His luck had finally run out.

Reynaldo the Red Fox was suspended, hanging on a barbed wire fence by his stomach.

The more he twisted, the more the barbs sunk their teeth into his pink soft underbelly.

He was trapped and he knew it.

He was literally kicking himself that he should get caught this way- in such a simple fashion – as he a very intelligent creature.

He had misjudged the take-off, slipping on some sheep-shit.

Reynaldo had for over a decade, survived the harsh Winter temperatures, and rainy Summers that Gwynedd in North Wales had to offer its native fauna.

In the freezing cold sub-zero temperatures, he would go and warm himself next to the decommissioned Nuclear Power Station , Trawsfynydd and its Magnox reactor.

He loved basking in its warm glow.

He always felt safe there, as for some reason the Local Huntsmen and their pack of dogs would not pursue him under the security fencing, preferring to take their cries of Tally-Ho and Soho to other quarries in and around Flint.

Whilst hunting with dogs was illegal on private land -that didn’t stop the local Hunt, ‘egged’ on by the local farmers missing their chickens, who continued as if nothing had ever been put in place by Parliament to stop such events.

The Manifesto of the New Labour Administration in the Noughties, had promised that ‘things could only get better’.

Well maybe not for the Country or the people of Iraq but for foxes it certainly had.

They loved Tony Blair.

He was made an honorary fox- Blair Fox if you like- as a direct result of the Hunting Ban, foxes just like the National Debt, quadrupled in numbers.

Foxes started appearing everywhere- on biscuits, near polar bears on glacier mints and even in Downtown Abbey.

It was no longer the ‘day of the jackal’ but the decade of the Vixen.

Brer Rabbit wasn’t so fussed on the New Policy, as their natural predator had been given special preserved status and like fox shit was now everywhere.

Thankfully, as is the way of Mother Nature- she balanced things up by providing a glut of KFC & MacDonalds outlets for vermin to feed on – and the foxes too.

Reynaldo, knew he had to figure a way to extricate himself from his predicament or die trying.

He knew it was only a matter of time before his nemesis since birth, ‘Old Gellert’ , a North Walian Bloodhound caught up with him.

He would never give up.

He was the canine equivalent of Metropolitan Police Detective Jack Slipper.

The Former East-ender had tracked the renegade Reynaldo all the way from his Dirty Den in Gwynedd across three Counties- Gwynedd, Rural Powys, Ceredigion and finally to Merthyr.

Looking at the sign in Welsh-’Bedlinog’, Reynaldo hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.

Normally, Reynaldo could usually give the pursuing back the slip by running through streams and doubling back- but not this time.

He figured that as his fur was starting to fall out then it made him easier to pursue.

He normally moulted in around April ever year – losing his Winter coat- but he feared this was different.

It was falling out in clumps, not individual hairs- worse still he couldn’t ‘groom’ himself with his ‘brush’ ,as his tail was attached to the sharp metal barbs on this livestock proof fence.

He had once heard from a wise old bird friend of his, who was losing his feathers - that he had been diagnosed by the vet as having ‘owlapecia’- so Reynaldo assumed that he was suffering from a similar complaint.

One thing for certain was that his love life hadn’t suffered because of his hair loss- he was still inundated by ‘foxy’ ladies that wanted a bit of his ‘Boom Boom’.

It seems he was the Vulpine equivalent of Errol Brown of ‘Hot Chocolate’ fame.

The vixens screamed for him from Mountain Top and Wheelie Bin Lid- much to the annoyance of the North Walian residents- as they all vied for his attention.

Reynaldo put it down to him regularly rolling his nether regions in the herb patches of the gardens that he prowled in at night.

It was like aftershave to the females – who loved the scent of ‘Basil Brush’.

Reynaldo knew he didn’t have time to reminisce, he must find a way off this blasted fence or like much of his prey -he was dead meat.

In the far distance, he could hear the yelping of his pursuers.

The last two dogs NOT to give up were Caradog and Old Gellert- he recognised their distinctive barking.

They were a little older and their noses less keen- from years of following the multitude of behinds of the younger, fitter dogs.

But they were nonetheless committed to the cause.

To Old Gellert it was personal- his wife Red, had been killed in the hunt back 5 years ago when Reynaldo had deliberately led her into a trap.

He had marked his scent all around the bottom of a milk float knowing full well that the dog would not resist checking out the bottom of the vehicle.

In the process, he had helped himself to two dozen eggs and a carton of Orange Juice before he was chased away by the returning milkman.

Red was not so lucky.

Being the fastest and fittest canine around, she was always first on the scene for any kill , as like most bitches liked to tear their opponents apart limb from limb.

The angry Unigate Dairyman thought that the dog was the thief and deliberately rolled back over her and ‘squashed’ her in the process.

Old Gellert knew that Lassie was the son of a bitch, but ever since that day to him so was Reynaldo.

He was convinced the fox had consumed part of his wife’s remains before being chased off by the pursuing pack.

His swore on his wife’s grave in the corner of ‘Vet Cemetery’ that he would get even with his foxy nemesis.

Sadly, Old Gellert’s legs weren’t as good as they once were- if only he could corner Reynaldo he would kill that vermin once and for all- and die happy.

Gellert sniffed the air- he knew he was gaining on Reynaldo as the ‘tumbleweed’ of red fox fur was getting thicker, the closer he got to his quarry.

Reynaldo wasn’t ready to give up the ghost just yet-if that Fantastic Mr Fox had been one thing during his lifetime it was he was very lucky.

So lucky that they named Foxy Bingo.com after him.

They say fortune favours the brave and Reynaldo was not just lucky – he was brave too.

Fate played a hand too in the shape of local resident, Lewys Street.

Lewys was only sixteen but had Bedlinog tattooed through him and on him like Blackpool Rock.

There was more Bedrock in him than the Flintstones.

Today, he was busy tootling along on his 998cc motorised hair drier.

The funky moped had a top speed of 30MPH having been fitted with a speed limiter and integral tracking device by an Insurance Company- otherwise his premium would have been £10,000.00 a year.

Lewys had left school with a GSCE in Woodwork and was busily searching the job market for suitable job opportunities in the Merthyr Borough to encompass his qualifications.

Not surprisingly, the Job Centre was not overflowing with opportunities.

Enticed by the glut of cheap cookery shows on television- he wanted to be the next Mary Berry only without the recipe for wrinkles…but they no longer wanted a chef at the Food Bank.

So he decided to do some volunteer work for new Political Party UKIP.

He was driving along the country lanes leading from Treharris to Bedrock whilst checking on the numbers of telegraph lines in the area.

He checked the job description and confirmed he was asked to ‘Count the Poles’ in the Merthyr Borough for Head Office of the Party.

After a while he had realised that the poles already had a serial number.

He thought it would now be an easier task than he first thought.

He was shocked to happen upon the stricken fox and even more surprised to find that the Fox could speak in Welsh.

He was surprised to find someone that did given that the National Average was between 22-30%.

And in foxes even lower.

“ Bore Da!” spake the Fox.

Lewys nearly crashed his moped into Pole number 86543.

“ What the Bluddy Hell are you doing hanging there?” said the youngster.

“ Just chillin’!” replied Reynaldo leaning back on the wire to pretend like he was not in excruciating agony but sunbathing.

“ How did you get there?” asked Lewys.

“ Haven’t you seen a flying fox before?” replied the cunning Reynaldo.

“ No…!” replied Lewys…” I’m from Bedrock…we don’t see much wildlife down here at all- apart chucking out time at the Bedlinog Rugby Club!”

“ Doesn’t that hurt then?” asked Lewys.

“ Wot hurt?” asked the balding fox.

“ Those barbs in your guts?” asked Lewys.

“ Oh …those body piercings you mean…I am hard …I’m Welsh mun…these are all the rage now in hip places like Merthyr!” said Reynaldo.

“ They are one on from body piercing –and are the ultimate stress relief too….!” continued the wily one.

“ If you come over here…I will show you how they are attached!” said Reynaldo.

“ My Mother warned me not to talk to strangers….especially Super Furry Animals or Lost Prophets!” replied Lewys.

“ But I am no longer a Super Furry Animal…my hair is much depleted ….like the Welsh Language…I have less than 22% left….and I am certainly not lost….!”said Reynaldo.

Lewys was a little reassured and came closer- as did the sound of the barking and hollering of Old Gellert & Caradog in the near distance.

“ I see you are wearing a ‘Friends of the Earth’ badge!” said Reynaldo.

“ You…I am against that Opencast lot…!” said Lewys pointing in the direction of where the sky was black.

“ Did you know that a group of foxes is called an Earth…Lewys ?” asked Reynaldo.

“ How did you know my name?” asked the teenager.

“ It’s written on your coat label!” said the fox …eyes…well like a fox really.

“ Oh!” said the Low Achiever.

“ So that makes us Friends…doesn’t it…!” said the cunning one.

“ Like on Facebook!” said Lewys.

“ Fox-book!” chuckled Lewys.

“ I don’t know what that is….but yes…friends none the less !” said Reynaldo.

“ And what do friends do Lewys?” asked the fox.

“ Help each other!”

“ So what do you want me to do?” asked Lewys hesistantly.

“ Come closer to me!” said the fox.

Lewys moved closer to the trapped skulker.

“ Closer please!” asked the prisoner of the wire.

“ But you don’t know my nickname do you….everyone in the Valleys has a nickname!” said Lewys.

“ Is it Einstein?....Socrates?....” asked the sarcastic fox.

“ No….it’s the Rock innit….as I am from Bedrock and I want to be a chef one day…!” said Lewys.

Lewys was now level with the fox who was splayed out with his undercarriage on full display- totally defenceless to any form of attack.

“ I don’t care how much of a friend you are or how much fur you have lost…I ain’t sucking THAT thing!” said Lewys.

“ Don’t be daft!” said Reynaldo.

“ I would merely like you to assist me with undoing the barbs holding me on this fence- I have done enough sunbathing for one day!” said the canny vixen lover.

“ Are you sure…because that’s what I was told priests and prophets do….and if I help you…you will not bite me?” asked the tentative Lewys.

“ Of course not….have the heard of the expression …not to bite the hand that feeds you?” said Reynaldo.

“ No….but I am not feeding you anyway….or touching THAT thing!” replied the nervous Lewys stepping closer.

“ It’s a figure of speech….trust your gut…!” said Reynaldo.

Lewys looked at the bleeding gut of the trapped animal in front of him and released the first barb from around the fox tail.

“ Now -You haven’t got that disease you catch from rabbits have you?” asked Lewys.

“ Mixamitosis?” asked the knowledge fox with a higher IQ than the human.

“ No rab-ies?” replied Lewys.

“ No- I’m clean I promise…..and if you help me out I will give you my lucky charm so that as a trainee Chef you will always have something to put in the pot!” said Reynaldo.

He reached inside his cheek and regurgitated something from his extended jawline.

“ What is that?” asked Lewys patiently undoing the last twisted metal spike from the barbed wire fence from the fox’s midriff.

“ That my FRIEND….is a lucky rabbit’s foot!” said Reynaldo proudly.

“ Go on then pick it up and rub it for luck and watch what happens!” said Reynaldo.

“ Lucky rabbits foot…it wasn’t that lucky for him was it!” said Lewys.

“ His name was Warren Want….and he was the King of the North Walian rabbits and he had magic powers!” said Reynaldo.

Lewys picked it up and rub the fox spittle on his WWF tee-shirt.

“ Now blow on it three times and I promise you in less than five minutes over that hill will come more rabbits than the cast of Watership Down!” boasted the fox.

Lewys blew on it three times and watched the horizon for signs of life.

“ Keep looking now…I promise you will never be hungry again!” said Reynaldo skulking pass his new friend.

After five minutes had passed- there was no sign of any leverets, does or bucks anywhere.

With the only hairs in sight that of the red fox fur still attached to the sharp metal fence.

As Lewys turned he could see his first Bedlinog Flying Fox ever, as Reynaldo came passed the field entrance riding Lewys’s scooter.

Pursued by two ugly slobbering bloodhounds with hang dog expressions.

Old Gelert and Caradog stopped and asked Lewys in Welsh, if he had seen a ‘chicken chaser’?

Lewys replied- ‘No …but if you do….it belongs to me!”

Little Daniel Boyd was lost.

The seven year old thought he was clever, when he ignored his teacher’s command to hold the hand of his classmate on a trip to Dan-yr Ogof caves in the Glyn-Neath Valley.

True, it was an act of revenge by his teacher, Mr Don Oxbridge for his recent behaviour in class at Gwaun Dowlais Primary School in Merthyr Tydfil.

Dan had sulked because he didn’t want to be paired with gypsy, Gustavo Worrell from the local travelling community that lived close to the Slip Road in the former mining Town, as he more ‘bugs’ than a spy from GCHQ in Cheltenham.

Whilst Gustavo was a lively character, he was too easily distracted to learn from books, as all his family were illiterate and he had no intention of being the ‘white sheep’ in amongst that flock.

The children all knew that Gustavo used to pick his nose and eat it with his blackened fingers that were not cleaned from one month to the next.

His class nickname was ‘Fun Gus the Bogey Man’.

Daniel looked around him at the dark limestone cavern trying desperately to find a way out.

He had long since given up trying to retrace his steps, as he had no idea of direction and with the only light coming from the front of his miniature pith helmet, he couldn’t see any obvious exit in the gloom.

He decided to pause and lean against a rock to try and get his bearings.

His lip began to tremble and the tears began to roll down his little ruddy cheeks.

He longed for the comfort of his Mother but being from a broken home knew that his estranged Father would have no sympathy and would tell the little seven-year old to ‘Man Up’ otherwise he would get a smack.

He promised himself that if he got out of this situation alive he would never run off again.

He had tried shouting for help but his feeble soprano voice was drowned out by the sound of rushing water in the caves which was magnified by the hollow echo chambers of dripping limestone that surrounded him.

He had lost track of how many caves he had squeezed his way into as part of his little adventure.

He had pretended he was Indiana Jones looking for treasure, as his fertile imagination ran riot being outside of the confines of the classroom, with his 20p pick n mix of sweets having to be rationed.

After a brief spell, in which he devoured both his packet of swizzles and his sticky pink n white drumstick, he decided that he would follow what looked like a pathway on the low floor of the cave in a downward descent.

Something instinctively told him he would find a way out in that direction.

In the main chamber of the caves, school teacher Miss Adventure was busy pointing and explaining the different limestone rock formations to the young children.

“These long finger-like features that hang from the roof….can anyone tell me what they are called?” asked the young teacher more in hope than in expectation.

“ Daggers?” asked one of the local urchins called Wesley Hermon, originally from the Dowlais Flats area of Merthyr .

The flat complex was a pile-them high attempt at cheap housing in the valleys to help with the surplus population after a massive slum clearance from the Town that died.

“ Knives?” asked another called Gwernllwyn Close.

Miss Adventure was well aware that a lot of her ‘flock’ were on the Social Services ‘watch list’ being allowed to play the violent Playstation game, Grand Theft Auto and of course subjected to Video nasties such as ‘Child’s Play’ and ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’.

She shook her head- as she wanted to engage her audience without alienating them from the class.

“Suzy….do you know?” asked the teacher of her class pet.

The little Chinese girl looked up at the teacher and announced proudly that there were called stalactites and were made of limestone.

The daughter of the local Chinese Takeaway ‘Wok around the Clock’ was always Wong but was always right too being exceptionally bright and was determined not to fall into her parent’s trap of working every hour Buddha sent to make ends meet.

“Correct!....You are such a clever little girl!” praised the teacher.

Suzy glowed with pride.

She loved all her teachers but Miss Adventure was her favourite.

The rest of the girls in the class glowered at Suzy with envy.

“And now boys only -what are these called that grow up from the floor?” demanded Mr Oxbridge in a sharper more expectant tone.

After a minute silence and no takers, the teacher tried to encourage a male response.

“ Sounds like Stalactites….!”

“ Stalagpricks?” asked Wesley not so innocently.

“ Stalagcocks?” offered Gwernllwyn catching on.

The class began to giggle at the rude words.

“Wesley, Gwernllwyn, you pair have about much hope of getting a good job in the future as I have of finding a mate!” said Mr Oxbridge.

“ Go and stand over there by Gustavo!” ordered the disciplinarian.

“ Gustavo….stop eating your headlice there’s a good boy!” said Miss Adventure.

“ And where is Daniel?” she continued.

“ Dunno….!” said the child scratching his head and shrugging his shoulders- in doing so sending lots of nits to their death on the cold stony wet floor.

The two teachers looked at each other in horror as they realised that one of the children in their care was missing in a very dangerous environment.

They like Gustavo, did an impromptu headcount.

Again, just like Gustavo they were one short of a picnic and their emergency plan had to kick in.

“ You stay with the children….ordered Mr Oxbridge ….I will retrace our steps and see if the little ‘Duffer’ is sitting on a rock further back on the trail eating his packed lunch or something!”

Daniel carried on slowly in the dimly lit cave hoping to find signs of life.

As he rounded a big rock, he suddenly froze, as he could make out a dark shadow of a human reflected on a wall.

He could make out the muffled sound of a voice which was almost whispering.

After a few seconds , he realised that a phrase was being repeated over and over again.

“ When I catch you I will eat you!”

Daniel was horrified- he was petrified that he had stumbled across a real life Gollum from the film, ‘The Lord of the Rings’ and that he was next on the dinner menu.

Whilst he was tempted to run as fast as he could backwards- he was oddly pleased to hear a human voice again.

He stared at the shadow on the cave wall which appeared to show a large one-armed figure in silhouette touching his head.

“ When I catch you I will eat you!” the voice continued.

Daniel had seen this shape before recalling his classmate Gustavo dirty habit.

The little lost boyo plucked up some courage and rounded the corner realising that it was a man sat on the floor cross-legged dressed in some rags with his finger up his nose.

“ You dirty bugger!” said the seven-year old.

The shock of seeing a Caucasian child challenging his eating habits shocked the man into reply.

“ Who are you infidel?” said the stranger through bogey encrusted teeth.

“I’m Daniel and I am not an infidel….unless that’s what you call someone whose parents are not married…is that an infidel?” asked the youngster.

Daniel stared at the dirty unkempt figure sat cross-legged before him.

“ And why do you have a dirty bath towel on your head?”

The stranger smiled.

He had forgotten how innocent a bastard child could be.

“ Are you Father Christmas’ dirty brother?”

Daniel somehow felt less scared being with a new companion.

“ No….Daniel…my name is not important!” replied the stranger.

“ But have you been a good boy this year?”

Daniel nodded.

“ And what would you like for Christmas?” he continued.

“ A gun!” spouted the child without any inhibition.

“ You are in luck….I have lots of them…!” said the stranger.

“ When I was your age in Saudi Arabia I had plenty of British made guns and ammunition to play with!”

“ On your list of demands ….did you ask Allah…sorry Father Christmas for which ones….An AK47 perhaps or a Stinger Surface to Air Missile launcher like the one that I used to play with in the poppy fields of Afghanistan?”

Daniel felt at ease with his newfound friend-they had something in common to talk about which was their love of playing soldiers.

Daniel did what came natural to a child and offered to share the remainder of his sweets with his new pal.

“Chew?” asked Daniel offering a blackjack to the stranger.

The stranger’s demeanour suddenly changed, as he went into a rage ranting that he hated all chews especially Zionist ones.

For the first time, Daniel started to fear the beard.

He had developed pogonophobia when his Estranged Father had grown one for Movember and then left his Mother for a Gurnos Woman, who had done the same for Fanuary.

“Come closer, my little friend ‘, begged the stranger using a softer tone of voice.

“Sorry, for my little outburst but those sticky sweets take my fillings out and I already have a toothache, as I haven’t been to register with a NHS dentist as I am not supposed to be in the Country”

“Officially, I am dead to the Western World and I wish it to stay that way!” continued the stranger.

Daniel was a little more wary at the mention of a dentist….he had already lost all his adult teeth from his sweet only diet- he shivered in the cold dank confines of the cave.

“ I see you are cold little soldier, why don’t you put on one of my specially made vests that are very popular in Somalia and Sudan….they will keep out the cold….although be careful not to pull this string on the front….!” Warned the stranger.

“ Is it like an Action Man?” asked Daniel.

“ My Father bought me one from a car-boot sale and if you pull the string he says

‘Action Man patrol fall in’.

“ Yes…this is a real ACTION Man vest but you mustn’t pull this cord until I give the order….as soon as you hear the phrase Ali Akbar you pull the string okay….!” he said glaring at the child like Rasputin and commanding obedience

“You see I am the Sargeant in the Suicide Squad whereas you are the private and you must obey only MY orders!”

“ Is that clear Private Daniel?

Daniel stood upright, clicked his heels like he was a reincarnated member of the Hitler Youth and marched toward the stranger in character.

Children have wonderful imaginations.

He stood proudly as the vest was fitted around his waist and chest.

“Remember Private Daniel this is an Order …do NOT pull this cord until I tell you!” insisted the stranger with mesmeric eyes poking out from under his turban.

“ Are you hungry Soldier?” asked the stranger.

“ Here is your chocolate ration!”

He handed him a square of dark chocolate.

“ Aren’t you having any?” asked Daniel.

“ I already have a bounty on my head!” laughed the stranger making eyes towards the turban.

The joke was wasted on the wannabe child soldier.

Mr Oxbridge was glad he was thin and able to pass easily through the narrow passages between rocks, as he tried like a Red Indian scout to follow the path the little boy had taken.

Luckily, just like Hansel & Gretel, he had left a trail behind him.

Coming from Merthyr, the little boy had no qualms about dropping litter and every so often, Mr Oxbridge would find a remnant of a 20p mix by way of sweet wrapper as a sign.

As the floor got wetter, there were child-size footprints on the cave floor, so unless he was following Wee Jimmy Krankie or Dennis Wise, he knew he was on the right pathway.

Mr Oxbridge was glad that he had joined the Scouting Movement as a child and read that Baden Powell Handbook from cover to cover, otherwise he would have had no chance of tracing the boy.

He needed to find him before word got out about a child going missing in his care.

If he found him alive and well then, he would keep his job.

He was already on report with the Headmaster for chapel farting next to the slow children making them think they had shit themselves- as he loved to see their confused expressions.

That teaching assistant, a paid- up Member of the Green Party, had never liked him and had ‘ratted’ him out to the Head over his emissions and methane fart-print.

As he squeezed passed below the main Cathedral Cave and the Bone Cave, he felt certain he was closing in on his quarry, as he felt he heard voices and assumed the little lost boy was keeping up his spirits by talking to and answering himself.

He often did it himself, as he had no friends and lived the life of a lonely bachelor like most male Primary School Teachers.

As he rounded a rock, he realised that Daniel was not in fact talking to himself or to Hank Marvin or any other member of the shadows, but an Arab man whose face was very familiar.

He did look like the man that served him a kebab when he was drunk on a Friday night but he couldn’t be certain it was him.

As he joined the pair, he suddenly recognised the face of the Arab man before him and couldn’t believe his eyes.

“ Greetings Infidel , welcome to my cave!” said the stranger.

The teacher nodded suspiciously at the man, in the same way he would nod at a paedophile passing the closed school gates.

“ Do you know who I am?” asked the stranger.

Mr Oxbridge knew he daren’t say he recognised him or he and the child would not leave the cave alive.

The teacher looked nervously at the array of weaponry, all within close reach of the Arab, who sat cross-legged like he was practising yoga.

“ No…I am only a primary schoolteacher and the only Arab I know of based in a cave from Western culture is that of Ali Baba!” said Mr Oxbridge trying to bluff his way out of trouble.

“ I don’t think he cuts hair….look at the state of his beard…!” said Daniel unhelpfully.

“ Not Ali Barber…..Ali Baba!” said the teacher in a gentle tone of voice designed not to frighten the child.

“ He was the one with the forty thieves!” said the stranger.

“ Another bias Western portrayal of the nature of my Countrymen!” he continued.

“ Was he from the Gurnos too?” asked Daniel.

“ No… he was a fictional character contained in the book 1001 Arabian Nights!” said the Teacher.

“ It was every much a work of fiction- just like your Holy Bible!” declared the stranger hitting back.

“ If there are any thieves then they are ALL Jewish ….imagine trying to say that Jerusalem is the Capital of Israel indeed!”

Daniel looked back and fore at the two adults and sensed that they would not be big friends in the playground.

“ You KNOW who I am don’t you?” pressed the Arab.

“ I know who you CANNOT be!” replied the Teacher.

“ Who CANNOT I be?” asked the stranger, as the conversion took on a surreal turn..

“ He told me he is Uncle Sam!” interjected Daniel.

“ Uncle OSAMA if you please!” replied the outed Saudi.

“You can’t be he….he was killed in a compound in Pakistan as part of Operation Neptune Spear by US Navy Seals!” said Mr Oxbridge clinging to life by a narrow thread.

“ Sharks -yes- said Daniel ….but not Seals no…!” said Daniel tugging on his teacher’s sleeve to correct him.

“ Do you think that that desert rat Montgomery and your fat Prime Minister Winston Churchill are the only persons important enough to have body doubles?” continued the Saudi.

Hearing this statement made Mr Oxbridge as effectively dead as the passengers on the hijacked planes involved in the 9/11 plot.

“ If you in fact are Osama Bin Laden and not just some lookalike wannabe ….prove it….you look more like John Pertwee dressed as Wurzel Gummidge to me!” said the teacher trying to muddy the oasis water.

“ Okay….what if I told you that I was not responsible for that whole New York thing and that it was an elaborate insurance scam all set up by the Jews to pay for a defective building that was due to crumble anyway inside 5 years!” said the Saudi.

“ Then I would believe you without question….!” Said Mr Oxbridge.

“ When I read the Merchant of Venice….I am always on the side of Portia and Antonio against that evil Shylock …charging interest rates in line with Wonga.com….who does he think he is….does he not have a Jew’s eyes, organs, dimensions etc….and as for that unmistakable nose….!” Said Mr Oxbridge suffering a little from Stockholm Syndrome.

“ But we have a problem don’t we Sir!” said the Saudi.

“ You KNOW who I am and you cannot be allowed to tell anyone!”

Mr Oxbridge gulped.

He knew what was coming next.

“ Child….pass me that AK47 please!” said the Saudi.

In a split second, the hyper intelligent Mr Oxbridge questioned as to why the Arab hadn’t moved towards the gun himself.

He called upon all his authority and ordered Daniel to STOP.

The little boy stopped midway between the pair, unsure who to listen too.

In his tiny mind, he felt the burning eyes of the Arab against the voice command of his teacher.

It wasn’t so much a Mexican stand-off it was more of an Afghan one.

Mr Oxbridge suddenly realised that their captor hadn’t moved his legs in the entire time he had spent talking to him.

“ What’s the matter with your legs then Mr Pertwee?” asked the teacher trying to confuse the Arab.

“Very observant of you SIR ….I stood on one of my own IED’s didn’t I….and now I have even less in the testicle department than my idol Adolph Hitler….!” Said the Arab.

“ IDOL ?” asked Mr Oxbridge.

“ He didn’t recognise those trespassers in Palestine either he had his own solution for them!”

“So let me get my history straight….the Arabs are the true land owners and the Jewish people just squatters?” asked Mr Oxbridge.

“So if they wanted a desert place to live in….why don’t they just go and live next to Las Vegas in Arizona?” asked the teacher trying to find ‘common ground’ with his hijacker.

“ You make a good point!” said the freedom fighter, playing the teacher at his own game.

“ Boy…bring me that gun!” he whispered to Daniel.

“ STOP Daniel….you are in a veritable lion’s den and if you give that gun to Uncle Osama you nor I will never see your Father again!” pleaded the Teacher.

Daniel had taken one step closer to the gun but now stood frozen to the spot, just like a jackrabbit caught in the headlights of a US Marine jeep.

The child was extremely confused.

He had common ground with the stranger and had always disliked the teacher intently.

His comment that he would never see his estranged Father again left him in a quandary.

Daniel was a free spirit but was slowly being indoctrinated by the teaching profession, as to how he should think, react and behave according to society rules.

On the other hand, he was standing in front of the ultimate rebel- a man from a millionaire family who was fighting American Imperialism and oil exploitation of the Middle East and multi-national Companies who sold arms for a living to wreak havoc in underdeveloped nations pitting brother against brother in the process.

Daniel didn’t understand World politics or the concepts of greed or evil.

He just wanted to be a child soldier.

He suddenly became aware of the string attached to the belt around his chest.

He remembered what his Mother used to say back home when he was in a fight with his younger brother over his 20p mix sweets.

“Now…you two … STOP arguing and pull little fingers OR I will pull this string!” he threatened.

Both Osama & Mr Oxbridge put their hands up as one asking the little boy NOT to pull the string.

Daniel was delighted with his new-found power.

He felt like he was role- playing his biological Father, on the many occasions when he had come home from the pub drunk and was ordering his Mother around under the threat of violence.

He felt like those times he had sat crying on the top of the stairs in his Spiderman pyjamas hadn’t gone to waste.

Mr Oxbridge was worried.

On the one hand, he knew that at some point the Company that owned the cave would send rescuers to look for him and Daniel and if they did, his time at the ‘chalk face’ was numbered.

Besides, he did want anyone to be held hostage by a desperate terrorist with no legs and little reason to live.

Surely, the Arab must have a helper above ground bringing the cripple some food?

The answer to this mystery didn’t take long to reveal itself.

Out of the cave shadows stepped another Arab.

His face too was familiar to the teacher.

As he strained to pull little fingers with Osama he realised that there was a Terrorist Cell operating in the South Wales Valleys.

He was also so tempted to drop one bomb of his own at the thought of ‘pull my finger’.

The other man was local Cynon Valley Kebab shopkeeper Mustafa Kemal.

Mr Oxbridge was a regular at the late-night eatery even in his local Environment Health Department had given the establishment ‘Two Food Safety Stars’ in their ‘War against Botulism’.

In the window, meats of all kinds cooking on skewers, some of which looked decidedly humped, with their delicious smell wafting down the littered streets, enticing late night revellers for both hot food and the chance of a good punch-up.

Mustafa himself was always subjected to racial abuse and many a time had chased some of the local youths with meat cleaver in hand.

He was particularly upset when lost in translation he was asked ‘if there was Saladin’.

Mr Oxbridge could see by the way Mustafa was looking at him that he had peeled many a Westerner in his Iraqi Torture Chambers under the Saddam Hussein Regime.

The key to this whole sorry episode was how Daniel would react.

One false move and he would be blown to Kingdom come and he didn’t think that the other 71 virgins would be pleased to see him intruding on their Turkish Delight.

He had managed to grab Daniel’s tiny hand in the dark and began to take small backwards steps in the direction he had appeared from.

Mustafa was slowly trying to outflank him to block his escape.

In one movement, he reached down to Daniel’s legs and lifted him Fireman Osama style like he was carrying a body in a Persian Rug.

“ Quick! ” he shouted to the stunned youngster, as he pinned his arms to try and prevent him pulling the detonation cord by accident.

Slipping and sliding over the wet limestone rock, the teacher ran for his life, followed in pursuit by Mustafa Kemal who had produced a curved knife not dissimilar to a scimitar.

Fortunately, the teacher had been a cross-country champion in his college days and despite his spindly legs and knobbly knees, he was more adept at covering the difficult terrain than his pursuer, whose turban had started to unravel after a fall and began to slow him up.

Daniel kicked and screamed, just like his Mother had done, the time his drunken Father had tried to knock her unconscious with the intention of using her as foundations for his patio.

Mr Oxbridge didn’t have a clue in which direction to go but took guidance from the Yazz & the Plastic Population song- ‘The only way is Up’.

He stumbled about in the dark, whispering to Daniel not to make a sound or the ‘bogey man’ would get the pair of them.

Mr Oxbridge knew that Mustafa must be close, as he could smell the spices that oozed out from his pores.

At one point the Arab passed the pair, metal skewer in hand calling out like a Middle Easterner version of the Child-catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang for Daniel to reveal himself.

It took all of Mr Oxbridge’s strength to keep the boy quiet.

After waiting for several minutes, which seemed like ‘double mathematics’ to both pupil and teacher alike in the inky blackness, the Teacher felt it was now safe to head out from the sanctuary of the crevice that had hidden them from view.

Following the cave in a Northerly direction, the former hostages made their way in the opposite direction they had come, hoping to find a way back to the main chamber.

Miss Adventure was starting to get really worried.

Mr Oxbridge had asked him to give him one hour to find the boy, after which she was free to raise the alarm with the relevant authorities.

As he held her mobile in her hand about to ring the Headmaster and spill the beans, both Mr Oxbridge and Daniel emerged blinking into the light from behind a series of rocks a couple of yards away from the main school party.

The children cheered loudly, as did Miss Adventure at the relief the pair were safe from danger.

However, when it comes to school outings then peril is never far away.

This peril came in the form of Mustafa who leapt off a high rock with the skewer in his teeth like a mad pirate about to swash-buckle John Phillip Law in a Sinbad Film.

Unfortunately, for the would-be Cynon Valley Assassin, a loose fold from his turban got trapped around his neck and became lodged in a fissure in the rock and what a cry that started as ‘Ali Akhbar’ petered out to Ali ARRRGGHH.

As he hung there choking the schoolchildren all cheered as they thought it was part of the school outing.

After all they had been to see Merthyr comedian Owen Money’s pantomime Aladdin and watched him die a death on stage in that.

Daniel started to raise his hand towards the string-pull on his chest as if acting under a trance.

As the skewer dropped from the mouth of Mustafa, as he struggled to breathe, the two teachers looked at each other as they realised they now had a way out of their ordeal which might now save their face, their jobs and get them on the much coveted BBC Wales Six O’Clock News slot.

All they had to do was to let the Arab die in front of the children by asphyxiation.

“Nothing to worry about children…..he is just a practical choker!” said Mr Oxbridge making eyes at his fellow teacher, nervously farting like a trooper next to his slow children.

“ Why has he gone red in the face?” asked Wesley.

“ My Father used to go that colour when my Mother used to put his pillow over his face when he was snoring!” said Gwernllwyn.

After a brief version of Michael Flatley’s Riverdance – the Arab suddenly became more Flatliner than Flatley.

Mr Oxbridge on the other hand was no longer flatulent.

His job was safe, as was his pupil and there had been no harm done.

Save as to a terrorist cell member and a man that was already listed as dead.

And that is the way it would have stayed if Gustavo hadn’t spotted the ring pull on Daniel’s shirt.

He wanted to beat his hypnotised classmate to it.

He loved Action Men too.

After the explosion everyone was in denial, except Daniel and Gustavo who were in pieces.

“ Alright Mun!” said the young lawyer.

“ Keep your hair on will you!” 

It was somewhat ironic really, as Welsh Barrister Leo Felix was only 23 but his fair hair was already receding more than a Norfolk beach at High tide.

“What are you doing in there… you nonce?” shouted an angry commuter, as he repeated banged on the lower half of the train WC cubicle door.

He thought about warning the angry man that what he had just said in front of his fellow passengers was actionable as a slander, but sight unseen he suspected that the individual wouldn’t have cared less nor had the wherewithal to fund defamation damages in the High Court of Justice.

The Virgin train from Cardiff Central to Paddington was packed to the rafters with passengers heading to London for work on a busy December Monday morning and the extra load of women and excited children heading to see Santa Claus and for Christmas shopping meant it resembled the ‘Sardine Express’ rather than the Polar one.  

Leo didn’t normally use public toilets but on this occasion would have missed the train, if he had used the ones located on the platform.

Boy did he regret his usual practice of standing up urinating and racing the flush to see would finish first.

Mainly because he had bent down to tie his shoelace and his expensive mobile phone had shot out of his top shirt pocket into the toilet pan and surfed its way around the u-bend before he could do anything about it.

His efforts to retrieve the same with his slender arms had not returned anything that even remotely resembled a mobile phone. 

The Virgin Train Japanese- style talking toilet was angry too at the new deposit and kept suggesting he see his Bowel Doctor immediately.

The banging of the Neanderthal on the door intensified into punches.
Leo wondered if it was a Cockney Mike Tyson outside.

He knew he would have to leave the cubicle with some dignity after the slur but also knew from playground experience that he was most certainly not a boxer. 

He needed that phone as his life was on it.

Like most modern- day young professionals -his life depended on it.

He had his diary on it, banked on it, checked the weather forecast, train times and of course the news headlines. He even made phone-calls on it too.

How would he live without it?

That was the purpose God Almighty had made humans with opposable thumbs for.
He knew he would have to face the music and leave the cubicle.

As he slid back the metal door lock, he was surprised to find that his abuser wasn’t a six- foot six builder with muscles on his muscles- but a four foot two dwarf.

Leo was used to looking down the nose at most people but on this occasion he really felt empowered.

“Sorry….I hope you weren’t caught ‘short’ by my time in there, but I accidentally flushed my mobile down the lavatory….perhaps given your size you might like to swim around the u-bend and get it back for me?” said the Barrister.

It was the last thing he remembered before the searing pain caused by the dwarf headbutting him in the bollocks.

Leo staggered to his seat.

Not only had he lost his mobile phone, but also his dignity and very likely his ability to reproduce children.

“Don’t worry luv!” whispered a kind old Welsh lady sat opposite him.

“That little fella is a professional wrestler called ‘Lowdown’ and that was his speciality move
.
Rubbing his aching testicles, he knew that his ‘Game of Thrones’ had not been engineered to hog the toilet- it was just circumstances.

“Tickets please!” announced the conductor.

Leo reached for his phone but it wasn’t there.

His season train ticket barcode was on his phone.

Try explaining that to an angry 40- year old Virgin.

“Where does the toilet flush too?” asked Leo.

“Does it go into a sealed unit?” asked the barrister hopefully.

“No- was the train stationary when you went?”  Asked the conductor.

“Yes!” said the mobile-less passenger.

“A little jerk caused the loss!” said Leo looking revengefully at Lowdown.

“Since leaving the European Union in January 2020- there are no longer any environmental control, so the waste gets distributed directly onto the track!” said the rail employee as if reading directly from a Company propaganda edict.

“Didn’t your Mother ever tell you not to go to the toilet when the train is in the Station?” he continued.

Leo knew then that he was in trouble.

What if someone found the phone, cracked the Personal Identification Number and found out all his personal information?

But then again it would take some kind of a genius to crack into his phone. 

He had client’s data on there, sensitive information for work as well that could be used for evil purposes if it fell into the wrong hands.

His sharp mind was already working overtime and the worst part was he couldn’t even bill a client for it.

As he came to terms with his electronic loss, it felt like a family bereavement had hit him.

He had withdrawal symptoms as he went cold turkey.

He felt insanely jealous that the other passengers were all looking at their mobile phones.

The carriage was silent with no chatter, as the modern generation displayed their social inability.

Even the Welsh Pensioner was doing a sudoku.

It was as everyone present wanted to be somewhere else.

Leo had no other option but to look out of the window and was surprised to see the late Autumnal colours changing into Winter, as the last remaining deciduous trees shed their coats and froze like the rest of mankind in the former United Kingdom.

He was entranced with the beauty of the English Countryside, something he had never before appreciated with his face down squinting at his mobile screen.

There were so many different colours and hues, flashing past, ranging from yellow to brown to red.

Mother Nature’s palette really was a sight to behold.

And the strange part of it was it was only he that was interested in the beautiful scene. 

As the train flew through Gloucestershire, Wiltshire, and Berkshire, Leo felt a pang of home sickness leaving behind his Home Country to work all weekend in the Smoke with its overpopulation, pollution and 24-hour noise.  

If New York was the City that never sleeps then its insomnia problem had been exported across the Pond and Post-Brexit was affecting the British too with its’ capitalist disease.

When America sneezes Britain catches a cold.

Now they had just had a massive Trump and the shit fallout was everywhere.

Each City looked just like a carbon copy of the next with KFC and McDonald’s on every street corner of the concrete jungles.

Food standards had dropped since the exit from the European Union and it was now difficult to work out whether it was the pollution, the chlorinated chicken or the increased permissible quota of rat hairs in the kebabs that were making people ill.

The more profitable parts of the NHS had been sold off to giant American pharmaceutical companies who now had a monopoly on legal drugs.

Great Britain had become Little Britain with zero-hours contracts the norm and a return to the Great Depression days of the 1930’s, where 200 hundred men would turn up at the gates of the London Docks in the hope of work, where only 20 were needed.

The divide between rich and poor in society had widened to those of Victorian times, with great stretches of former Labour areas now a forgotten wasteland.

Leo, ironically, on the other hand had never known real hunger but was about to get a ‘taste’ of it.

As he disembarked from the train at Paddington station, he usually bought a Marmalade sandwich from the theme shop at Mr Brown’s.

But he didn’t have his credit card.

To his horror, he remembered it was tucked in the front flap of his mobile cover which was still languishing on a rail track somewhere between Cardiff and Monmouthshire.

He stared at the sandwiches in the window, felling hungry from his long journey but unable to buy one.

It wasn’t from lack of money, he just didn’t have the means of payment.

He read the sign above the counter which said ‘Cash Only- No credit- a refusal often offends’.

Most businesses in the Smoke preferred cash as it could be hidden under the bed, as it was only the black-market economy that kept them solvent, as the rest of Britain owed more to the financial institutions than ever following the downgrading of our International credit rating in 2020.

Leo thought of his home town of Merthyr Tydfil, which had more barbers per head than Seville in Spain but strangely all kept going. He knew people in Merthyr were hairy but not THAT hairy.

It must be the black mullet economy at work.

The smell of roast chestnuts in a brazier tantalised him as he walked towards the guard on the turnstile checking for tickets.

He knew that he would trouble with his thick Welsh Valleys accent explaining why he didn’t have a ticket.

No-one in London had any time for that sort of thing.

He knew from past observation that the people would run up moving escalators and just like laboratory rats within ten minutes he would be absorbed by their unceasing rush to get somewhere else.

He tried explaining it to the guard, who was busy enjoying his power trip, raising an eyebrow or two before letting him through with a satisfactory smile, in the tacit knowledge that Leo had now missed his tube connection to Oxford Street Station.

As he waited for a further ten minutes on the subterranean platform, he felt that scary feeling of a cold wind being forced down the tunnel by the movement of the train.

It was then the usual free-for- all as people pushed and shoved to get onto the crowded tube before the electronic guard-less doors shut on people, taking shopping bags, fingers, hands and small children away from the lucky occupants who had made the interior of the carriage.   
 
He knew he would be late getting home as the trains from Wales were rarely on time.

Thankfully, he had used his day off in lieu – sometimes it paid to be self-employed when it came to time off.

He knew in the crazy World of London that he was just another number and in reality, few people would miss him.

As Leo was something of a workaholic, he rarely took time off as he was trying to build up his client base- and he knew that there were few people who would care, if he was ever pushed under a Boris bendy Bus or a tube train- besides his elderly Mother and Father and of course his live-in lover for the past year- Kitty.     

He knew that she worried about constantly and would be having kittens, if he didn’t turn up when expected.

Kitty rarely went out due to her agoraphobia and the sound of his key in the apartment door was always greeted with much enthusiasm.

For now, he couldn’t move a muscle, he felt a touch of the condition in that as he was trapped in a small metal train hurtling at 40 mph through heavily graffitied Victorian tunnels with the smell of stale piss and body odour all too evident to his senses.

Everyone around him like a kaleidoscope of colours and a melting pot of cultures and nations.

The majority seemed to have ‘earbuds’ and be listening to grime music or Adele or Ed Sheeran.

They were all so insular, afraid to look each other in the eye or smile.

Leo now minus his I-phone could just like 1970’s reggae artist Johnny Nash see clearly now.

What a society he lived in.

He was still suffering from his technology withdrawal syndrome when he spoke to the woman next to him.

“Good afternoon….!” 

He didn’t manage to finish his sentence before he was sprayed in the face with Mace.

The young woman had jumped a mile.

What sort of person speaks to someone on the Tube? 

A scuffle broke out and once again Leo was the subject of an assault.

He had also lost his expensive watch in the kerfuffle.

But which one of these people had taken it.

He was always good at Cluedo as a young lad, but up here the colours were not Scarlett, Peacock, Mustard, Plum or Green.

It had not been a good journey home to the English capital- as he was now down a mobile phone, a watch, had bruised knackers and been sprayed in the face with pepper spray.

As he exited the tube-station he had to spend another ten minutes arguing with the guard before being let through towards actual daylight.

It was called actual daylight, but in reality, the limited light from the late Autumnal sun was so high above the skyscrapers and high-rise blocks, it was barely visible over the highly polluted trapped smog of car fumes in the English Capital.

Leo had always wondered why London was nicknamed the Smoke- now he had his answer.
Now minus his mobile, he had a clearer picture of the Earth that the parasite known as Mankind was busily destroying. 

He had no money to hail a cab, so he had no other option than to walk the rest of the way home, dodging people walking with mobile phones like crosses in front of them, which is easier said than done on busy London streets that even Verve Singer Richard Ashcroft would find hard to negotiate.

With new eyes, he witnessed people too engrossed with their cyber life to care about oncoming traffic, as they stepped out both individually and on mass at crossings with red lights causing London Hackney drivers to swear in Cockney Rhyming slang at the careless pedestrians.

Cries of ‘Jeremy Hunt’ and ‘Mike Catt’ were everywhere.

Leo couldn’t believe that the new species of human was hypnotised into staring at their mobile screens rather than participating in the REAL World.

What was becoming of our society, where the origin of the species and evolution of humankind had led to this advanced state of electronic paralysis.

True- Mother Nature’s only trump card- the survival of the fittest had meant that lots of these idiots had now been run over and with NHS waiting times fortunately had not survived.

He was now only a block away and thought he would as usual stop at the local chip shop to take home a fish supper for his nearest and dearest.

Regrettably, once again, he patted his top pocket and realised he had no means of payment.
He was starving and he bet his Missus was too, after a weekend stuck in that flat.

As he reached the entrance door, he noticed the sign said ‘Lift out of Order’.

He knew it hadn’t been his day, but to have to climb fourteen separate flights of stairs with added fire- retarded cladding, meant he had lost two stone in perspiration by the reached his apartment door.

Thank goodness it was nearly Winter.

London’s burning alright he thought, as he fumbled for his key.

As he opened the door, he noticed that his love was in the kitchen but he had more pressing matters.

His landline was ringing.

Strange he thought, as very few people had his number as it was  ex-directory.

It must be his Mother ringing to remind him that he had once again left the ready meals she had made him on the kitchen table.   

He really loved his Mam’s Welsh cooking too.

As he closed then deadlocked the door, he raced to the phone and answered it hesitantly.

“Hello?” 

It was NOT Lionel Ritchie.

“Is this London 01 378695?”

Perhaps thought Leo some honest person has found his phone.

His mind raced and in a split second he realised that whoever was phoning must have gained access his phone and potentially could see what embarrassing pictures he held in his phone gallery.

The one of him with his arm around Prince Andrew in the Woking Pizza Express.

The one of him shaking hands with Wiki-leeks founder Julian Assange at the Ecuadorian Embassy. 

A photograph of him welcoming Donald Trump to Britain at his golf course in Scotland.

Surely no-one could have broken into his phone this quickly?

He thought then of Hollywood actress, Jennifer Lawrence and the hacked naked photographs from her I-cloud account which now all over the internet.

“Yes!” stuttered the barrister for once lost for words

It was not the voice of a genius but a ten- year old Gurnos schoolkid, called Mitch Daley. 

  “This must be the cat shagger then?” 

The little red van pulled up in the tiny picture postcard village of Pontsticill, Merthyr Tydfil and a distinguished elderly gentleman slowly clambered out.

He was clad in a red all-weather coat with yellow flashing, so he could be seen easily in the low light of the Brecon Beacons National Park.

His much younger work colleague kindly unloaded his zimmer- frame and post satchel from the back of the red van, and waved cheerily to him as he pulled back off onto the main road through the rural village.

It was 6.00 am on Saturday Morning and in the eerie half- light of late October, the elderly man had already been up two hours before arriving at the sorting office for 5.00am.

Postman Arthur Rittik was 74 years and 363 days old and it was to be his last ever shift.

He had wanted to retire at 65 but successive Conservative Governments had consecutively upped the State Pension retirement age, forcing him to work on beyond his usefulness to his employer.

According to the Department of Work & Pensions, acting on instruction from Ian Duncan Smith, work was compulsory for all until 75 years of age, as unfortunately some of the lower classes were now living too long.

Under its new slogan of ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’.

Somebody had to pay for the poor deal negotiated over Brexit in 2019 and clearly that should not be the millionaires who could afford it, or those persons who had money hidden away in Hedge Funds and Tax Havens pretending to be Great Britons.

It should be the Proletariat.

After all they WERE the democratic ones suckered into voting for Brexit over the fear of mass immigration.

They were now the ones who could no longer afford cheap Thomas Cook flights to Benidorm or Marmaris to use their shiny new blue passports, after the Pound had been devalued below the level of the Euro and Turkish Lira.

Their feral children couldn’t even go and work in the bars of these places any more, as they couldn’t get Work Permits or Visas from the European Union Member States.

They now had to stay at home in a divided Britain with reduced worker’s rights and zero hours contracts to boot, whilst their REAL bosses- the Merchant Bankers & Venture Capitalists- drank champagne and eat oysters and caviar and retired wealthy, after dipping ‘Maxwell- style’ into the pension pot of their workers who had made them rich in the first place.

Poor Arthur Rittik’s only crime was to be born poor in Britain in 2019.

His family had fled Bucharest in Romania in 1939, with some foresight, fearing with just cause what the rise in Fascism would bring to their Mother Country.

His parents had moved to Wales and Merthyr Tydfil in particular at the time, as it was the second least expensive place to buy a house, after the village of Sellafield in Cumbria.

Despite its ‘glowing reputation’ they had chosen Merthyr over the Lake District.

His Father before him had worked on the post, mainly because he couldn’t speak English but also because he didn’t have any professional qualifications that were recognised in this Country.

Somewhat ironically however, his Dad still ended up with lots of letters after his name.

He always held a grudge against rich people ever since.

His Dad remembered the good old days of delivering telegrams to family members of the rich people that had been on the Titanic and telling them that their last words in the bar was requesting more ‘ice’ for their whiskey & tonic.

Fortunately, as he spoke in Romanian nobody could understood a word that he said.

He did have one advantage though, as he was a user of the Cyrillic Alphabet, he could easily identify where a poorly handwritten letter needed to be delivered.

Doctor’s letters were his speciality.

When Arthur took over his round, after he had retired through ill-health, he too found he had a unique way of dealing with illegible writing.

He would simply post them back to the Central Post Office.

Arthur Rittik noticed that he had developed the same occupational illnesses that his Father had from the cold, damp conditions of the South Wales Valleys.

Rheumatoid Arthritis, no knee cartilage, a crooked back from the weight of the letters and lots of sharp paper cuts.

In the Bleak Mid-Winter, there were often times when he couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers or the toes on his feet- but he always made sure that just like the ‘Pony Express’- his post always got through.

How times had changed.

Now his profession was regarded with some ambivalence, being sneered at as ‘snail mail’ by the Katy Perry generation and where once the sound of the letterbox would bring joy to the householder children waiting for birthday cards or examination results, now it was met with disdain for junk mail adverts for kebab shops, pizza huts or OAP scams sent by Canadian Conmen that the occupier had won £100,000.00- asking the Local Government supplied list of unwitting elderly victims for their bank account details so the prize could be paid out.

Now he was made semi-redundant by e-mail or telephone mobile text message.

But what the young generation would find out in a few years that their use of electric and fossil fuel that powered their electronic devices was damaging Mother Earth and sending unknown radio waves through the population causing hitherto unknown cancers from electric forcefields.

His way was far more eco-friendly and he had a letter from Swedish schoolkid Greta Thunberg to prove it.

Whereas once he was considered a pillar of a rural Community, now he was largely anonymous.

Back in the day, he had lost count of how many schoolchildren had asked him if his name was Pat or if he had a black and white cat called Jess back home in Greendale.

Now schoolchildren were more likely to threaten him with a flick-knife or call him a Paedo, or ask him why he still wanted to live till 75 years of age?

Children had changed for the worst, mirroring the ‘I’m alright Jack -pull up the ladder ‘Little Britain’ Society Arthur now lived in.

Working class children were also bitter, as Brexit had robbed them of their ability to live and work anywhere in Europe and the divide between the rich and poor had widened to such an extreme that certain areas had become ghettos and other areas- walled communities.

Even Pontsticill had changed, with the continuation of benefit cuts and the resulting crime wave had led to lots of rural burglaries, so that most properties had close circuit television cameras aligned to their doorbell to check for uninvited guests.

The last great fun of doing his job had been taken away from postmen.

They could no longer pretend to ring the doorbell and leave an annoying note with ‘Please collect your parcel from the Delivery Office by 5.30pm’.

As most rural working customers couldn’t get there during normal working hours, they would have to take-up their Saturday Morning to fight through the congested traffic schemes only to discover with some dismay that the mystery parcel actually contained a copy of the Readers Digest.

Back in the day, Arthur was young and fit, he could manage to deliver his post to the entire village and in the process leapt more fences on his round than Grand National Winner ‘Red Rum’, but now with his limited movement, he could only manage one single estate in a day and usually fell at the first fence.

Today, it was Castell Morlais with only 24 houses- all with an open expansive view of the former Norman Morlais Castle and the high former limestone quarries that were once favoured by the English Ironmasters that ruled the Town in a grip of fear.

The rape of the fair country had left behind many industrial scars but the landscape was still as stunning as it ever was – a silent witness back to the times when Arthur of the Britons had first roamed the Celtic Motherland.

It was breath-taking.

Now a different Arthur of the Britain’s stood looking at the Welsh Upland mountainside but at 74 years and still working it was also breath-taking to him.

In fact, the remainder of his breath was briefly visible in the half-light, as its moisture went off to add to the frost on the red tiled roofs of the houses.

Lots had changed in the village, as rich Englishmen from the Smoke could now afford to buy a mansion in Wales from the net proceeds of sale of a one-bedroom flat in London and still have change left over.

The price disparity was all there to see.

The new Ironmasters had arrived.

Many houses were now empty and used as holiday homes on AirBNB, with local wages preventing many Welsh people being able to afford to buy, leading to a rise in Welsh Nationalism and threats of ‘Meibion Glyndwr’ resurfacing in the Principality.

The promised ‘melting pot’ of races had not materialised and increasingly Welsh-born children no longer felt a welcome in the Hillsides.

Arthur looked up at number 24 Castell Morlais and could see a newly installed flagpole with the flag of St George proudly flying over the garden.

I bet that was popular with the few remaining old Welsh neighbours thought Arthur.

As he trudged his way on his zimmer up the uneven pathway of number 1, he tried desperately not to fall over- as he knew that if he turned turtle , he would have one foot in the grave, as people in our broken society already stepped over homeless people in sleeping bags- seeing them as an inconvenience rather than a consequence of the failure of a Government to find work and shelter for their population.

As he reached the letterbox, he carefully selected the right mail for the Property- as he was suffering from early onset vascular dementia- it proved quite a task.

At one time, this round was even harder and more confusing, as most people on this estate were called Jones, Williams, Evans or Thomas.

Now it was Smythe, Blenkinsop or Farquar.

Very few now spoke the Mother tongue and even fewer tuned into S4C.

One survey once established that no-one at all had tuned in to watch several of the Welsh Language Programmes.

But they were still running.

With his first delivery over, Arthur did a U-turn with his frame and made his way back up the shiny pathway.

Back in his youth, he loved the sight of crisp fresh snow- now he feared its very appearance as one slip could mean a broken hip or foot and could be fatal to an elderly postman no longer fit for purpose.

He also worried about how he was going to manage on his meagre state pension after he retired.

After all he wouldn’t even get a free BBC Television licence anymore from his Aunty Beeb.

But I suppose there was always S4C even if he didn’t understand a word of it.

Whatever happened to the Great British Empire and the promised ‘trickle-down effect’? he thought.

The Post Office wasn’t even owned by Britain anymore.

After 360 years of history, the institution was now owned by its shareholders with the resulting effect that the cost of a first-class stamp was now beyond most people.

With inflation, the cost of having a miniature profile of the Regent of England on the top left- hand corner of your envelope had risen to £1.50.

Opinion at the Post Office was divided, as to whether the cost increase or the Earl Grey- stained teeth of Queen Camilla had been most off-putting to the general public.

Either way the number of letters being posted had dramatically reduced.

Which was both a blessing and a curse to poor Arthur- as he feared that some latter-day ‘Robber Maxwell’ might now plunder HIS pension fund, especially as it was paid via a Private Company.

Thirty minutes had now elapsed since he had been first dropped off and he had only managed to deliver post to two houses.

But Arthur was resilient, he was determined to finish his ‘Royal’ paper round and not let down his customers.

Despite being not having originally born in this Country (just like the Windrush Generation) he still considered Great Britain to be his home, and in particular considered himself to be Welsh.

This was based on who he supported in the England v Wales Rugby Match.

As he headed for the third letterbox, he knew he would have to be wary.

There was a sign up ‘Beware of the Dog’.

He hated going into long gardens where the home-loving canine suddenly turned into the Israeli Defence Force and attacked him with those sharp teeth.

Arthur had been bitten so many times over his time with the Post Office he was immune to the tetanus jab itself.

He once did an entire round with a corgi attached to his front of steel toe cap boots by its teeth.

If he had a pound for every time a homeowner had told him –“He won’t hurt you love!”- he could have afforded to retire.

His stock answer was always:-

“ He’s not going to hurt ME love ….but you will be the one that has to climb up the roof of the extension to get him back!”

Many a customer complaint had been lodged on his personnel file for this reply.

So much so Head Office wanted to know if for Health & Safety reasons he wanted to be CORGI registered.

The Fire Station Commander had also complained about his antics in the past but now with a zimmer-frame for protection Arthur was much less belligerent.

However, Arthur’s talent was not limited to pushing paper through holes in doors or converting pets rugby style over garden walls, he had modified the frame just like Q had done for aging actor Sean Connery in ‘Never Say Never Again’, so that at a touch of a button , three six inch stiletto blades would shoot out of the assisted walking- frame.

It was ideal when doing the Post Round in the New Gurnos- as on occasion he had to duel with certain residents like he was one of the Three Musketeers over the retention of his postbag.

Vigilant at all times, Arthur made his way towards the front door of number 3, where he heard the distinctive low growl of a canine defender.

A Jack Russell Terrier by the sound of it.

He could tell the breed and size of a dog simply by looking at the scratch-marks on the bottom of the door or the size of the uncollected dog logs in the gardens.

Whenever, he reached a letterbox where a dog would wait at the back of the door to take off his fingers, he would carefully pick up a dog log with the home-owners incoming mail and then feed it through the flap to the waiting canine mouth.

What a joy it was to hear the dog retching at the taste of it’s own shit.

It was even funnier, as some breeds had short memories too.

With poor Fido having to pick up the ‘bill’ from it’s equally savage owner for a utility letter inside the house with dog excrement on it.

Arthur hated all breeds of dogs but especially German Shepherd’s- not just because of their Country of origin, but also as they were big, aggressive and very territorial.

Nowadays, few dogs bothered him, as due to his age, he smelled of imminent death and whilst the odd hungry one would try and take one of his bony fingers- his Bond villain invention- those of his ‘Rosa Klebb’ shoe-spikes attached to his zimmer- frame usually sent the dog yelping away with it’s tail between its legs.

Most homeowners didn’t blame the postman but assumed that the cats in the area had been issued with flick-knives by a Cat Protection Charity.

As he reached house number six, he was stopped at the top of the driveway by a female supermarket delivery driver busy reversing out of the cul-de-sac.

As it was a Morrison Van – her name was Carrie Abagfivepea and naturally had brown eyes.

Even if they were crossed like US comic actor Ben Turpin.

“What’s the postcode for Morlais Close in Castle Park?” asked the South Wales exponent of the ancient Japanese art of Bonkai.

“Are you talking to me?” asked the lady, whose eyes seemed to be concrete proof of the ability of females to multi-task.

“You’re a postman ain’t you?” countered Carrie.

Poor Arthur felt he was being cross examined and didn’t know which eye to look at- East or West.

“What’s that got to do with it?” asked Arthur.

“There’s no bloody mobile phone signal up here for Google Maps!” said the lost driver.

“Googlie-eyed Maps?” replied Arthur.

“Not my generation love….I couldn’t use a mobile to ring….let alone use Facetube!”

Carrie shook her head in disgust and reversed off at high speed, sending milk now passed its sell-by date and stale bread tumbling as she went.

Seeing the alternative ‘Meals on Wheels’ pull away made Arthur hungry indeed.

But the austerity measures of successive Conservative Governments had left him with a choice of Eating or Heating.

Private rental rates kept going up too with inflation but not in keeping with his meagre pay.

He hadn’t a pay rise in five years and he too was finding the cost of food expensive.

He like most people was affected by the new phenomenon of ‘Universal’ Credit ‘shrinkflation’.

His food portions had shrunk in size and cost twice as much to buy.

A Mars Bar was now the size of Mercury but cost the Earth.

Fortunately, as so few people under 80 years of age wanted to eat them, Werthers were still original.

As he carefully unwrapped one with his blue bony fingers, he took comfort in sucking down on the sweet.

Next up, was number 8, a Jewess Widow he had had his eye on for a number of years.

He felt she had a soft spot for him too, as she often came to the door wearing a negligee and stocking and suspenders.

She reminded him of Rose from the Golden Girls on the occasions when she had her teeth in.

He always pretended there was something wrong with the letterbox and so she had to open the door to him.

None of the nine cats that lived with her seemed to object to his arrival either, as they all made a bee-line for the crack in the door whenever he came a calling.

Fortunately for Arthur, his sense of smell had waned over the years, as younger postmen used to recoil at the putrid smell of stale cat faeces and urine that escaped, just like the cats themselves when the door was ajar.

“Oooh good… my Strictly Come Dancing Live tickets have arrived at last!” said Widow Yom Kipper.

Arthur was pleased to make his favourite customer happy- on a ‘Strictly’ professional basis of course.

“Heavy Sack today Arthur?” she asked suggestively.

“Are you any good at dusting?” asked Arthur randomly.

He was of course thinking of the cobwebs around his cock that hadn’t been employed for some years now.

Widow Kipper took this as a slight and promptly closed the door sharply in his face, trapping one of the escaping cat’s tails and turning it into a Manx one.

Arthur, just like most men was puzzled as to what he had said to offend the woman.

He started back up the pathway, clicking the lozenge between tongue and teeth.

Next up was Mrs Quill, she was another widow but much younger and less attractive than the Widow Kipper.

She had spent some time in the USA previously but had left America after her husband had been killed by a bull in a rodeo accident at Calgary.

He had been a Circus Clown and had died in the ring protecting a bucking bronco rider.

The only consolation that Mrs Quill had in the tragedy was that it had taken the undertakers four days to get the smile off the dead man’s face.

Arthur from experience knew that the blue envelope marked Air Mail was likely to be a letter from abroad.

He was however, curious why there was a franking stamp silhouette of a horse drawn buggy with the face of actor Tom Cruise on the driver.

It read Amish-on Impossible.

Just like the Widow Kipper, she too loved to see Arthur’s mail coming through her letterbox.

She was happy to explain to the curious Postman that it was a letter from her friend in Pennsylvania.

His religious Amish community had banned the use of Skype, Mobile Application Facetime or other modern technology.

They believed that of the 4000 Gods that mankind had created since the dawn of time – their one was against technology.

The author of the letter was a pig farmer- making him the ultimate Pen-Pal.

They had corresponded every six months for the last decade, swapping news about pork prices, the effect of new President Donald Trump was having on the swill of the people and of course who was suey-ing whom in the US Court Legal system.

He had told her he was thinking of moving into a different agricultural field- that of chlorinated chicken, as the President had assured him personally that it would be the new big export market.

Most of Trump’s political rivals were talking about impeachment, but he personally didn’t think fruit was the solution.

The pair had developed their own USA/UK ‘special relationship’ since the death of her husband and hoped one day to innocently roll in the hay one day after Harvest Festival or Thanksgiving.

Or perhaps spend the New Year in Scotland once he had saved up enough Hogmanay.

The letter was always perfumed to disguise the smell of the farm.

Arthur bid his farewell and told her that she would soon have a young stallion taking over his round as he was being put out to pasture.

Next up was Mr Stoker at number 10.

He had always disliked Arthur, as he had never forgiven him for delivering a parcel by placing it in his wheelie bin to keep it dry, when he was out.

It would have been fine but unfortunately it happened to be bin day and he didn’t want the embarrassment of asking the local binmen to return his blow-up woman that he had ordered on the internet.

He had tried to convince Arthur that the company ‘Big N Bouncy’ produced inflatable bouncy castles for children’s parties- but as Mr Stoker had no children, spouse or living relatives it didn’t wash with Arthur.

But then again it wasn’t the only thing that didn’t wash.

Mr Stoker himself always appeared at the door in his dirty dressing gown and encrusted striped pyjamas, usually around Noon holding a bowl of cereal.

The Hugh Hefner lookalike had earned the local nickname of ‘Bran Stoker’, as his light was on all night and his habits were extremely regular.

Arthur pushed the overdue electricity bill through with a smug smile.

Fortunately, there was no mail in his bag for some of the houses otherwise, Arthur would have been there ALL day instead of just the entire morning.

He was shattered.

He still had at least four houses left to deliver to and he genuinely feared he would not make his final deliveries.

He had little else to show for his decades of loyal service but the one thing no one could take away from him was the pride in him doing a good job.

It had been drummed into him as a child, that hard work paid dividends.

What a complete lie that had turned out to be.

The only dividends he had ever seen were those he had delivered to the houses of the rich shareholders that had bought into the newly privatised utility companies at undervalued prices.

Successive Governments had sold off the state- owned Gas, Electric, Water and Telephone Services and he personally had not received a single penny from the sales.

He now had to buy gas from SWALEC, Electricity from British Gas, rent a telephone line in all the recent flooding from Welsh Water and water from Whitbread Brewery.

And that was before the Royal Mail had even been privatised.

He couldn’t afford to buy employee shares, as he currently paid more in tax to the UK Government than both Google & Amazon combined.

And the proposed Labour Government was proposing to re-nationalise everything- if they were elected….so the whole process would start again.

He was fed up of being screwed over and over again, as with added inflation he felt just like Mr Stoker’s inflatable woman.

He tried to console himself that at least he had a purpose to get up for in the Morning- until tomorrow that is- when he finished work compulsorily.

What would he then do to fill the hours?

Arthur didn’t know.

He didn’t want to vegetate and watch the moronic daytime television.

He had all those years ago thought that retirement would bring both time and freedom to do the things he had always wanted to do but put off because of his job.

Travel.

Holidays.

Enjoy not smelling the ‘Roses’ at number 8 Castell Morlais.

But now reality was starting to bite, he really felt short-changed by God.

The hand he had been dealt was not full of Aces but full of deuces.

He really felt bitter and someone was going to pay for it.

The Flag of St George fluttering in the cold mountain breeze too seemed to rile him even more than it normally did.

And then out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sight he had never seen before.

An unidentified flying object, that whirred and hovered in the air above the house with the English insignia.

It was painted a gaudy yellow with black lettering down the side.

Arthur squinted through his 74- year old cataracted eyes trying to make out what it said.

He was intrigued by the robotic UFO, as didn’t think he would ever see such a sight in his lifetime.

He didn’t expect to live long enough to witness people in jet packs whizzing about like they were members of the US cartoon series ‘The Jetsons’, let alone what he perceived to be a drone delivery from US warehousing giant Amazon.

The device seemed to pause, just like it was a mechanical homing pigeon checking its bearings before descending to the front door.

It then extended an arm and knocked the door loudly.

If Arthur had felt redundant earlier, now he knew he needed to be mothballed.

On its side was an LCD display with the words, ‘connecting to WI-FI’….

The electronic ‘Ring’ doorbell then sounded of its own volition and ten seconds later the door swung open only to reveal an out of shape male with a skinhead haircut, with a Chelsea FC football hooligan ‘Death to Spurs’ skull and crossbones tattoo on his muscular forearm.

Seeing Arthur staring at him from the top of the drive- he shouted aggressively ‘Wot U looking at?”

In reality, Arthur didn’t really understand what he was in fact witnessing.

The Amazon Drone opened a flap and in a mechanical voice ( not dissimilar to the robots from the 1970’s Smash advert for instant potato mash) spoke to the skinhead.

“Are you Ed Hunter?” asked the device.

“If so…please place your left thumbprint on the receipt display!”

Ed did so.

The word ‘MATCH’ came up on the LCD display and a different flap opened to dispatch a small bag of white powder.

Arthur was still dumbstruck.

Ed shouted to the Postman.

“Ain’t you seen a delivery of Colombian Marching Powder direct from the Amazon before?” said the National Front supporter.

As the drone flew off with its own ‘mission accomplished’, Ed quickly closed the door with a loud slam just to annoy his next-door neighbour, who he knew was working a nightshift.

Arthur had seen enough but he knew there was a delivery for Mr Ed Hunter and much as he wanted to toss the item in the hedge, his sense of ingrained but misplaced pride in his job would not let him end his career with some unfinished business.

He looked down at the item and quickly discovered that from the weight and size of the packaging that it was a hardback book.

A slight tear caused by despatch from the book depot showed, it was entitled ‘The Holocaust- a work of fiction’

Arthur was already angry but to think that someone would class the murder of millions of European people as ‘fake news’ made him livid.

It was the 1940’s equivalent of Austerity Measures & Universal Credit.

Some of his fellow Romanians had perished at the hands of those Right Wing Extremists -the Nazi Party of Germany-, many of which were women and children.

If there was only one good thing to come out of Europe in the last 74 years it was that different Nationalities had stopped killing each other over fictional borders.

He continued to shuffle his aged bent feet towards the long and winding road leading to the front door of the Englishman’s Castell.

It took him nearly 30 minutes till he reached the racist welcome mat on the porch floor.

“Beware of the Wog!” it read with a Robertson Jam Jar musical band member emblazoned thereon.

He was so incensed with the Brexiteer home owner that he wanted to give him a piece of his mind- while he still had some of it left intact.

He was intent on dealing with a vampire in the same way that they did in Transylvania in his Paternal Fatherland by putting a stake through its heart.

A last post if you like.

As he rapped on the door with his bony knuckles with the last of his ‘remaining’ strength, it was opened by Ed Hunter who glared back at him angrily.

Up close and personal, he had tattoos on his tattoos and was flanked by an English Pit Bull terrier sporting a blue Mohican, a spiked collar and bore the name ‘Drool Britannia’ on his identity ring and a highly- strung cat with a neat ‘Adolf Kittler’ moustache called William Rees- Moggie.

He was now outnumbered by bullies in the usual ratio of 3:1.

“Are you still ‘ere?.......what do YOU want?” spat the EDF energy- enhanced homeowner.

Arthur had intended to point out the error of the Neo-Nazi’s ways but was surprised at what actually came out of his mouth.

“Have you got any of that ‘whizz’ left-it’s just that I need it to finish my Round!”

By Screenshot from "Internet Archive" of the movie The Curse of Frankenstein (1957) - https://archive.org/details/RevengeOfFrankenstein-Trailer , Public Domain, Link

“Igor…. I’ve cracked it!” said the Professor.

His hunched- back laboratory assistant looked up at his Master and let his tongue loll out of the corner of his mouth.

He stared back with the same look of loyalty on his lop-sided face, that a Pit Bull Terrier would give to its owner whilst sitting on a Vet’s Death Row.

“I’ve dedicated my entire working life of 60 years as a research scientist at this establishment, trying to create the perfect Welshman, and I am confident that after six decades of collecting the appropriate genetic material that my experiment will today FINALLY work!” announced the Boffin.

“ I just need to add this final ingredient to my primordial soup…!” he said pipette in hand.

As he squeezed the rubber top, a single solitary rivulet of clear liquid raced down the side of the test-tube, as if it somehow or other sensed the importance of the experiment.

The liquid solution bubbled briefly before changing colour to a perfect red, white and green.

“What was that secret ingredient?” asked Igor looking puzzled, like a Love island Contestant trying to count to ten.

“It came from Hollywood, Igor ….it was saliva from the real Daenerys Targaryen , which I bought on E-Bay….the Khaleesi from the Game of Thrones series…” continued the Professor.

“The Muvva of Dragggons!” slurred the assistant sounding like he could be the guest presenter of the Andrew Marr Show.

Just as he did so, the eyes and forehead of a spotty sixteen year- old youth, appeared at the circular window of the laboratory door.

“Ah….perfect timing…I see my new lab rat has arrived!” said the Professor.

“Get the door will you Igor!” commanded the mad scientist.

Igor dragging his right leg on the shiny floor surface, limped his way to let the tiny school kid in.

“Are you Professor Barry ‘Awkin?” asked the nervous youth.

“No…Professor Barry Hawking…..with a H….!” replied the Boffin without taking his gaze away from the effervescent test tube.

“Wot….H as in Heroin?” asked the youth eyes darting around the laboratory in the hope of a free sample.

“No…H as in Hydrogen in the Periodic Table!” said the Professor, one Dennis Healey eyebrow raised suspiciously.

“I don’t like to talk about that kind of thing….that’s private women’s business…!” replied the red- faced blushing youngster.

“Which school did YOU play truant from?” asked Professor Hawking sarcastically.

“Was it an all-boys school?”

“No… it was Allcrooks Comprehensive School and by the way, my future probation officer told me to introduce myself to you first!” said the schoolboy, offering his tiny hand up to the chest of the Professor.

“My name is Ken D’Offender….but my mates in my posse call me ‘Wee’!” said Ken in a high pitched voice like he was wearing former soprano Aled Jones’ designer boxer shorts.

“Wee Ken D’Offender?” queried Professor Barry looking down at the circular wet patch on the front of his school uniform, that would have struggled to fit AC/DC Frontman Angus Young.

“The Headmaster of my school, Sir Richard Nixon gave me that ‘nick’-name!” replied Ken

“ He told me if I was ever caught shoplifting to tell them I was just a Wee Ken D’Offender !” continued the youth.

“He was a great teacher….he taught me all about the age of criminal responsibility, even before my TENTH birthday….how to get into my house with a credit card in case I ever lost my keys… and I can hotwire any model or make of car without need to refer to the Dark Web!” said the youngster for the first time ever- innocently.

“So have you read and signed that Slimbec Laboratory disclaimer form yet?” asked the Professor.

“I CAN’T READ!” muttered the embarrassed 16 year old.

“Perfect!” said the Professor.

“Just sign here and here!”

Ken made an X just like he did when he voted for Brexit using his dead Nan’s Postal Vote.

“Do you understand that we give you £5.00 for every injection and £ 50.00 if you are foolhardy enough to enter my version of the Large Hydron Collider?” asked the Mad Scientist.

“It is cash mind you innit?….it’s just that my Polish mate had that mouse’s ear on his chest for a whole month but had a cheque he couldn’t cash because he didn’t have a bank account….!” Said Ken excitedly.

“Good job he was a Star Trek Fan as he kept asking the girls on the Estate if they wanted to see his Final Frontier!” continued the teen.

“Ah…I remember him now….when I tested the 3d printer for the first time…!” said the Professor.

“Everyone in the local swimming baths thought he was a Russian Spy for ages!” said Ken.

“Igor prepare the Collider and get it up to Warp Speed!” said the Nutty Professor.

“Yeth Mathster!” said Igor, who was dithantly related to boxer Crith Eubank.

No sooner than the machine had been turned on than young Ken was transfixed by the laser show of different lights and array of colours in the two human sized test-tubes at either side of the Collider.

“This is what H G Wells only dreamed about in his science fiction- this is science fact!” said the Professor proudly.

“What does it do?” asked the youngster looking at the words ‘Correct Change Only’ on the former Premier Inn Chocolate dispensing machine.

“Officially it is for Time Travel - because Genetic Research on Humans is banned!” said the Prof.

“Have you heard of the space time continuum?” continued the Boffin.

“No!” replied Ken.

“A Light Year?” probed the Professor.

“Buzz you mean?” asked Ken.

“Kinda!” said the Scientist.

“A Light year is a measurement of the distance between planets in our Solar System!” said the Professor sounding like Brian Cox.

“What like the distance between Leo and Virgo….I know that’s thirty one days!” said Ken proving that whilst there is in all probability intelligent lifeforms in our Universe -they don’t exist at Allcrooks Comprehensive School.

“If we wanted to send a man to the centre of our Milky Way Galaxy, he would be long dead before he could reach his destination- this distance is measured in light years….!” Explained the Professor.

“So why send him then?” asked Ken

The Professor shone his pocket torch through the school boys ears and a beam appeared from the other side.

“Never mind….ever heard of wormholes then?” asked the Scientist prompted by the torch inspection.

“My dog had them once- I remember him dragging his arse on my Mother’s living room carpet….she was NOT happy….he looked like a Tory MP in Wales struggling to hold onto his deposit!” replied Ken.

“Only a lot more slippery!”

“So what job are you working on at the moment?” enquired the schoolboy.

“If anyone in Authority asks, officially I am working on an experiment to see if I can create time travel!” said the Professor.

“Using Einstein’s Theory of relativity E= MC2, I am hoping to create the future today by using a wormhole to bend time and space and transfer a person’s genetic molecules from point A to Point B!” explained the Physicist.

Ken looked at both sides of the machine and noticed that the two hollow tubes either side of the machine were marked Point A and Point B but were separated by a rubber floor which looked like it had been lifted from a Costa Coffee machine.

“Who would be dull enough to let you experiment on them?” asked Ken.

There was a deathly silence in the room until the penny dropped with a heavy clunk.

“Didn’t you get my invitation sent to the school?” asked the Professor.

“Yes!” said Ken.

“Look at the date stamp on it!” said the Boffin.

“3 ^rd July 2020!” read Ken aloud.

“But that’s a year on in the future!” stuttered Ken.

“Precisely!” replied the Prof.

“That my young Friend is proof that my time machine works!”

“All I need now is to test it on a human being!”

Ken looked around the room and suddenly realised all eyes were trained on him suggestively.

“So why don’t you test it on HIM!” said Ken pointing at the hunchback.

“What and spoil his good looks?” replied the Professor sarcastically.

“Besides I said HUMAN!”

Igor didn’t flinch at the slur.

He was used to slurring.

“I need a youngster who won’t be missed by anyone, an orphan that goes to a delinquent school that doesn’t appear on any registers and could disappear without trace. Does that description remind you of anyone you know?” asked the Professor.

The blood suddenly drained from Ken as a cold shiver ran down his adolescent spine.

“No!” said Ken trying to bluff his way out of the situation, as he backed away slowly towards the door.

After all he had seen the film the Silence of the Lambs.

The rubber back of his plimsole daps suddenly stopped as he realised the Hunchback was blocking his exit.

“Going thumwhere?” mumbled Igor, as he covered the schoolboy unintentionally in slobber.

Ken was trapped and he knew it.

He had to make the best out of a very bad situation and tried to play along with his captors like he had suddenly developed Stockholm Syndrome.

“If I do volunteer for this experiment, how much do I get paid ? asked the terrified child.

“£150.00 in cash AND your name will appear in the Medical Journal ‘the Lancet’, with the epitaph Wee Ken D’offender (GP)!” offered the Professor.

“Doctor Ken!” boasted the youngster proudly.

The Scientist didn’t have the heart to tell him GP would not stand for General Practitioner but Guinea Pig or even more importantly, what epitaph really meant.

Ken noticed that Igor had locked the Laboratory door and was keeping the key around his neck on a piece of string.

Whilst not familiar with the scientist concept of ‘string theory’, he knew that his continued status in in this Universe would depend upon him getting hold of that piece of string with the key attached.

If there was ever a day that he would benefit from the Allcrooks School teachings of sleight of hand-today was that day.

As Igor bent down to inspect the left hand pod of the time machine, Ken relieved the hunchback of it’s wallet but couldn’t get the key without giving him ‘the hump’.

After all, habits of his lifetime were hard to give up.

Ken knew from Primary School experience that distraction is the best means of theft.

“What are you checking for?” asked Ken pretending to be interested.

“Flies…!” replied Igor.

“Did you see what it did to Jeff Goldblum?” replied the Professor.

“Of course!” bluffed Ken not having a clue about a film reference from 20 years before he was born.

Ken noticed that there were two footprints on the left cubicle floor.

Igor motioned for him to strip off.

“You have to be naked for the experiment to work!” ordered the Professor in a commanding voice.

Good job (thought Ken) that he hadn’t lifted the key off Old Hunchy otherwise where would he have stored it?

Besides, whilst he felt that Igor wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, he was aggressively strong and didn’t want to get ‘his back up’ any more than it already was.

Ken knew that once he stepped into that machine he was as good as dead.

He had to find another way to escape rather than using the key that hung around Igor’s neck.

His own ‘back up’ plan if you will.

In times of crisis, it is the calm-headed that survive.

He thought back to his All-Crooks lesson on lock picking.

He stared at the size of the lock and down at his now naked self and decided on his plan of action.

He raised the stolen wallet in the air and motioned to Igor ‘look what I’ve got’.

Like a pet dog in a park staring intently at the stick in the owner’s hand, Igor’s one fully open eye was transfixed by the action.

Ken uttered the word ‘Fetch’ and off bounded the hunchback to retrieve the wallet from the far corner of the room.

In the same motion, the naked teenager ran at the door and tried to ‘prick’ the lock.

Due to his Napoleon-like stature, he was the perfect height, but sadly a few seconds grace was not enough.

Perhaps if he hadn’t suffered from premature ejaculation, he might have made his escape to victory.

The Hunchback grabbed him from behind with both arms and with legs waggling in mid-air Ken was forcibly restrained and then bundled into the left- hand pod of the time machine.

The Professor pressed a button and a silver shield ascended blocking any escape for captive Ken.

Even then Ken had the last laugh as he had lifted the Hunchback’s Wallet for the second time in the process.

Ken was trapped.

Naked and frightened he looked at his narrow surroundings.

The closest he had come to it was that time he was in a Premier Inn shower cubicle.

But this was ALMOST as dangerous.

Thankfully, he didn’t have Lenny Henry pimping at him through the glass mouthing ‘Katanga’ this time.

Suddenly to his left came a whirring noise and a small vial containing a red, green and white liquid appeared with the words ‘Drink Me’ above it.

Ken was in Wonderland.

He was half expecting the Johann Strauss music – the Blue Danube to be played over the tannoy.

Trapped in the cubicle, poor Ken got warmer and warmer.

Suddenly, the outer layer silver shield descended slowly to the floor, leaving a ‘Star Trek’- like glass pod made out of some Perspex material.

Ken banged on the glass and screamed to be released immediately- after he was well versed in ‘False Imprisonment’.

“It’s no good… that glass is unbreakable!” cackled the Professor, tailing off into an evil laugh.

Ken realised that the statement was true, as he had spent over two hours at the Weston Super Mare Sea Life Centre trying to break the glass once to steal a shark on a school trip.

“You may as well drink the potion now as later….after all… in that space no one can hear you scream!” said the Boffin quoting from the sci-fi film Alien.

Ken realised that barring a miracle he was never getting out of this predicament unless he drunk the contents of the test-tube.

After all he had once drunk Irn- Bru- How much worse could it taste than that?

Ken lifted the vial to his lips and stared at the Professor standing on tenterhooks awaiting the inevitable reaction.

“£150.00 in cash….no going back on your word!” said Ken.

“Yesssss, now drink it ALL up, there’s a good boy!!!!!” said the Professor.

Ken lifted his arm and opened his mouth wide.

He threw the solution into his mouth and swallowed the liquid without delay.

The taste wasn’t that bad he thought.

Nothing happened, except after a brief flash of blinding light he was now standing in the other right hand cubicle.

“It’s not working Master!” said Igor looking at the naked figure.

“Give it time Igor….it is like Heineken….it refreshes the parts other beers cannot reach!”

Ken laughed.

He was still alive.

The potion had no effect on him.

Just like the time he drank 15 pints of Stella Artois in the Vulcan Public House.

“Let me out! ”ordered Ken…..”I have done what you asked and I want my money!”

It started with a facial tic, followed by a full -on twitch and then excruciating back pain.

“Raise Pod B shield!” ordered the Professor and after staring at his assistant declared:

”This is not going to be a pretty sight!”.

As the metal ascended, the poor student kicked and pounded on the sides of the glass as the transformation began.

Behind the corporate veil, it was like a scene from an American Werewolf in London, as poor Ken metamorphized into the perfect Welshman.

Professor Barry Hawking looked down at the list of ingredients he had used to create the final solution.

The twisted genius was aiming for a Genius perfect Welshman.

In the past he had tried to create an Albert Einstein, but only ended up with Frank Einstein.

But today, he was sure he had cracked it.

He had extracted DNA from the voice box of legendary actor Richard Burton- to produce a gravelly speaking voice for his creation, whilst adding harmony from the hairspray used on former choirboy bobbed hair of Aled Jones.

He had taken a hair from the sideburns of 1970’s British Lion DR JPR Williams- to add fearless courage.

Cells from the liver of Poet Dylan Thomas gave him the ability to drink alcohol endlessly.

DNA from spittle found on the Westminster Parliament Conservative Front bench was found to be that of firebrand politician Aneurin Bevan which was then added to the mixture.

The hand to eye coordination of World Champion Darts Sumo Leighton Rees was added in bulk together with a dash of BBC Wales Boyd Clack to provide comedy genius.

With Colin Jackson sweat thrown in for good measure to ensure the creature could overcome any hurdle thrown at it.

The blackest coal dust from Big Pit was added too to give it the authentic Cambrian Gaea feel of Mother Earth.

Professor Hawking was confident that the final missing ingredient was the addition of the beauty of the Game of Thrones actress, Emilia Clarke and this would now perfect his creation- being not just the real Mother of Dragons but also the Old Testament Eve from the Garden of Eden- who would birth his Welsh Prodigy.

The Professor was so excited but nervous at the same time to see what the lowering of the second shield would reveal.

Had he in fact created the Perfect Welshman?

Igor and Professor Hawking stood transfixed as the image revealed itself.

It was a good job that Wee Ken D’Offender didn’t have access to a mirror.

The deadly duo stood mouth agape as they realised that Ken had not transformed into the perfect Welshman but something else entirely.

A fuller sized marginally female figure with black anthracite choirboy hair and a red dragon tattoo on its right-hand bingo wing.

The look of horror on the face of the scientist sent a seismic shock wave back to the former male schoolboy.

Ken could only utter the immortal phrase ‘What’s occurring?’

Looking at the flabby arms, Professor Hawking realised immediately that he must have put in too much Leighton Rees and Emilia Clarke to the mixture.

All he could do was to sigh disappointedly at the appearance of the perfect Welsh WOMAN, who could drink, play darts and rugby union internationally.

Nessa Jenkins.

He sobbed dejectedly

“I tried for Gavin (Henson) but only got Stacey”

“Is there is any p-p-person here with a j-j-ust impediment then let him s-speak now or forever hold his p-p-peace” said the stuttering Priest.

The Roman Catholic Holy Man, Ollie Water, didn’t normally have a stutter, but when he had been given the task of  marrying the daughter of one of the Heads of the Five Taffia Families to one of the those with links to the Provisional IRA- it was understandable.

The Priest looked around him at the congregation of St Illtyd’s Roman Catholic Church in Dowlais, Merthyr Tydfil and noticed on the right side of the church the number of men dressed in suits, sat in the pews with hands like Napoleon Bonaparte, tucked inside their outfits resting on their concealed weapons, and on the left others from the famous  O’Toole clan also used to holding their piece on a regular basis.

Who would have thought that the Barsini and O’Toole families would have one day forged such an unholy alliance?

The little mining Town in the South Wales Valleys was used to an influx of foreigners, with the Irish arriving in their droves after the Irish Potato Famine of 1845- to undercut local labour and the Italian families arriving nearly a Century later, fleeing the persecution of Mussolini during the Second World War bringing with them cafes, coffee, ice cream and the Cosa Nostra.

In a way, in view of the size of the local population ,it was written in the stars that the two families would one day be linked and consolidate their business empires into legitimate means.

Whereas in the past,  the O’Toole family had specialised in the supply of Semtex and illegal guns, and the Barsini family had run the numbers rackets on illegal gambling and started the sale of their highly addictive drugs in the form of their patented invention of ‘Ice a cream’ from mobile ice cream vans that toured the Valleys area.

Now in 2019, they had legitimised their business enterprises selling ‘feesh n cheeps’ to the Town folk under the protection of the Bride’s Father - Don Giacomo Marrone Barsini, the Codfather of Sole.

In the 1970’s, it was rumoured that the American Giant Corporation Coca Cola was using a small amount of cocaine in their bottles of Coke, so too was it believed that the current Barsini chips contained some unknown ingredient in their secret recipe that was equally as highly addictive.

But what was it?

Who would have thought that simply cooking chips from Irish potatoes in ground nut oil would have such an impact on the population?

As most Welsh people couldn’t get enough of them.

Queues of people stretched around the block, as they waited for their chain of fish shops to open at 11.30am – with fights often taking places over positions and people asking others ahead ‘to get me a cob n chips’.

There was even a death on 14 th February in 1975, after a particularly long Funeral and a scuffle over the last fish supper – which was dubbed the St Valentine’s Day Mass-Haker.

In response to the Priest’s question- there was absolute silence, which seemed to last forever- until Don Barsini nodded to the pulpit.

As the Priest declared the married couple wed there wasn’t the usual cheer or people reaching for confetti boxes.

Bride Lucia Barsini turned to face her new husband for the traditional kiss.

But as she was six months pregnant , she had the turning circle of an oil tanker and ‘crudely’ knocked off the glasses and flat cap of  family member,  Tam O’Shanter in the movement.

“You Feccking eejit’ he muttered under his breath cursing the woman, like he was a cast member of Mrs Brown’s Boys, but stopped short of a slap with one frightened look on the Holy Man’s face.

The Peaky Blinder suddenly went pale, as he realised where he was and the company that he was in.

It was the same tense atmosphere like watching someone smoking next to a powder keg.  

Bridegroom Seamus O’Toole gave his adopted Countryman an evil look but soon relented when he felt the soft caress of his new Bride’s finger on his face.

He was forced to bite his tongue and turn the other cheek- after all he was in God’s House- and had to obey the sanctity of the sanctuary.

“All R-r-rise” stammered Ollie Water.

Nobody dared move until Don Giacomo Marrone Barsini-the Italian version of James Brown -the Codfather of Soul ordered musically: ‘Get up now , Get on up’.

Pews creaked as the heavyweight laden pasta brigade got to their feet and the Stout Irish made their way to the front door in anticipation of a pint of ‘Liffey Juice’ laced with a shot of Irish Whiskey.

The combination of the two was known as a McGuinness due to its explosive force and was guaranteed to turn your faeces blacker than an Al Jolson album cover.

Once ‘taken’ in volume , it also had a depressive side effect, of turning the drinker’s mood darker than a Liam Neeson movie.

Now if one thing the Irish know what to do, it’s to combine the misery of a shotgun wedding into a World Class wake and then later into a Wild West free for all.

Even a ‘Quiet Man’ like John Wayne got punchy after a good hitching.  

‘Dukes’ were raised after the least innocent comment by a reveller that had too much and invariably it would end up in fisticuffs and broken bar stools.

So why they decided to place their church with expensive stain glass coloured windows next door to a social club the Catholic God only knows.

I suspect it was for prophet.

As the two tribes yet to go to war, stood outside the Church, the Wedding photographer-

Snapper Roddy Doyle, provocatively asked the various henchmen which side of the family they were on.

‘Bride or Boom?’

Not surprisingly, the Italian Mob didn’t want to be photographed, whereas the Irish didn’t mind being photographed as long as the picture frames didn’t have a hard border.

Using his wide angled lens to get the heavily pregnant Bride, into the shot, he was concerned that she was so ugly it might crack his expensive camera lens.

It took him merely 15 minutes to get the Irish side of the family set and photographed, as they were so eager to get a pint but the Italian Mob would only agree to their shots if the camera was set on ‘Reader’s Wives’ mode.

In view of Lucia’s face like a bulldog’s arse chewing a wasp, it took nearly 30 minutes to find her best side and that included putting two brown bags over her head ‘for scale reasons’.

Boy was Roddy going to work hard to get this one looking beautiful.

Even in his darkroom.

Don Barsini insisted in having a photograph of him and the Bride for his mantelpiece- but in truth it was to keep his future grandchildren away from the open fire.

Seamus O’Toole, the Bridegroom clearly hadn’t been looking at her mantelpiece when poking her fire.  

But beauty is in the eye of the beholder and Guinness can have a magical effect on a man capable of transforming even the most ‘stoutest’ of individuals in the Rose of Tralee after a dozen or so pints of the dark stuff.

It can even make the Welsh Rugby Team look like World beaters.

As the guests filed into the reception, instead of the usual Bucks Fizz, there were pint glasses of Guinness with Lucia and Seamus 2019 written in the foam topping.

A nice touch for such a classy wedding.

The other table had a selection of red and white wine from the vineyards of Bardi- whose viticulture and grape varieties dated back to Roman Times, which Romulus & Remus had reputedly fought over as their Mother’s Wolf Tit had stopped lactating.

It was normally the Bride and Groom that entered the hall last but not when they had the Head of the Five Families of the Welsh Taffia ‘orchestrating’ the reception.

He was surrounded by several men with full violin cases but none of them looked very musical.

If anything, they looked like a more threatening version of the Ant Hill Mob from the Hanna Barbara cartoon the Wacky Races- shame the Groom didn’t have a Pitstop otherwise there wouldn’t have been the need for a Wedding.

The room previous full of chatter, fell eerily silent as the Don made his way to the top table with one of his entourage checking under the beautiful white laced Neapolitan covers with a mirror on a selfie stick in case of explosive devices.

As he removed his Fedora Hat, and his expensive jacket from his shoulders, at least two of the attendants collided like a version of the Keystone Cops in the rush to hang them up.

Everyone in the Hall stood up, as a mark of respect until Don Barsini motioned Pontiff-like with his hands.

There was a flash of 24 carat gold from his replica ‘Fisherman’s Ring’.

The Bride in complete contrast looked like Gollum coveting it next to him.

No sooner than he had given his signal than the Head Caterer, Lucretia Borgia, who had flown all the way from Italy for this occasion, signalled for her own ‘Mob’ to commence serving the food.

Not surprisingly, the Top Table was first followed by the closest relatives and ultimately those with the least influence in the pecking order located at the back of the hall.

Which in truth suited the Irish contingent as it was closer to the bar and easier to get to the toilets in a crowd.

Nerves and Guinness had already got the better of Best Man, Pete Boggs, who was building up to his big speech by clearing his bowels.

Most Irishmen are piss artists but Pete was different.

He was a crap artist and had manoeuvred his posterior just like an icing bag to leave a perfect Guinness shamrock of shite on the back of the toilet rim.

It was such a work of art, that it would have been a shame for any toilet brush to spoil it.

Whether it was genetics or just the time his Father had spent in H-Block at Maze Prison that had created this Irish Armitage-Shanks version of Banksy -no-one could be certain, but once the Catholic candle of remembrance had burned away the smell…it was a shite to behold.

Pete Boggs was such a perfectionist, he didn’t even need to was his hands after.

As he started to read out the cards and telegrams of good luck as the introduction to the speeches, no-one could tell otherwise that it wasn’t gravy.

Don Barsini was also artistic, he had spent nearly five minutes preparing the food on his plate into the shape of  Italy- resembling a little boot of pasta poking out into a Mediterranean sea of tomato sauce.

Surrounded by a tiny life raft made from a Garibaldi biscuit.

The room was a little on the small size for the number of guests and did in fact breach the maximum number of occupants by 30 people.

So it was no surprise when the Bride lifted her massive ‘bingo wing’ arm flab and bumped the Don’s precariously placed plate and dinner onto his lap.

It is a scientific fact that when you drop a piece of toast on the floor it always lands butter face down.

So too with Italian crockery.

The expensive designer suit was ruined by the Gino D’Campo sauce.  

If it had been anyone else rather than his Daughter, then chances are they would be ‘sleeping with da feeshes’- but the former Lucia Barsini now Lucia O’Toole could do no wrong in her Father’s eyes.

Lucretia Borgia snapped her fingers and immediately sent over her most attractive waitress to mop the lap of the Codfather.

As she transfixed him with those big Sophia Loren eyes all thoughts of murder left the Don, as he felt his trouser Vesuvius threatening to erupt – just like the last days of Pompeii.

At that instant, best man Pete Boggs tapped the side of his Guinness Pint Glass with a pencil topped by a tiny rubber version of Warwick Davies dressed as ‘der Leprechaun’.

“Can you all charge your glasses and be upstanding to thank the caterers for providing a meal fit for a Prince!” said Pete lifting his own glass of Guinness in the air.

He paused for dramatic effect and silence before motioning with his fingers to an imaginary dog.

“ Here Prince….!”

The crowd laughed and feeling buoyed by his little joke pushed it further.

“ And Don Barsini’s trousers would also like to thank the caterers for a lovely meal!” he continued.

The room previously full of noise and mirth suddenly went as silent as the Vatican when faced with allegations of Priestly paedophilia.

Even Bobby Sands Junior stopped eating.

There was a pregnant pause in which you could have cut the silence with a Sicilian knife.

But then a guffaw of laughter from Don Barsini burst the hitherto Trappist audience, and everyone joined in.

The almost non-cholent nod of the Head of the Taffia to his most trusted sidekick, Moi Derra, went pretty much unseen – as was to be the fate of Pete Boggs from tomorrow on, when the marital couple were to be on honeymoon.

The foundations for the concrete structure supporting the Spaghetti Junction flyover would now get an additional body to add to the existing five ‘missing persons’ making it the Birmingham Six.

As the speeches started in earnest, one of the O’Toole family, Sean Finn got up to offer his advice.

“In any marriage it is important to base it on Love & Trust” declared the Dubliner.

“I have been married to my Wife now for nigh on 20 years and I don’t love her and she don’t trust me…..but it won’t be long now ….isn’t that right  Sinead O’Connor? “ said Sean slapping her bald head like Benny Hill.

The long suffering Wife- not just from a poor marriage but stage two cancer- caught him with an uppercut that Connor McGregor would have proud of and Sean sailed across the bar like he was in the Copacabana.

This was the signal that Video-Disco Jockey, Chuckie O’Larr had been waiting for and shouted at the audience ‘Boys, Boys, Boys’ before adding (Summertime Love) as he linked into the film of Italian Beauty Sabrina diving into a swimming pool as the music started.

It had the desired effect of raising the testosterone but calming the crowd.

Normally, it is traditional for the Bridge & Groom to start the dancing off but not in the most dangerous family arrangement since a Montague met a Capulet.

But if there is bad blood in a family then it is always best to spill it and invariably there will be a woman behind it.

Opening the Wedding cards, Lucia Barsini read aloud proudly…

”There is a good wish message here from Shane McGowan, the Lead Singer of the Pogues!”  

“ Why didn’t you have this Fairytale in New York?”

“ I could have arranged for the NYPD choir to sing Galway Bay and had the bells ringing out for you!”

“Look there’s one from Bono too…’in the name of love never trust anything that bleeds but doesn’t die?....what does he mean?” asked Lucia suspiciously.

“Ignore him…he just likes to be on the Edge!” slurred Seamus.

The Disc Jockey was being pestered by both sides of the hall to put on music that was more suitable to the other family.

 The Italian Mob wanted ‘Volare’ whilst the Irish Mob wanted Dana’s ‘All kinds of everything’ .

The argument continued with the Italian Mob suggesting sarcastically to put on ‘Zombie’ by the Cranberries and the Irish Lynch Mob suggesting that they ‘Shaddap ur face’ by Joe Dolci.

Chuckie O’Larr played a neutral song by Musical Youth song from 1982, which the Italian contingent then corrupted to ‘Hang Il Duce from the left hand side’.

As the drinks flowed then the tempers soon got even more frayed.

Especially at the bar.

“Barman gimme a JFK Cocktail !” demanded Nucky Tomasino, as he shoved his way from the back of the crowd straight to the front trying to intimidate the young student on minimum wage into serving him first.

“What’s a JFK cocktail?” asked the youngster.

“Loads of shots that make you feel like your head is exploding with a potato on the side of the glasses…!” said Nucky shamelessly.

“ Do you think that’s funny?”?” protested Freddy Fenian angrily at  Don Barsini’s henchman.

“You think its funny that our Catholic President was assassinated do you?” wailed red haired Banshee, Connie O’Mara.

“I do actually….take a shot…said his fellow Italian Mobster,  Hitman Tomaso Hearns offering a tray of WKD drinks around …..everyone else in this room did bar Lee Harvey Oswald did….!”  

“I heard the Mafia were responsible for his death!” said Freddy angrily.

“ The funny part is just like THESE shots it was on Don Barsini’s orders!” replied Tomaso completely stone-faced.

“Why would HE order it?” asked Freddy sceptically.

“Back in the day, the Boss had a big crush on Marilyn Monroe….she rejected him for JFK and he had the pair disposed of…..he came to Merthyr to hide away until the ‘heat’ went away….back in the day it was much easier to get away with murder….no DNA or science….all you had to do was get someone drunk….force feed them barbiturates….and leave an empty pill bottle at the scene and you could just snuff them out like a candle in the wind….!” Continued Tomaso.

“Now you have to be OJ Simpson to get away with it!”  

“Gimme a half a Bass and Half a Guinness….I think they call it a Black N Tan!” said Nucky provocatively.

“Now you have gone TOO far!” snarled Irishman Kerry Gold.

As the bridge of Nucky’s nose exploded in the impact, the Mobster found out why Kerry Gold was Eire’s number one butter.

He responded by flicking a stiletto switch-knife blade and stabbing it deep into the much taller man’s thigh- leaving him doing an impression of ‘River Dance’.

It was a bit below the Celt.

Irishman Barney Stone, who had done most of the talking up to that point, smashed an empty tall ice-a-cream dessert glass on the edge of the bar and stuck into Nucky’s face.

“ Sundae, Bloody, Sundae!” said Freddy Fenian rolling up his sleeves excitedly and punching anyone that had a ‘funny tinge’ or did not have ginger hair.

A Mexican Wave of violence engulfed the hall like a Four Tops Concert at Ebbw Vale Leisure Centre in the 1980’s, as they all went ‘Loco in Acapulco’.

Thankfully, The Don had ordered all guns to be banned on the day.

But he hadn’t figured on the Irish contingent having a consignment of ‘WMD’ to go with their consignment of WKD.

Iraq and Ireland sound very similar to a North African Dictator’s postal service.

Pointing a hand held Libyan made pocket rocket launcher (known as ‘Gaddafi Duck’)  at the bleeding remains of Nucky Thompson- Dubliner, Clontarf O’ Shannon , fired off a missile which blew off the side of the Gangster’s head and sent the remainder of him out through two sets of windows- that of the club and that of the Roman Catholic Church’s stained glass one- smashing lots of pews in the church as he went- with him finally coming to rest in the confession box.

It was a real Weapon of ‘Mass’ Destruction.

It initially shocked the poor Priest, Johnny Logan (named after a counterfeit condom that broke on re-use) but he soon recovered his composure and asked:

“ Can I help you my son?”-

As he did so he pushed his rosary crucifix through the wire grill to dislodge a charred body part.

There was no reply.

“What’s another ear?”. He said to himself.

Back in the hall, the mass brawl had smashed their way out into the street and grey smoke was billowing out of the place- like someone had just elected a new Pope.

Picking a crucifix off the wall, Bride Lucia Barsini slugged the closest of her new Gaelic relatives off his feet.

After all it was her Wedding and she shouldn’t be upstaged by the bridesmaids, who were busy kick- boxing the Priest.

She continued up the Hall waving the wooden weapon at all before her, like Professor Abraham Van Helsing in a Dracula movie, muttering ‘Don’t get cross… get even’ as she went.

A former Eurovision TV Presenter was rolling around the floor with Gangster’s Moll, Bacardi Breeza, who was clawing at his eyes with her manicured nails and pulling chunks out of his hair.

He was soon transformed from Terry Wogan to Tear-yah wig-off.

Who screamed at Don Barsini: “I was told that a Mafia Don couldn’t refuse a request on the day of his daughter’s wedding….any chance of granting a ceasefire?”

An anonymous phone-call was made to the Dowlais Police Station by one of the local residents, but they hung up as soon as they heard of the location of the riot.

They did however offer a crime number.

Don Barsini during the entire event sat at the top table completely unfazed, laughing at the now bald Wogan.

He had seen it all before.

He got up, placed his expensive designer coat over his shoulders and slowly walked out of the place.

As he tossed a bundle of crisp notes totalling a Thousand Pounds towards the bleeding Bar Steward John Smith Cooper as recompense, silver tipped cane in hand he sighed deeply.

Even he could agree with the Irish Family, that it was a ‘Grand Wedding’.

But this was just a taster.

An appetiser.

After all next year, his son was marrying available again ISIS Widow,  Sharmeena Begum.