?”

Chic Rogers: “ Yes…why are you above suspicion …while you point that bony wrinkled finger at the rest of us?”

Miss Marble : “My Heroine Agatha Christie wrote seventy five novels and fourteen shortstories and not once does an elderly spinster turn out to be the murderer!”

Len Scrafter: “ Not even in that Ku Klux Klan based novel? ….Ten Little ....” he was interrupted by Phil Le Delphia.

Phil Le Delphia: “ Us woke lefty lawyers do not use that word anymore ….but I agree withMiss Marble not even Hercule Poirot would point the finger at an innocent old lady….that would be ageist and flawed logic ….besides the noise of her zimmer clumping on this Lebanon Cedar wood floor would have given her away….!”

Eira Ray: “ Coming from Ireland, I have lived amongst murderers all my life so anotherweek or so won’t bother me….can we go to a vote now!….raise your right hand if you agree with the plan to postpone reporting the missing body until Aswan!”

The shell- shocked passengers raised their hands in turn starting with Eira Ray. Then Jane Dough.Dr De’ath.Phil Le Delphia.Rhodes Drage.Nile Rogers.Chic Rogers.Miss Marble.The only one hesitant was Len Scrafter- they all stared at him.

Len Scrafter: “ What ….I don’t want to be unpopular….but on this occasion I won’t be the one to blow the whistle!” He protested.Jane Dough- thinking off her inheritance started subliminally to hum ‘Crocodile Shoes’ by Jimmy Nail.

Eira Ray: “ It is unanimous….we all plead ignorance ….and pretend John Dough is missing until his partially eaten body turns up just like Steve Irwin and we blame the crocodiles and hippos for his death….we just need to remove the knife first and stem the blood flow….DrDe’ath can you stitch him up?”

Dr De’ath : “ Of course…we doctors took a Hippo- cratic oath…we have long been able to bury our mistakes….look how long it took the authorities to catch Dr Harold Shipman!”

Eira Ray: “ Talking about stitch ups ….my Father was a member of the Guildford Four Pub bombings and served fourteen years in jail for an offence he didn’t commit …so it would be sweet revenge to get one over on the justice system this time….in the interim, I suggest we appoint Miss Marble here to investigate this Death on the Nile!”

Miss Marble: “Who is Deaf on the Nile?”

Jane Dough: “ No one Miss Marble…but just like Jeffrey Epstein’s Black Book we do have a John Doe here and unlike Epstein we can’t afford to hang around!”

Rhodes Drage: “Besides they say that once you lose one of your senses the others are enhanced!” nodding at Miss Marble.

Miss Marble: “ Well my investigative sense is already enhanced….I know exactly who the killer is….but the big question is do you? If we all meet upstairs at the dinner table I will ENDEAVOUR to reveal the answer after we have all had the house speciality soup….having been on this cruise several times….it is to diefor!”

Scene 3 - the dinner table.

Omar God and his crew have prepared a delicious lunch of a local Soup delicacy.

Omar God: “ We have copied each of your passports and will return your original credit cards after dinner today….it is important that you all eat the food at the same time …..it creates a family atmosphere and bonds travellers on this unique experience!”

Just like an episode of TV show Death in Paradise, the passengers sat with baited breath hungry not only for food but also to find out what Miss Marble had discovered - she seemed so certain she knew the identity of the killer.

Miss Marble: “ I hope everyone enjoyed their meal ….one thing is certain you will never taste a meal like that again!”

Eira Ray: “ That soup was delicious Omar….what was it called?”

Omar God: “ Cleopatra’s Soup….a bowl fit for a Queen on the Nile!”

Jane Dough: “ It was so moreish ….if only my husband was still alive ….he would badger you for the recipe with his rolling pin cocked!”

Lens Scrafter: “ I have travelled the World …been on cruises on the Panama Canal and through the Amazon from Manaus to Puerto Rico but I have never tasted anything so divine….it even beats our home grown five star restaurants of McDonalds & KFC !”

Nile Rogers: “ If my new wife can cook anything like meal I will be a happy man….only this morning I asked her how she wanted her eggs this morning and she replied….Fertilised!”

Chic Rogers: “Omar God…what is the secret ingredient?”

Omar God: “ Ah…now I recognise that voice…I thought you were calling my name from the Honeymoon Suite earlier on!”

Miss Marble: “ If Omar reveals his secret he would have to kill you all as it goes back millennia- he calls it Gordon Ramses Soup because he says everyone swears by it!”

Phil Le Delphia: “ Well Miss Marble don’t keep us in suspense any longer…who amongst us is the murderer?”

Miss Marble: “ I will give you a few minutes to digest things!”The entire table started to belch & burp- just as is the Arab custom when I good Mcmeal has been provided.

Miss Marble: “ Oh that’s easy….it was me all along!” she said leaving go of her zimmer andwalking upright like Keyser Soze at the end of the film the Usual Suspects.Phil Le Delphia clutches at his throat as one by one do each of the passengers.

Miss Marble: “ Omar here and I set up this little venture three years ago now…we lure people to Egypt….take their passports and credit cards and bury their bodies in the Sudanese desert ….the soup you all ate contained a secret ingredient alright…deadly venom from theEgyptian Asp …the kind that killed Cleopatra 2000 years ago …if you had bothered to learn the Egyptian language you would have discovered that Dhabihah means ‘slaughterhouse’in Islamic - the ritual slaughter of multiple animals at the same time!’

Phil Le Delphia : “ But they know our whereabouts at the Hotel!” struggling to talk for the first time in his life before gurling and choking.

Miss Marble : “My friends at the Kempinski Nile Hotel will swear they never saw you and the US and British Embassies don’t care ….ask Nazanin Zaghari- Ratcliffe…when you meet her in the after- life!”

Dr De’ath: “ That explains it….as his head dropped to the table….I wondered why the trave lbrochure was called the Book of the Dead !”

Miss McMarble: “ Deaf initly!”

“Good afternoon and thank you for finally attending this Job Start Interview!” Said the Civil Servant.

“You’re welcome Mr Isious!” replied the attendee politely-reading the name badge on the Official- with all the charm of a gentleman that had been to Gordonstoun and then Dartmouth Naval College.

“ Mr Andrew Albert Christian Edward Windsor I presume,…do you have any photographic identification on you to prove this fact?” asked the former DSS snooper.

“Sorry…one doesn’t carry a wallet around with me…money is vulgar…hang on …One has a photograph of oneself flying a helicopter in the Falklands War …would that suffice…is that what you are Sea King?” Asked the eighth in line to the throne of England, passing over a tattered old Kodak snapshot, now yellowing with age.

“Not really but it will have to do…don’t forget you won’t be allowed to vote at the next General Election without proper identification documents you know!” replied the know -it - all Government employee reading from the YouGov site.

“ So why is one here….is one in trouble?” asked the disgraced Royal.

“Not compared to recent events….you are here because officially you have not worked since 2002 when you left the Navy!” Replied the jobsworth.

“That’s 21 years to be precise and you are only aged 63 and therefore still of an age that you are eligible to work!” He continued.

The Duke of York gulped nervously but didn’t sweat it.

“So according to our Government records, you are receiving State benefit from the Sovereign Grant , formerly the Civil List, to the tune of £250,000.00 ….the question is are you actively looking for work?” the interviewer said looking over his bifocal glasses.

“Well ….stuttered the Prince….my Mother has only recently died …!” 

“That was over six months ago in September 2022!” Continued the Questioner.

“And what about the previous two decades….were you just F***ing about?” asked the Civil Servant turning very uncivil.

“Look…one told that BBC Lady, Emily Mattress,  in my other interview that one doesn’t  drink coffee and therefore haven’t been anywhere near a Maxwell House!” denied the Duke.

“So what exactly have you been doing since your last recorded job in 1982?” Asked Mr Icious.

“Do you have a first name ?” Asked Andrew.

“Of course…it’s Malcolm!” Replied the Government Employee.

“May one call you Mal?….Mr Icious?” Queried the Duke.

“Most certainly NOT!” Replied the Job Centre Plus Interviewer.

“This is a formal interview to determine if you deserve to continue to receive handouts from the state!” He continued.

“So other than playing around with your chopper for two decades…what exactly have you been doing?”

“Well…one has been waving a lot …!” replied the Royal with absolute sincerity.

The interviewer furrowed his brow and stared at the Duke.

“Mainly from the deck of the Royal Yacht Britannia…!” he stuttered.

“ Do you know the song a life on the ocean ‘wave’ is better than going to sea?” Said the posh boy.

“Is that why you are called Handy Andy then?….I thought it was for a different reason!” said Malcolm turning the Royal colour Purple, apoplectic with rage.

“Well we both sponge money off the Taxpayer don’t we?” Said Andrew trying to find ‘common’ ground with the commoner.

“ You mean as a civil servant I am obliged to accept a below inflation pay award and work till I am 67 …five years longer than any Frenchman …whilst you live the life of Riley….it’s complete nonsense!”

“Some would say nonce-sense actually!” Replied the Sniggerer.

“And don’t mention Frogmore please….it’s still a sore point with my family!” 

“So are you claiming too for any dependents?” Asked the Interviewer.

“Yes, for one’s daughters Beatrice &  Eugenie !” The Royal outcast said.

“ And how old they…are they still in school or full time education?” Malcolm pressed harder.

“Let me see Beatrice is 34 and Eugenie 32 and of course Sarah my other dependent is 63!” Andrew continued.

“Don’t any of them have their own jobs?” Asked Malcolm absolutely flabbergasted.

After three long minutes of laughing from Andrew he replied “Are you serious?”

Looking around the whitewashed walls of the Windsor Job Centre, he uttered.

“Come on…who set this up ….Michael McIntyre or Ant n Dec?”

“Can’t be Jeremy Beadle….he is no longer about after all!”

“This isn’t a laughing matter, Mr Windsor…I am here to make sure that you find work or we stop your State ‘benefit’ like everyone else in this Country!” said the official in a more Mal Icious tone.

“So what skills do you have?” Asked Malcolm.

Andrew racked his brain and repeated “Waving?”

“There are several job opportunities available working in the Pizza Express Woking Branch….do you know it?” asked the Interviewer.

“No!” Replied the Duke immediately.

“Never been there in my life….oops…on second thoughts one went there with one’s daughter on the night that one DIDN’T go to Tramp nightclub…!”

“What perks do you get ?”

“Well it is a bit like the Hooters restaurants they have in Canada and the US with young girls serving in skimpy outfits only with different ‘toppings!” said Malcolm luring the new Prince of Darkness in to bite.

“Interested?” 

The Duke was now leaning forward at the desk.

Malcolm lifted the telephone up and spoke into it.

“Susan…would you be good enough to bring me in the Pizza Express bakery job application forms for the Woking branch….you will find them under the 

P- Dough File!” 

Andrew looked suspiciously at the Official he had heard that word chanted a lot when he was in Buckingham Palace ever since he had innocently paid Three Million Pounds to a charity suggested by a girl he had never met.

“You are aware that the allegations about One and Miss Go Free were never proved in a Court of Law do you? said the Duke rather testily.

“Not my concern really!” Said Malcolm.

“Do you know why One did that free interview with Emily Mattress?” Countered Andrew.

“Former BBC reporter Martin Bashir rang up the Palace claiming he had further evidence….bloody phoney wank statements….how dull does he think one is? …Princess Diana or something?” raged Andrew.

“Oh ‘hang on’….there is also an International Job going as a prison officer at the New York Correctional Centre….sounds like money for old rope…!”said Malcolm looking at his computer screen.

“ Are you still allowed to visit the United States ….?” challenged Malcolm.

“Come to think of it….One does have a lot of Air Miles left on One’s frequent flyer account to Palm Beach , Florida….but on second thoughts best not to go there again…you know with all those selfies of people One has never actually met….!”mused Andrew.

“Sauna Tester in IKEA in Kyrgyzstan?” proffered Malcolm.

“You could do that no sweat!”

The evil eye from the Royal followed.

“Why does one have to get a job anyway …surely with all those people coming over in those small boats ….they need a job more than One does…after all…One’s ancestors created the British Empire especially for people who DO have the ability to break sweat….!” Replied the Royal in a posh voice.

“Oh they are fast tracked to Rwanda these days…so the Post-Brexit fruit is still rotting in the fields without anyone to pick it!” said Malcolm.

“Do you fancy a try?….after all you have a plum in your mouth most of the time anyway!” He continued.

Andrew leaned in and whispered

“One thinks we both know that neither One nor One’s family are ever going to do REAL work as we are too important to the British economy given the amount we bring in from tourism?” Replied Not so Handy.

“How much is that a year?”asked Mal.

“19 Million Pinds!” said the Royal gurning with the pronunciation.

“And the cost to the tax payer for the Sovereign Grant ?” questioned the Interviewer.

“Don’t know or care!” Said Andrew churlishly.

“It’s amazing what you can find on the internet especially with a Freedom of Information form these days…..try £369 Million give or take a few clocks…!” Replied the clear Republican.

“ So what is your point exactly?” Asked the peeved Royal feeling more exposed than Prince Harry at a Las Vegas pool party.

“Everyone in Britain must now pay their way or get deported to Rwanda!” said Mal 

“That’s the most ridiculous thing one has ever heard!” said Andy channelling the late Kenny Everett.

“What about Stanley Johnson up for a knighthood?” asked Mal the inquisitor.

“Point taken!” sniggered Andy.

Merlyn Hawke was a predator.

A sick one at that.

He was the ultimate Zooadist- he hated all animals -except that is his two hunting dogs, a lurcher called Addams and a Jack Russell Terrier, named Nipper, because that’s what he did to his Ex-Wife.

Merlyn had a small kennel on some land he had pinched from the Commoners Association on the Penygarnddu Common near Dowlais Top.

He had always been an outdoorsman, with his wrinkled and weathered face making him look much older than his actual  65 years of age.

Merlyn had always enjoyed causing pain to animals, his earliest memory was of his father, Buzzard, encouraging him at the age of four to throw stones at the multitude of rats that inhabited the open sewer of the Morlais Brook, that ran down from Dowlais through Penydarren, carrying the effluent and pollution from a population ravaged by Industrial pollution.

At six, he had already learned the dark art of shooting tree sparrows with his Diana SP50 slug gun.

He enjoyed burning insects with matches and cutting worms in half with a scissors and watching try to regenerate before cutting them in half again.

It was no surprise then that as an adult, he become involved in the local fox hunting scene, not for the Boxing Day pomp and ceremony but he was first to admit for him it was purely to see a defenceless animal ripped apart by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds.

They say that evil isn’t born but made.

Merlyn Hawke appeared to be the exception to this rule.

Merlyn didn’t live like most people in 2023, he lived off the grid- he had made himself a bivouac out of branches and lived off the land in the Taf Fechan Woodland Area.

He had few Earthly possessions but despite this fact he had booby trapped the area around his makeshift home with bear traps to foil the unwary.

His eco-home blended into the woodland with only a Stephen King -style Red Indian ‘Dreamcatcher’ the only evidence of his existence on Planet Earth.

Merlyn didn’t believe in the concept of money- to him it was just a legal fiction- designed to keep the lower classes in economic slavery- he had what he needed from Mother Nature by way of food, foraging for nuts, berries and mushrooms and of course meat from rabbits, voles and fish when he could get them.

He had modelled himself on the Sylvester Stallone character, John J Rambo although without the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Merlyn had never claimed a single penny but spent many a penny marking his scent on the proliferation of hawthorn bushes and ash trees in and around the Taf Fechan River.

Just like a bear, he too shat in the woods and wiped his caked arse on the Dock leaves that were in abundance in his little valley.

Merlyn avoided society like the plague, had never had any form of inoculation as his late parents had not believed in them.

Surprisingly, Merlyn had rarely been ill since he left school at 11 , mainly due to his lack of contact with other humans especially since his estrangement from his ‘wife’, Jane.

They weren’t married in the eyes of the law, but had followed his parents traditions by ‘jumping the broom’ together.

It did however, confuse the Hell out of the Council Street Cleaner.

Merlyn had decided that his dogs were much more reliable and trustworthy than humans and certainly far more loyal.

When they went hunting together, he always ensured that the dogs got a fair share of any catch- both in terms of meat and the marrow from the bones too.

Nipper was very partial to rabbit stew and he would place a bowl out for him once it had sufficiently cooled after transfer from his big metal stewpot.

Merlyn had recently found a little human companionship with a local lad, formerly of Romany extract.

He had taught Merlyn the delights of eating hedgehogs and of course their use as a toothpick.

His name was Perry, which was short for Peregrine and Merlyn had experienced great delight in taking him under his wing.

They both enjoyed hunting together taking Nipper & Addams on long walks to pastures new.

Perry had his own pet , a tame ferret called Flusher- which he had so-named after finding him in an outdoor toilet when he was a kid.

Flusher lived in a side pocket of his camouflage trousers and went everywhere with Perry in his trews.

He still lived with his elderly 40 year old Grandmother, on the caravan park at Glynmil situated between two busy roads on the Slip Road.

He knew that soon he would have to find new ‘digs’ because it was a Romany tradition to burn out the wooden didicoi after the owner had died.

Today, Merlyn & Perry had been up to the kennels early, as they had planned to go hunting together near Brecon and it would be a long days haul, as neither of them drove or possessed a car for any purpose.

As usual the pair followed the line of the River as they headed North.

Not far from Talybont, the dogs picked up the scent of an animal and began to turn in a circle to notify Merlyn of this fact.

They knew that hunting rabbits and small mammals was allowed but certain creatures were off-limits with their dogs, especially when it came to foxes.

Not that the pair had any reservations about the fact- as they would do so undetected anyway.

Lurcher Addams had the keenest nose of the canines - a fact that Merlyn boasted about -claiming that his dog could smell a rabbit fart from five miles away-as long as Perry wasn’t upwind of course.

The pair of dogs took off at speed, as they hurtled up the valley and then pounded up a steep embankment in search of the source.

Perry ran after them but Merlyn being more advanced in years was a lot less light footed.

The pair had stopped near a large hole with the entrance partially obscured by ferns and bracken.

Addams and Nipper were now being restrained by their collars, as they we’re definitely onto something.

Barking and hollering at the hole.

Merlyn suspected that it wasn’t a Warren but couldn’t be certain as to what creature the dogs were sensing.

The hole was larger than an otter’s holt and probably too far away from the river in any event.

He turned to Perry and asked his opinion.

“Not sure ….but I suggest we send Flusher here on a scouting mission!” Said the youngster.

Reaching into the side pocket of his camouflaged trews, he lifted the little mammal out very carefully.

He knew from experience that the little member of the weasel family possessed tiny but very sharp teeth.

Sharper teeth than the zip of the second hand pair of knock-off Levi jeans that he once found in a bin that had taken his foreskin off.

Boy did he curse the bastard that had shat in them and then dumped them.

He lifted Flusher to the hole and he merrily made his way inside.

Flusher wasn’t normally scared of anything.

He had once dispatched eights rats in less than five minutes when he had entered the Waterloo House culvert near Penyard.

The camp had eaten well that night.

Even if the young uns had asked as to why their hedgehog tasted a bit funny.

Perry had laughed it off under the cover of a joke, where two cannibals were in the process of cooking a circus clown.

They agreed that also had tasted ‘funny’ too.

Flusher disappeared from view but suddenly returned as he retreated backwards out of the hole- such an event Perry had not witnessed before.

It literally was a ‘reverse ferret’.

Strange thought Perry.

“I’ll send in Nipper!” said Merlyn.

In through the dark earthen hole went the Jack Russell only to come back out missing his collar and half of his ear.

“Jesus…what’s in there?” Said Merlyn looking aghast at Perry.

It was Addams turn to try and flush out the occupant.

Initially, the second dog made some progress, but being much bigger in size and more muscular, the Lurcher got trapped in the burrow and had to be dragged out by his back legs with blood dripping from his face having been attacked by something.

“Your turn!” said Merlyn barking out an order to his young human companion.

Perry, not being the sharpest tool in the box, felt ‘under pressure’ and despite the obvious risk to his health decided he would squeeze up the narrow tunnel and see what critter was inside for himself.

Like an Egyptian pyramid tomb raider, Perry shuffled his way up the passageway - he was not bothered about being covered in grime or insects -after all he was of Romany stock- but he was apprehensive about what he might be facing.

With a miniature torch in his mouth, he crawled along the earthy tunnel like Charles Branson in the Film the Great Escape-as he reached the end he peered inside and was shocked to see its occupants.

He immediately retreated narrowly avoiding the swipe of a set of razor sharp claws on the end of a furry paw.

Shuffling backwards he made it out of the burrow far quicker than he had entered.

Merlyn was desperate to know what he had encountered.

“Th…th…there is a Q..Q…Queen in there!” Stuttered Perry.

“Queen?…..there are bees in there?” Asked Merlyn looking puzzled.

“No …that bloke from Queen was in there….the one with the frizzy hair and an electric guitar!” Replied Perry.

“How the Hell did he get IN THERE?” Asked Merlyn.

“ How the Hell did he get on the Buckingham Palace roof to play God save the Queen?…I don’t know that either?” Replied Perry.

Merlyn decided the only way forward was that he must investigate the opening for himself.

Perhaps his gypsy friend had eaten too many magic mushrooms and was hallucinating?

As he crawled along the narrow tunnel he began to feel jittery, he was never good with enclosed spaces - he stopped a foot or so before the end of the crawl space and peered into the wider chamber and as his eyes adjusted to the underground gloom, he was shocked to see a rather cavernous drop and even more shocked to discover humans sitting there anticipating his arrival.

There was the original guitar hero, Brian May from Queen and alongside him sat Mike Batt staring back at him with ‘Bright Eyes’ and James Dean Bradfield of the Manic Street Creatures.

“What the Hell are you guys doing in here?” Asked Merlyn in disbelief.

“Protecting the badgers!” Replied May without hesitation.

“Why?” Continued Merlyn still in shock head protruding into the badger hole.

“See I did warn you….said Bradfield to Batt.

“If you tolerate this then your Wombles will be next!” warbled Bradfield.

Mike Batt just nodded in agreement.

“Aren’t you guys worried about getting tuberculosis in here?” queried Merlyn.

“The link between badgers and bovine tuberculosis has never been proven!” raged May.

“If you continue with this line of questioning….we will…we will …Brock you!” threatened the Killer Queen.

Merlyn’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the fact that there was a huge sharp badger claw rigged on a booby trap wire above his head.

“More importantly what were YOU doing sending your dogs into a badger hole…I believe they call it ….badger baiting? “queried Queen Brian.

In the narrow confines of his earthy coffin, Merlyn found it hard to shake his head in faux denial- as he attempted to do so- loose soil fell from the tunnel ceiling onto his face causing him to appear to nod accidentally, as he tried to dodge the dust.

“Get Sett Go!” shouted May and the claw swished across the aperture and with a direct hit scratched both of Merlyn’s eyeballs at once damaging his optic nerves as it went.

The Hunter had now become the hunted.

“You bastards….,” Merlyn screamed as the blood began to fill up in his eyes.

“ Another one bites the dust!” laughed May and Bradfield ‘manically’

“ Karma is a bitch!” spat back blind as a Batt- Merlyn….” I’ll be back with more female dogs and sort you do gooders out once and for all!” 

“Don’t stop me now!….the show must go on!” May sung theatrically, as he applied a giant mole thumper to the trespasser’s head….shooting Merlyn out of the hole quicker than Mercury.

As the huntsman flew past Perry even the two dogs were silent.

The only faint sound audible to both human and canine alike came from the hole and was a trio singing

“We are the Champions ….of the Worms!”

Elliott Thomas was a loner.

He had for the entire sixty years of his life lived with his late elderly Mother, Norma, at their remote log cabin home in the woods near Pontsticill in South Wales.

He had few human friends with his ten year old cat ‘Jonesy’, (named after the cat in the horror sci-fi film ‘Alien’ ) being his only regular companion.

Elliott loved that cat and Jonesy loved him back.

Most evenings Elliott would put his feline friend on a lead and walk him in the 

Taf Fechan woodland for the cat to do his business.

Clearly it is not just bears that shit in the woods.

One thing was certain though Elliott was not frightened of the dark- his Mother had taught him that there were no monsters under the bed and that the same things would be still there whether or not he turned the bedside lamp on or off.

Jonesy had grown accustomed to their twice daily stroll in the pine fresh clean ozone of the Brecon Beacons National Park- once in the Morning at 8am and later each night at 9pm.

Jonesy being a cat, didn’t like to defecate in his own garden but preferred to leave his faeces for someone else to step into his second hand Whiskas supermeat and share the love.

Elliott had been left comfortably off by his late parents, with his only expense being having to have his septic tank emptied once a year.

He didn’t pay Council Tax as his Property straddled the border with Merthyr and Powys and he fraudulently told both sets of Councils that was paying the other one - he felt is was unfair anyway, as if he wasn’t receiving any direct services from either in any event.

At the age of 60, he like most people in Merthyr had never held down a job but unlike the majority had never claimed any Government ‘benefits’.

Elliott spend most of his time reading old back issues of his treasured Americana, such as the now defunct ‘2000 AD’ and looking towards the Heavens with his telescope.

He didn’t possess a television set as the thick conifer and fir trees that surrounded his camouflaged cabin wouldn’t permit a terrestrial signal.

Despite it being 23 years since the title of his beloved sci-fi comic had passed it’s sell-by date- Elliott didn’t possess a mobile phone nor a landline.

He loved the concept of the future but didn’t embrace it.

His electricity and heating came via an ancient oil generator but generally speaking Elliott would turn into bed after his evening ‘catwalk’ and as soon as the sun set through his solitary West facing window.

His only contact with the outside world was the cash in hand, six monthly oil delivery and once a week the postman would deliver Mail always addressed to his late Father.

He hadn’t told anyone that his Father was dead and had assumed his identity and National Insurance Number as he was Elliott Thomas Junior.

Accordingly to official NHS records he was over 120 years of age.

There was a pile of letters from the local hospital inviting his deceased father to attend the ‘well man clinic’ which was somewhat ironic as had been dead for over 50 years, killed and buried in the woods after a single blow from a frying pan had done for him, after his Mother had accidentally killed him mistaking him for an intruder when Elliott Junior was just ten.

He had helped his Mother bury him downwind of the septic tank so as not to raise any suspicions on the rare occasion a lost rambler knocked on the cabin door.

Elliott was not just a loner- he was a Ufologist and believed that the Earth had been visited not just once by aliens but several thousand times over the last millennia believing that the purpose of the Blue Planet was as an Alien Ant Farm.

His one true friend, Mulder Rice, who had emigrated to the USA many moons ago continued to send him clippings of ‘Close Encounters’ with Alien visitors from his Roswell home in the Nevada desert near Area 51.

Elliott didn’t believe the official USA Government’s version of events from 1947 that the famous Roswell incident was in fact the remains of a weather balloon rather than the wreckage of an alien spacecraft.

He was convinced that it was all a big cover up.

Elliott was also dead jealous of Mulder’s claim that he had been abducted by grey aliens and taken up in a spacecraft.

He loved reading about the British version of Roswell - the Rendlesham Forest incident in 1980 - when various US Air Force staff witnessed strange lights around their Suffolk Airbase.

Elliott longed for his own close encounter with a creature from another planet and frequently dreamed of experiencing the same.

The young Elliott had never owned a television-only his late Father’s radio with a very limited signal which had ultimately indirectly brought about his Father’s death.

His Mother had been in the kitchen listening to a re-run of Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of War of the Worlds from 1938 and mistakenly believed her prankster husband to be a real alien and whacked him with a Teflon Saucepan across the temple.

Poor amateur astronomer, Elliott Thomas Senior , was seeing a whole universe of unknown stars before his legs buckled from under him, dropping dead to the floor like a version of tragic Merthyr boxer Johnny Owen- only ‘Match(Non)Stick Man- hands closed like a fist.

Such a tragedy had a massive impact on the impressionable Elliott Thomas Junior, as he was instantly promoted to doing all the things ( bar one) that his Father had always done.

It is certain that if Elliott Junior was examined by a psychiatrist, then that would have explained his series of facial ticks and sudden aversion to fried foods.

But after the recent death of his Mother, Elliott’s only companion was Jonesy- the last surviving kitten of a litter of five tabbies who had been adopted by Elliott when found abandoned like Hansel & Gretel in the woods.

He had never forgotten the sound of their mewing in Owl’s Grove and often woke up in a sweat as to what their fate would have been if he hadn’t taken them in that Autumn night.

Every since, Elliott always checked the area around the car park for any strays because he had heard innocently from the local Postman that it was a known ‘dogging’ spot.

Just like the disciples of a Judas goat, Elliott was easily led- except went it came to his body.

Elliott stared at the pile of letters but like most men of PeterPan persuasion, he didn’t want to accept the inevitable in that he was aging quickly.

Nowadays, whilst waiting to urinate at his makeshift wooden toilet, he had become conscious that it was taking longer and longer for his ‘engine’ to start.

And once he was in midstream , he was like Magnus Magnusson on Mastermind in that he had started so he would have to finish.

Unbeknownst to Elliott, he had an enlarged prostate and it was interrupting his rite of passage.

But contrary to posthumous advice from the late comedian Bob Monkhouse,  Elliott was too proud and too scared to have the simple test.

He believed stringently that it was purely an exit and not an entry hole.

Unlike the rock band , Led Zeppelin, he didn’t agree with going ‘in through the out door’.

It was nearly 9pm and Jonesy the cat was rubbing his body against his master’s legs - a sign he was ready to lay some cable.

Elliott grabbed his late father’s Gannex raincoat, last in fashion when Harold Wilson was Labour Prime Minister in the Seventies, put Jonesy on his lead and the pair set off in the direction of Owl’s Grove.

****************************** *(**

“Pass me the paste brush!” ordered PC Wolf Blass of his partner.

Constable Isaac Haynes reached onto the floor of the ‘Jam Sandwich’ police car and dipped the brush into the bucket of Solvite.

Holding onto the paste brush, Wolf Blass grasped the sticky bristles before dropping it on the floor next to the lighting column.

“Nice one!” He moaned, as he rubbed the excess paste onto the grey concrete upright.

He picked up the brush and pasted the Police Notice onto the lighting column next to the Red Cow Public House in Pontsticill, Merthyr Tydfil.

The headline read:

Police Notice:

Missing Hitchhiker, Woody Stock last seen in this village on Friday May 4th.

Anyone with information please ring Crimestoppers on 666.

There was a photograph of the missing hiker replete in his Hippy outfit taken from his drug arrest charge sheet from Glastonbury Festival 2022.

“666 is that the number for the Australia Police force?’ Asked Haynesy the detective.

“Printer Error …I ‘suspect’…but probably the reason we haven’t yet had any public calls at HQ!” Replied Wolf Blass.

“Went missing on Star Wars day too!” declared Haynesy.

“Star Wars day?” Asked Wolf Blass scratching his policeman’s helmet then his hat too.

“May the 4th!” Replied Haynesy.

“Huh?” Said Wolf Blass not following the reference.

“May the Force be with you? Said Haynesy quoting Obi Wan-Kenobi.

“The Force is always with us?” Queried Wolf Blass still lost in the conversation.

“Never mind….no wonder you didn’t make it to detective grade!” puffed an exasperated Haynesy.

“Perhaps we should consider putting up posters when we retire as a part-time job!” suggested Wolf Blass.

“Become Bill Stickers, you mean?” queried Haynsey.

“ We could call it ‘Old Bill’ Stickers?” He chuckled sarcastically before eating the last of his KFC mega bucket.

***********************

About two miles away in the woodland glade near Owl’s Grove, Elliott was excited he could see flashing multi-coloured lights ahead and he knew instinctively that it wasn’t Mr Whippy the usual ice cream van at this time of night.

Tying Jonesy’s leash to a thin sapling, he approached stealthily hoping not to startle the diminutive occupants of the spacecraft, who had descended down the metal steps and gone into the woods.

As he approached he suddenly noticed an unusual smell not normally encountered in the backwoods of Powys.

Unbeknownst to him, it was the Gallifreyan version of chloroform and by the time he had worked it out he was suddenly dropping unconscious to the forest floor.

****************************** ****

“That’s the last poster finished….shall we go back to the station or do you want to chance a visit to Owl’s Grove  to see if that Ice Cream Van is still there!” Asked Wolf Blass.

“ Do they still do alcoholic ice cream?” Asked Haynsey.

“Yes…they do Police ‘special’ versions with 999 flakes…!” Replied Wolf Blass also desperate for a fix.

“Owl’s Grove it is then!” Hands on the wheel trembling with delirium tremens.

****************************** ***

Elliott came round from his enforced slumber and found himself strapped to a medical table.

He was experiencing ‘fifty shades of grey’ alien.

He glanced around the interior of the spacecraft and noticed huge transparent glass cylinders around the perimeter containing many specimens of animal species all floating in a clear liquid.

Suddenly, his nose detected a familiar pungent perfume-like aroma.

Petunia Oill or Junkie Juice to give it its colloquial name.

He turned his head to his right and could see that there was another human male wearing a dirty yellow bandana, a CND tee-shirt and faded blue denim jeans.

He looked out of it - but he gave the impression from his outfit that he was always out of it.

Suddenly, a metallic door slid open and three grey aliens with huge saucer-shaped black eyes and three elongated thumb-like fingers entered the room.

The adjacent Hippy suddenly came alive.

“Not again!” He screamed at the diminutive creatures.

Elliott suddenly began to regret his lifelong ambition to be abducted.

“The name’s Elliott Thomas !” Said the nervous captive trying his best to extend a hand of friendship from Earth to the rest of the Universe from his restrained position.

One of the Aliens ticked off a sheet of paper bizarrely marked NHS with his middle finger.

“ET …I would phone Home if I was you!” Warned the Hippie.

“I don’t have a landline or a mobile !” Replied Elliott.

Suddenly, the table he was lying down on parted and his legs were spread in opposite directions as his lower body was raised.

He could feel his lower garments being removed telepathically and no sooner than they were at half mast then the middle finger of the lead alien began to glow and light up.

The table then turned 45 degrees, so Elliott was now facing the hippie and the smell of Petunia Oil mixed with Body Odour became overwhelming.

The glowing alien thumb like finger then entered Elliott’s rectum and began to burn all as it went higher and higher into the body cavity.

All Elliott could manage to say was:

“Does this mean we’re engaged?

The Alien scribbled something onto the sheet of headed paper before a computer in the corner of the room went into overdrive with more flashing bulbs than a celebrity on a Hollywood red carpet.

“Be Good Elliott…your prostate is fine…but you need to drop 35 pounds…you’re fat!” declared the lead Alien whose white name badge showed he was called Woo.

“Doctor Woo from Gallifrey?” queried Elliott as the straps began to undo untouched by any hand -human nor alien.

“Og ot eerf er’uoY!” Said Woo as Elliott was propelled slowly backwards towards the metal steps.

Elliott had never really reversed himself before, as the Time Lord disappeared from sight as he involuntarily backed out of the spacecraft.

As he reached the sapling still holding Jonesy the cat captive, he was astonished that time seemed to go in reverse.

Jonesy was even more in shock than his human master, especially as the shit he had just laid a few Earth minutes earlier had shot back up his furry feline arse.

The pair then moonwalked backwards like Paedo Pan of Pop, Michael Jackson being led to his cabin by Bubbles the Chimpanzee for their Honeymoon night.

The Spacecraft then simply took off at high speed into the night sky heading in the direction of Exoplanet, Proxima Centauri b.

A few minutes after, the cops arrived at the copse only to be disappointed that the ice cream was no longer in situ.

They were surprised to see however a cat taking its owner for a backward walk on a leash in the woods.

The pair decided that such an unusual event was worthy of further investigation- as they only really walked backwards after a heavy session on the beer at the Merthyr Rugby Club.

As discreetly as two 25 stone policemen could be, the pair followed paw patrol by car until they were forced to park up and follow breathlessly on foot.

Jonesy knew the way back to the log cabin backwards - which was good really - as to the untrained human eye he was in fact leading his human master back to his log cabin home.

***********************

At the Queen Camilla Hospital in Merthyr Tydfil, the Computer in the Proctology Department run by Artifecal Intelligence (AI) burst into life…printing a series of ‘semi- colons’ and colons on the NHS pages marked Elliott Thomas Senior.

Prostate check complete.

Enlarged but not cancerous it concluded.

The report was torn off and then filed by a Filipino Nurse under T.

Jeremy Hunt’s  much lauded reduction in NHS waiting times using  

private ‘illegal aliens’ had worked to the disappointment of small craft watcher Nigel Farage.

***********************

Outside the log cabin the pair of detectives lay in the undergrowth eating the last remnants of their sirloin sandwiches.

They were on stakeout.

“Right…do you want to be good or bad cop this time?” Asked Wolf Blass.

The pair made their way to the cabin door and rapped on the wood.

Inside the cabin, the time warp had rectified itself and Elliott was now moving forward    once again.

As he opened the door, Jonesy slipped outside.

He was desperate to offload his recycled log having been trapped in the environment of the non-log cabin.

It didn’t possess a cat flap but his furry arse did.

He was so desperate to go he could only reach the septic tank area before evacuating his bowels.

“Can I help you Officers?” asked Elliott- face ticking nervously like he held a guilty secret.

“Have you seen this man recently?” Asked Wolf Blass holding up a sticky paper poster.

“ Yes…that’s Colonel Saunders!” replied Elliott innocently.

Haynsey tugged at the front of the KFC wrapper that had become stuck to the front of the Missing Person poster.

“Sorry…not him…HIM …Woody Stock !” Wolf Blass said apologetically holding up the photograph of the Hippie.

Unbeknown to Elliott everything that had happened to him on the flying saucer had been deleted from his memory banks.

“No…!” denied Elliott believing that statement to be true.

“ If you can remember Woody Stock you weren’t REALLY there!’ Quipped Elliott half recalling the strange alien hippy encounter.

Haynsey’s attention was now drawn to where Jonesy was frantically digging trying to cover his shit in his own back yard.

“He was last seen hitchhiking in the nearby village of Pontsticill!” continued the unrelenting Bad Cop, instinctively smelling a deception and second handed petunia oil.

“Sorry …but I don’t drive or own a car!” replied Elliott.

“Are you trying to point the finger at me?” he continued.

Haynsey then pulled his partner’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of the cat and the septic tank area.

Poking through the mud was a bony male thumb.

Boz

“Did you forget something from last time?” Asked Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.

Disgraced Former-British Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, held out the hand he had previously offered to COVID patients in 2020 expecting the President to grasp it.

He declined.

“What do you want Boris?…..did you come to Ukraine to claim ‘Non-Dom’ status like some of your former Cabinet colleagues?” continued the President in impeccable English.

“Don’t mention that weasel Cummings to me!” replied Boris, still stung by the previous back stabbing from his former aide.

“Are you in trouble again and want to distract the public attention?” Asked the wise President.

“Boris….isn’t that a Russian name…as in Boris Johnson, whose Conservative Party have had multiple donations from Russian oligarchs and likes to play tonsil tennis with their wives?” Interrupted former World Heavyweight boxing champion, Vitali Klitschko.

“Not that one….so honoured to meet you though ….always been a big fan of the Klit !” said Boris switching his hand toward the pugilist.

The handshake was once more declined.

“Friend of two beards …Lord Lebedev of Hampton & Siberia?” continued the boxer.

“Shall I punch his lights out Mr President….we ARE supposed to be in blackout!”

Zelenskyy raised his hand for the Southpaw threat to stop.

“Look at that Chicken Kyiv…he is shaking more than a Russian conscript holding a Molotov cocktail!” Continued Klitschko.

“ Did you bring any tanks with you?” Asked the President.

“No …but I assure you that they are on order….I did however bring a few jars containing tomatoes for your civilians to continue taking down those pesky Russian drones!” Said Boris still shaking like Matt Hancock having a cupboard knee- trembler.

“ You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble!” Said Zelenskyy sarcastically.

“No trouble…I put it on my parliamentary expenses anyway!”

“We have invited ‘Biden’ to the Feast - to finally win the Cold War for the West!…surely then we will get our wish to join the United Nations, NATO and the European Union?” Said Zelenskyy hopefully.

“Of course!” replied the professional liar.

Boris looked more sheepish than a Welsh Hill Farmer.

“Sleepy Joe has agreed to send 31 M1 Abrams tanks to add to the German offer of 14 Leopard Tanks so we can decimate the out-dated Russian T72, T80 and T90 tanks on the battlefield and reclaim Donbas & Crimea from Putin the Great Bear!” The Ukrainian President announced triumphantly.

“ And make him more like ‘Winnie the Pooh-tin’ when you, the Victorious Ukrainian Paddington ‘peppers the pigs’ with tank shells?” Replied Boris trying to play to the crowd with his usual unintelligible drivel.

“Any chance you could close the crack in that ‘Iron Curtain’ over there ….as the orange flames from the missile fires are blindsiding me more than Keir Starmer at the dispatch box?”  pleaded the former PM.

“So exactly when will we receive the promised British Challenger 2 tanks, so we can make UK Rain with them ?” demanded Zelenskyy.

“ Or even copy Flybe and impose a no fly zone over our Country!” 

“It will have to be after the release of the Russia Report, the Sue Gray Partygate Enquiry and of course, the inquiry into how so many Gangster Russians have entered the Upper Chamber- the inquiry into the Soviet ‘Crimea’ Lords if you like…!” Continued Boris.

“That goes against the grain!” Replied Zelenskyy.

“Is that a veiled food threat ?” Asked Boris.

“My former KGB contact…oops sorry …that evil Vlad the impaler Putin threatened me too recently ….he offered to send me on a cruise - I thought marvellous…another freebie holiday….but sadly he was referring to the missile !” 

“Did you have any witnesses present to corroborate that claim?” Asked Zelenskyy.

“”Of course not…but you can ask my former editor of the Times Newspaper or Tory grandees Michael Howard and Michael Gove….I never fabricate stories or lie…!” protested Boris.

“Back to the original question Boris….when will we get the Challenger 2 tanks?” Ordered  Zelenskyy 

“Well, the Challenger 2 tanks will take some time but we have some tanks we can offer immediately - they are the Ajax tanks built in the original Donetsk -in the South Wales Valleys!” offered Boris.

“ They are ready to ‘rumble!’ he continued.

“ I have heard of that place….Hughesovska Tydfil ….on a Friday and Saturday nights it is more of a war zone than Ukraine…It is the amateur boxing capital of Wales especially near the Kooler nightclub…I fear to go there on my own!” Said Klitschko.

“Rumble’ alright….those tanks are reputed to suffer excessive noise and vibration and have a top speed of 20mph and no reverse gear !…..my military advisers have told me they are about as useful as PPE from a Conservative Party Fast track company!” Complained Zelenskyy.

“But what you do is to ‘Putin’ your older more deafer Tank Commanders in them from the Ukrainian equivalent of the Walmington-on -Sea Dad’s Army Home Guard- the most expendable ones…like we did with Liz Truss and hide the better tanks behind them…!” Said Boris.

“Who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler?” Asked Zelenskyy.

“ I prefer the comparison to Winston Churchill if you don’t mind!” Replied Boris.

“ He wanted to ‘Nuke’ Russia too …if my reading of history on Wikipedia is correct!” said Zelenskyy.

“And ordered the British Army to open fire on his own people- the Tonypandy miners!” Interjected Klitschko.

“Yes …but at least we Brits are more decent …it’s not like we would ever invade the Crimea like the Russians did in 2014!” declared Boris.

“Now that operation would be ‘unthinkable’! “ said Zelenskyy taking the piss.

“Would you take a bullet for your leader?” Asked Klitschko beating his chest.

“For Rishi Sunak?” Chortled Boris.

“ I would die for my Country like thousands of my countrymen have before me!” said the patriotic boxer.

“ I NEARLY died for my Country when I caught COVID in 2020….in my own version of the Cold War….does that count?” Replied the narcissist serial shagger.

“No!” Said Zelenskyy bluntly.

“Sign this commitment to Ukraine!” Ordered  Klitschko.

Boris took one look at the paper containing lots of clauses all written in a foreign language and grabbed a pen.

“ I don’t do detail….as the Brexit deal and the Northern Ireland Protocol proves!”

“Us True Blue Conservatives are diametrically opposed to ‘red tape’ !” boasted Boris.

“ I assume ‘shchytok tila’ means ‘Free Trade Agreement’ in Ukrainian?” laughed Boris knowing that he had no mandate to act on behalf of the British people anyway- in the exact same way that two of his successors Prime Ministers have.

“There….I have signed it….it’s all there in black n white…or more precisely in blue & yellow!……now where can I find those Babushk’s?…I too want to get inside those Russian dolls!”  

“ Shchytok Tila means ‘body shield’ in English in the same way Lonsdale means below the belt in Boxing!” replied Klitschko.

Boris looked more worried than the time Wife Carrie cracked his laptop password.

“Congratulations President you have your Churchill Tank after all!”