"I dont care what the ultrasound picture shows there is definitely more than one up there!" said the newly qualified Doctor. Jamie Roberts lowered his Davy Helmet so that the light didn't blind the expectant father , his Royal Highness the future Prince of Wales.

"Look I dont tell you how to fly that RAF Valley helicopter now do I ?" reasoned the former Cardiff medic. From inside the womb the twin babies continued their foetal conversation.

"Look I am not going out first into the land of the giants. Have you seen the size on that Doctors head?" said the male heir.

"Why should I go first?" asked the female twin.

"Well everybody knows its Ladies first when it comes to the aristocracy!" replied her brother.

"But if I go first it might cause a constitutional crisis on the issue of female succession!" replied the little girl.

"That one was probably hiding behind the other on the scan. Look theres definitely two of them up there. I can see three legs and hear them talking!" said Jamie.

"There was only one on the ultrasound and being an RAF pilot I know my radar screens!" said the Duke of Cambridge.

"Do you mind. I don't really care how many are hiding up there. It's not a Romanian lorry at Dover customs. Could you pass the pethadene?" asked the future Royal Mam.

"Is there any chance you could also ask the staff at the state hospital to stop taking photographs of my wifes lower parts on their camera-phones? I asked for a room with view not a Womb with a view !" said William.

"I am sorry but you will appreciate this is a state Hospital the Queen Camilla Hospital in Merthyr Tydfil - we treat everyone on an equal footing, gypsies AND future kings!" said the Doctor.

"I got a feeling that one of the babies whose head was engaged has headed North again as I can see its tiny little legs now!" he continued.

"Once more unto the breech Prince Harry!" sighed William as his brother looked on at the spectacle.

You'll never look at THAT the same way again brother! said Harry laughing. At least it proves we are blue blooded! he continued.

"Oh why couldn't you have flown me to a proper hospital which isn't on the top of the mortality league table?" groaned Kate.

"I told you, someone left the helicopter petrol tank half empty on his jolly back to Afghanistan !" said William pointing the Royal finger at his brother.

"I think its great that a future King and Prince of Wales be born in Wales !" said Harry trying to change the subject. "At least down here Grandpapa and Grand Maam wont interfere with your plans!" The soldier continued.

"Do you have any names yet?" asked the Doctor.

"Jamie is nice! Jamie Al Fayed Zorba Windsor Saxe De Coburg. Does have a pleasant ring to it!" said Harry.

"Great name for an English King after all Jamie IS a strong rugby mans name!" said the British Lion.

"Old HRH Mirren would have a thrombo if she heard that one!" said William laughing. "Though come to think of it our mother was fond of strong rugby players names!" said Harry.

"Carling anyone?" asked Jamie drinking from a can. "Come on its a celebration. It's not every day you get to deliver a future monarch!"

"Carling IS a nice name!" mumbled Kate.

From inside the womb the pair of siblings tested each other out.

"Well if you wont go down the chute first why don't we go down together?" suggested the female.

"Good idea one leg each we can pop out together. Do you think that giant with the head of a Cwmtaff Swede can catch us both at the same time?" asked the male.

"Well he is wearing a tee- shirt bearing the slogan Welsh & Irish Lions destroyers of Australia 2013I assume he must be a rugger chap!" said the female.

"Good spot. He should not only be able to catch us but throw us a dummy in the same movement!" said the male.

"Well if you go first you'll be third in line to the throne. Me just by virtue of my gender will be way down the Royal pecking order. I'll probably be married orf to a European Duke to secure a peace treaty or something!" said the female.

"Okay!" she said putting her leg in the delivery chute. As she did so her brother threw her a dummy of his own and shoved her in the back to the point of no return.

"Bastard!" she yelled as she flew down the uterus like a kid in a Walt Disneys Typhoon Lagoon water ride culminating with her head sticking out of the Middleton Minge.

"Well this little Princess didnt have much trouble exiting this tunnel.  Just checking that there is no obstruction. Whats this ?" asked Dr Rhino Pads 2013.

"Whats wrong?" asked a nervous Duke .

"Never seen this before. The umbilical cord is caught around something ...it's okay it is a little silver spoon in her mouth. Don't worry this child will never know hunger, fear or working stress in their lifetime!" said Jamie.

"Shit it doesn't have any front bits Willy?" said Harry dejectedly.

"Thats because its a girl!" said Jamie. "I learned the difference in the University Cardiff Medical School!"

"Are you sure its not unisex?" asked Harry looking down at the ladies parts. "I had plenty of that too being in the Welsh Rugby team but definitely a flatcock! Dad is going to be pissed orf. We carefully selected her for breeding to give us a king. Look what happened to our ancestor Henry the Eighth and the country after his six attempts to get it right!" said William.

"I told you should have gone for Pippa!" said Harry.

"Is there any thing we can do Doc to change things? Can we offer you a Knighthood or something in the New Years Honours List to put that one back up or throw it out with the bathwater?" asked Wills.

"Now Sir Jamie to add to my BMA MD..GS..TC !" said Jamie scratching his massive Neanderthal chin. Despite his caveman look he was the first rugby player to have a brain since JPR Williams.

"Sorry to interrupt but I have an obstruction the size of a melon in a hole originally the size of a grape and this pethadene has stopped helping!" said Kate two heads.

"If I take THAT out the other one is going to be kicked out of the womb by gravity!" said the William Webb Ellis scientist.

With a slight of hand that magician Paul Daniels would be proud of Jamie removed the baby girl and plugged the hole in one movement.

"That should hold you for a couple of hours. Now get her in the Sea King and off to St Marys Hospital London with you sharpish!" said Dr Roberts.

As the press gathered outside the hospital Nicholas Witchell and Prince Charles exchanged scowls at one another.The Royal baby had been born and weighed in at 8lb 6 ounces.The Harley Street experts were puzzled as to why there was a rugby ball lodged in the undercarriage of the Duchess of Cambridge. And the name the Royal couple decided on for the male heir born without hair? Gilbert. Arise Sir Jamie!

“ Blue Hawaii Sir?”

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

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

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

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

“ How come?” asked Wolf Blass dejectedly.

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

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

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

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

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

“ John Doe?” asked Billy confused.

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

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

“ Just follow your nose!” he continued.

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

“ Who found him?” asked Haynes.

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

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

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

“ Uhhuhu!” said Wolf Blass suspiciously.

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

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

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

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

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

“ How come?” questioned Wolfie.

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

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

The look from Wolfie was enough..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the bare pawed and the unwary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Loves?” guessed Wolfie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were in luck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lift clunked again and stopped with a thud.

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas wasn’t worried.

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

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

Normally, in such delicate social situations adults remain silent.

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

He knew it wasn’t his father’s brand.

His father knew what was coming from his outspoken son.

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

Come on… who Shit?”

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

He didn’t give up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The security man ignored the child…..

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

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

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

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

Otis…. Reading!” interrupted the Duke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tourism…!” replied the Duke.

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

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

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

Revenue & Customs!” said the Duke .

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

Her Majesty’s!” came the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was then the QE2 started to leak angrily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cromwell !” said the boy proudly.

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

Her cavalier attitude changed.

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

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

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

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

The Duke followed.

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

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

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

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

Send them to the Tower!” she ordered.

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

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

The Divine Right of Kings and Queens had been restored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Merthyr!” said Meirion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it went off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Try him with the pwnco!” suggested Twm.

“ Siarad Cymraeg?” demanded Meirion.

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

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

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

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

“ Dim baras?” they continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

True it was coming up to ‘Daybreak’.

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

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

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

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

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

They turned ‘tail’ and fled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the Night Mare after Christmas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Pack lightly ....ordered the former Nazi

" Colostomy".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" How did you manage that?" queried Allitt.

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

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

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

'Dai Hard with a vengeance' became his nickname.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dee blushed red .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bette was laughing so much it cured her incontinence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charles ‘Asnovoice’…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Dana Scully peered into the thick conifer forest , she tried to rationalise the events leading up to the phone call.

The scene before her included an empty black ‘Son of Sam’s’ Taxi Cab with all doors and boot open wide. The Car keys were still in the ignition and the ‘For Hire’ sign was still illuminated.

Scully had concluded that someone had left in a hurry.

Fox Mulder had already made his mind up .

To him the answer was staring them in the face.

The empty cab, the reports of unusual sequences of flashing lights, the severed conifer branches and the huge felled pine tree blocking the sole entrance and exit to the Garw Nant layby could mean only one thing……

“ Loggers!” cried Scully suddenly.

Looking down at the discarded laptop in the back seat, Mulder replied. “ Well Scully there is DNA evidence of someone logging on in this layby but this crap circle has only possible explanation ……..alien abduction.

Scully, didn’t agree ….her examination of the cab interior found a blob of ectoplasm and a referee’s whistle on the passenger side seat.

Strange indeed….the most remarkable discovery was that of a gold chain hanging from a severed branch bearing a faded inscription….weathered and exposed to great heat and smoke.

Solicitor Ferrari Armani leaned back in his leather chair.

His latest client reminded him of the Sharon Stone character Catherine Trammell in the Basic Instinct in the way she crossed her legs .

The thought made him shudder as he remembered his former assistant ‘Jane Scampi Fries’ Davies and her own basic instink.

The brief had his own share of briefs over the years and had become accustomed to predatory women in his job as the Premier Valleys Divorce Lawyer but lately even he was becoming disturbed by the growing number of divorces.

His Ex-Files had reached stellar proportions as a growing number of Welsh women were citing that there men were being abducted by alien women.

It wasn’t the three- breasted kind from Venus …….but the two breasted kind from Vilnius and Bratislava who had flooded in to replace the Portuguese and Eastern European migrant workers from the local meat factory.

Tales of the unexpected turned to tales of complaints that their men had grown cold towards them ….brought on by ‘VWF’.

‘Vilnius white fallus’ was a disease known to affect the nether regions of Eastern European men due to long periods in the sub-zero meat factory.

Attempts by Armani to claim for the workers condition had failed to stand up in court.

The ‘knock –on’ (or knocking off ) effect was that the red-blooded Portuguese and Eastern European women became the ‘other woman’ in the Divorce Petitions.

All too common they were blaming the breakdown of the relationship on a certain pulling in place at Garw Nant as the scene of their infidelity.

Adjusting his ballpoint, Armani winced and sat forward intently fingers crossed.

“ So please tell me all the sordid details…….with diagrams if possible!!!!!”

Fox Mulder knelt by the side of the reservoir carefully scooping up another sample of ectoplasm that had dripped off the gold chain.

He could make out some of the letters….. M …OR ….but the rest of the letters were blurred ….it was no good .

The liquid slid down the glass phail like Louise Armstrong starting life.

Soon it would be in a test tube in a FBI laboratory in Washington.

Footprints leading into and away from the taxi-cab had been accompanied by various animal tracks….some canine…some part-human leading into the forest and surrounding Cwm Cadlan reservoir.

The Fox was foxed…..he was stumped…..witnesses had heard weathergirl Ulrika Johnsson announce on CB radio that the coast was clear on Dogger Bank followed by reports of unexplained flashing lights, cars arriving on mass at the various lay-bys……followed by reports of strange mooning creatures …then empty vehicles…with the only sign of life wriggling on the floor ….like celebrity come dancing.

He needed to get to the bottom of the mystery and he felt that the gold chain with the inscribed lettering was the key to the enigma.

As he entered his flexi-card into the Council work clock Mikey ‘One-Peeper’ Orwell had a wry smile on his uneven face.

Thursday Night he thought…..realising that he could see more dogging than White City at it’s prime…..he loved his job as CCT camera-man and his regular bonus of the goings on at Garw Nant meant that his minimum wage pay was compensated by his ‘win-a-lot’ on the dogs on Thursday night.

His sideline of blackmailing the local businessmen had kept him happy as he sat down to cut letters out from the Merthyr Depress for his next victim.

The Mayor passed by his camera booth busily looking for his missing ceremonial gold chain.

Ferrari Armani had done some digging , his investigation of the missing husband’s mobile phone had led him to the dilapidated Pontmorlais area of Merthyr Tydfil.

The telephone directory had given him a PO BOX registered to a disused listed building in the area…but which one there was so many…….

He was so engrossed that he failed to notice the whirr and click of the CCT camera overhead watching his every move.

His hunch led him to the old Dole Office partly ravaged by fire with water pouring out on to the once proud promenade.

During it’s 1980’s heyday the Dole Office was Merthyr’s biggest employer as Yehoudi Menuhin and other fiddlers signed on with cement and gloss-covered hands.

Today it stood empty….a Listed memory of Thatcher’s legacy.

He dialled the last recorded number on the mobile phone.

In the distance beyond the locked gates he could make out the sound of telephone ringing in tandem with the mobile.

The phone was answered by a female voice which sounded like the voice of an Angel.

The Charlotte Church sound-a-like enquired as to what service he required.

Cleaning the window-pane with his 9 carat gold embroidered handkerchief he could just make out the woman of his dreams on the other end of the mobile.

Reading from the caller display on the phone Armani asked in his best George Clooney voice “Is this East Romanian Prostitute Escort Services?”

“ Yes,….you have ERPES came the call-girl reply….pushing the top set of her false teeth out with her tongue sexily.

Repulsed Armani realised the Granny Sex Line based in the old dole office he had just connected to had his former Mother-in Law “Bubbles” sat amongst it’s recruits.

UB 40 he thought…..you be sixty if you’re a day!!!!

Feigning an excited response he stammered out a question to the toothless telephonist.

“ What’s got 52 teeth and a monster behind it?” he posed.

“ Que?” asked the gummy granny…wasting another £1.50 of call time.

“ My zip….!!!!!” He chuckled in character “ Where can I get a layby in a layby?” he quizzed the former all in wrestler with more chins than a chinese phonebook.

Without dropping her pipe , the bearded lady replied “ Try Garw Nant …what celebrity look-a-like do you want?”

Looking through the panes at the OAP sweat-shop the brief replied.

“ Tina Turner comes to mind….for some steamy windows”

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

The Mayor looked here, the Mayor looked there but his Goldie looking Chain was missing.

Think ….where did I have it last……he checked his desk…his ermine robe…even the Chamber….no sign and he was due to meet some important Arab clients who wished to invest in Pontmorlais .

He couldn’t go to the meeting without his chain… he would feel naked…

A sudden image returned to his brain like a sudden morning after flashback.

His mouth opened with horror as he suddenly remembered where he had left it hanging.

In through the chamber door came the Faisal brothers who having seen the state of the buildings in Pontmorlais wanted to twin Merthyr with Baghdad.

Burping and farting his way through the buffet the cultural ambassador for Merthyr told his guests that we have many similar customs and third world conditions.

After sloshing down his sherry, the Chainless Mayor and the Iraqi Shiites were both well oiled!!!!!!

Forestry Commissioner Philip Mad doc Jones had seen some sights over the years in the Cwm Cadlan woods…some good…some as scary as in his Doctor Who days and more recently downright bizarre.

Tonight was to be no exception.

He sat silently as a well to do Solicitor pulled into the Garw Nant lay-by in his Silver Mercedes .

Ever since his fall from grace the former actor had left behind the stressful life of the big screen to follow his first love of nature and the wildlife that surrounded the Garw Nant visitor centre and reservoirs of Cwm Cadlan.

Many thought that the former ‘Magua’ had already ‘pined away’ but the lure of the heron, fishing and the clean ozone had preserved this former celebrity.

But lately the wildlife had been wilder than he had imagined and he had asked the Council to place CCT cameras at the entrance of the lay-bys to record footage of the Un-welcome visitors to this sacred haven.

The change of occupation had also helped avoid his ex-wife Ruth who was keen on a reconciliation and kept popping into his studio just to say “ Hi-De-Hi”.

This “ Ruth of all evil” drove him to distraction and the phrase still made his skin crawl.

He lie motionless in the carpet of pine cones as one by one the cars arrived for their dusk trysts.

The Silver Mercedes had been joined by a Black Taxi, a red BMW convertible, a Discovery Range Rover, a Pink Cadillac and more bizarrely three red ford escorts.

The Solicitor had been joined in the Mercedes by two women from one of the ford cars.

Inside the car the former actor could see two rubenseque shaped women who were Doppelgangers for Tina Turner and Native Red Indian comedienne Rosanne Barr.

In the Cadillac, Madoc could make out the shape of an Elvis look-a-like ‘rubbernecking’ and cavorting with Paris Hilton.

Inside the Range Rover sat a weird bearded man who was sat in a giant nappy reading a copy of the Financial Times.

The most sickening sight of all a Catherine Zeta Jones look-a-like was snogging passionately with an old dimpled man twice her own age.

Wriggling on his belly the former Dad’s Army U Boat Captain noticed a number of ‘Up periscopes’ on display as he reached the tree line.

“ Gott in Himmler!” he exclaimed as he realised that a number of real minor celebrities had gathered around the cars. .

Through the half-light he could just make out the shapes of Stanley Collimore, Jimmy Saville , his old pal Jim Bowen and darts announcer Tony Green.

And the Swedish woman naked bar for a shiner must be Ulrika Johnsson.

Most fearful of all was the sight of a yellow jacketed female camp hostess with luminous red lipstick

His Ex-wife was still looking to stalk him.

“ Now that’s what you call an Escort Service!” chuckled Mikey ‘One Peeper’ Orwellas the troop of look-a-like prostitutes left the red ford vehicles.

He couldn’t believe his eye as he began to witness images of celebrities over and undereach other the likes of which had not been seen since celebrity squares finished.

His ‘match of the day’ camera had caught a premiership referee being blown offside.

“ Bullseye….. ” he squealed in delight as he zoomed in on Tony Green and Jim Bowen pimping through the Mercedes at the Solicitor being straddled by a Private Dancer nearing his Nut-bush City Limits and a naked Red Indian woman in nearing his lap-top.

Looking at the Elvis figure….he trained his blackmail device squarely on this ‘You ain’tnothing but a Hound Dogger….followed by -a teddy boys picnic-“ If you go down in thewoods today…he hummed as he pressed the record button on the camera.

In all his fifty years of farming on the Gurnos, Farmer Oates had never seen a sight quite like it. One minute he was rounding up his straying sheep and the next he'd found a stray that just didn't belong.

Clinging for dear life to the rock face of the Morlais Castle was the fat, balding, Gerry Mander. Despite the Autumn mist there could be no mistaking his local representative, the Portcullis emblazoned on his vest clashing with polka dotted pink jockey shorts. Gerry never had any taste! he thought as he gazed up, some hundred feet above his head.

"Well goodness me, Gerry. What are you doing up there?"

"I'm practising my next public address at Speaker's Comer... . What the hell do you think I’m doing?"

Oates remembered then why he didn't vote for him the last time.

"My life is in ruins. I feel as if I've lost the winning lottery ticket... I'm going to jump!" "Your life's in ruins? What about us poor farmers? I'm down to my last £300,000! What with the EC quotas and the BSE crisis ...."

"But you're a sheep farmer!" Gerry interrupted. "What has BSE got to do with you?"

"They've stopped using my infected sheep in the cattle feed, that's what. But look at you, you've got the lot! Big house, good job, plenty of money. Why do you want to end it all?!"

"You'll read it all in the Merthyr Express this week! It's all down to a chance meeting with a total stranger on the Bryniau Common. Offered me Welsh Rarebit at his place. I was curious, see. I'd never had Welsh Rarebit, Caribbean style!"

Farmer Oates looked surprised and said

"A man of your education! I'm surprised you didn't use a bit of'common'." "Well, that's why I'm here, in this predicament!"

"Don't worry, I'll dash back to the farm house and get a tow rope. Soon have you down from there."

"Tow rope! Oh God! I remember. They've pinched my car! The despatch box! All my bits and pieces! Now there's real trouble."

"Losing the Dispatch Box ? Perhaps you'll lose the Whip!" "That WAS part of my bits and pieces."

"Sentimental value then?"

*****

Meanwhile, to the rear of The Gumos Tavern, a Rastaman, dreadlocks waving in the night wind, jem­mied open the boot of a gold coloured Ford Granada.

"It's Christmas again," said one of his interested apprentices, peering into the boot. "Almost as much drugs as they found in Elvis, I'll bet!"

"Hush up and open the box," said the Rasta. "We could be putting a lot of bread on the table with what's in there!"

As the apprentice opened the red box, inflation took over! Looking up at the Rasta he said

"I don't know about bread, man, but can you get mutton from a blow-up sheep?"

"Hello! Merthyr Express? Farmer Oates here, speaking from Pontsam. Got an exclusive for you. Bring a photographer and the usual twenty pieces of silver to Morlais Castle Quarry. If it's a cheque, make it payable to 'Public Spirited Citizen' - I'd prefer my good works to be anony­mous. Income tax, you know!"

Meanwhile, Gerry Mander wondered if finding his way on to the quarry ledge was another 'Error of Judgement'. Yesterday, he was a happy, thriving, thrusting member of the Labour Taffia. Today the world was literally at his feet but he was without car, mobile phone, pride and his dignity. Even his'R Mahoney' suits were all gone. His panic drove him to hallucinate. From his left shoulder someone said

"Go on, jump. What are you waiting for?"

He turned to see a little creature in a red suit holding a mini pitchfork. The face seemed familiar.

"I know you," said Gerry, "You're that Old Devil Horace Charles Jones, Poet Esq."

"You public servants are all the same ... two brains and no balls. Go on, make the world a bet­ter place - jump," snarled the imp.

"Why are you tormenting me?" sobbed Mander

"Well I couldn't find any other druid at this time in the morning and besides I hate ALL Public figures, especially bent ones."

"Don't listen to him!" From his right shoulder came a second voice.

"Think of your family man. Put your wife and children first. Sit down and wait for the Fire Brigade."

The voice belonged to another familiar figure, this time dressed in white. Peering, Mander could make out the face of the second voice.

"God forgive you. You're Ironmaster William Crawshay ... . I recognise you from the painting I stole from my Castle School ... surely you didn't come from Heaven?" "Cefn, actually! Short for Catholic Heaven.. and my God did forgive me ... he told me so in the 'Vatican', that well known public house on my way to Cefn." "Ignore him, mun!" interjected the Imp. "He's been on the Holy Water again. You've got life insurance haven't you ... jump and we can all enter the 'spirit' world."

Gerry's head flashed to and fro, Wimbledon style, between his two Faustly companions.

"He's right!" moaned Gerry. "I deserve to die. I've committed too many sins ... ."

"There's no such thing as too many sins. Look at me, I've got my wings!" said Crawshay, sound­ing rather like Father Ted.

"Hark at the Angel; sermonising from the Mount ... and that's enough verse ... I'm the Dead Poet remember," waxed Jones the Red, lyrically.

"Confess and you shall be saved my son, "Whispered the Seraph.

"Well, it started in 1997 after my landslide victory by two votes from Keir Hardie Junior Junior Junior... a small town boy arriving in Westminster. Fresh from my Cyfarthfa Gramma' School H'education I was easy prey for the Chief Rod and Black Whips!" confessed Mander. "Don't you mean the Black Rod and Chief Whips?" enquired the Cherub. He meant what he said," roared Jones in a demonic voice. "After that, I was introduced to Mandy and his Millennium Dome and my life has been a sordid existence of Kinky Sex, Drink and Niagara since," continued Mander. "You mean Viagra," queried the Imp.

"Niagara ... mine falls after the stuff. I've gone from being a chapel-going unionist son of a miner to a Red in the Bed Trouser Pocket Socialist with a libido to match my IQ." "See, you haven't changed that much then," suggested Crawshay. "Look at me. I changed when I came to Wales. I had more than my share of chambermaids, serving wenches, even the odd Pandy pit pony when I was desperate. But I was saved from eternal damnation and came back as a higher life form. There's hope for anyone."

"I've often wished to come back in a higher life form," mused Gerry.

From the quarry top came the sound of a hunting horn and hooves.

"I say old boy ... you in the polka dot shorts ... who are you talking to down there?" The Head of the Taf-Fechan Hunt peered down from his steed.

"Yoiks it's Gerry! I nearly didn't recognise you without your apron and lederhosen. Remember me? Paul from the Lodge on Tuesday nights!"

"Oh thank God ... it's a brother. Pull me up old chap, I've changed my mind .., er I'll never sleep walk again." said Gerry turning round, uncovering his face. "No can do old chap ... remember the Anti Hunting Bill you proposed ... well how can I put it ... as far as the Hunt is concerned you're well and truly foxed ... Tally Ho ... Soho.. hohoho!!!" "I'll table an amendment to exclude Vaynor!" But Gerry's voice disappeared into the lifting mist.

Soho he thought, that place had contributed to his downfall and THAT local land deal.

"What local land deal?" asked Crawshay, reading his thoughts. "Don't you read the Express?" asked Jones.

"Who does?" replied Crawshay.

"Well it was your land they sold. Ask him about him being slagged off for his measly £1.00 tip?" stirred the homed one moving his pitchfork in a circle and then into Gerry's back. Gerry winced, not with pain but with embarrassment.

"Look at him complaining about back stabbing ... that would've cost you £30.00 at your usual Club!" sneered the Devil.

Looking down Gerry could see the Firemen and Police racing past the burning Granada towards the quarry along the Cart track adjoining Gumos Farm. Screeching to a halt, out jumped an overweight Policeman who, having run some ten yards, arrived exhausted.

"Don't jump Minister. The BBC Wales cameras haven't arrived yet!!!"

"Stand back!" shouted Farmer Oates, powering his way to the front of the crowd, waving his camcorder. "If anybody's getting a tape to Mandy Dingle for the £500 it's me."

"Is there one or two "Rs" in Gerry?" shouted up the Express Reporter who was acting on (and with) a hunch. "Only we want to get the obituary column to read proper."

Gerry was oblivious to the remark. Gazing down with unseeing eyes he failed to notice the Elvis imper­sonator collecting for Children in Need from the gathering crowd. Nor did he see the local Fire Brigade repairing their safety nets with sticky tape. His mind drifted back to the back benches of Westminster and the Maastricht debating that had taken up so much time.

The static and the raucous tones of the 'Mouth of Merthyr' filling the quarry brought him back to reali­ty. "Live on Valley's Radio we will hold a Jack Straw Poll to determine Mr Mander's successor. But first, we have a special DEADication from your loyal Local Labour Party ... Van Halen's'JUMP'." The sound of heavy metal music wailed into the morning sky, gently replacing the whiff of Trecatti No 9

Gerry could hardly believe his ears and eyes. Word gets around so quickly in Merthyr, he mused as he gazed at the three ice-cream and potato vans illegally parked on the Sanatorium Hill. His eyes began to fill with moisture as his life flashed before his eyes. If I die this way I'll become a Martyr he thought. Raising his right foot, he felt like Dic Penderyn ready to face his accusers. Loyalty, Trust and Party Politics meant nothing, he sighed.

Suddenly, the voice of his faithful under-secretary John Thomas boomed into the quarry from above. "Grab this R A Bush roller pole ... I'll pull you up. You may be out of the Cabinet, the closet and politics but you can always lead the Welch Assembly" cried his aide. "The Welch Assembly! You voted for that shower" cried Crawshay. "You've buggered Wales worse than I ever did. Listen to the Imp and jump NOW!!!"

Grasping the greasy pole, Mander climbed to the top, smiling as only the hopeful driver of a future gravy train does.

As he reached the rim of the quarry, he mentally saluted his rescuer. But Gerry's glee was short lived. He hadn't seen the magnificent shot played from the 13th tee of the nearby golf course. As the golfball struck the back of his head, he teetered on the brink for a second before plunging to his death on the quarry floor.

A moment's silence was replaced by a rapturous, spontaneous applause from the gathered throng below.

John Thomas tried to work out the sudden increase in volume until he realised that Gerry had landed on the Express Reporter.

As the Council Leader replaced his nine iron he knew he played a masterstroke.

"Book me a season ticket for Cardiff Bay" he said to his Director of Golf and Fairway Services.

Unnoticed by the pair, two flies left the quarry floor heading in the direction of the Vatican. Gerry had got his wish!!!

He had translated to a higher life form.!

Oh great! sighed the office clerk.

You again! she continued.

I t—t--hought this was a Job Centre PlusI thought you w-w-WERE the Plus! said Colin Nimmo as he said down in front of the woman.

The pair were the oddest couple since Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau.. only much uglier.

He looked more like a younger version of Arthur Mullard and she like a moose with a migraine.

I thought I found you a job a little over a week ago! she sniggered .

You know what you were doing putting me in the telephone c-c-call centre! said Colin accusingly.

It was Talk-Talk! she said without looking up .

I thought it would help Mr Firth! she said condescendingly.

You know my name is N-n-n-nimmonot F-f-f-f-firth.you know I can’t pronounce my f-f-f-! said Colin.

That’s easy for you to say.or not as the case may beI have loads of people in everyday looking for work employment in Merthyr is over 98% no wit’s the only growth industry.and I see loads of people every dayI can’t remember them all even the ugly ones like you! replied the jumped-up official.

F-f-f-f funny girl are you asked Colin

Well my name is Fanny Briceas my name badge reads do you read with a stutter too?

F-f-f-fanny Brice.no wonder you act like a C-c-c-*** to everyone that crosses your path! said Colin.

My name is Fannynot F-F-F-Fannyyou sound like Hannibal Lector in the silence of the lambs do you want some F-f-fava beans and nice Chianti too?

replied Miss Brice.

Besides I bet it is the first time you have ever had Fanny on the t-t-t-tip of your t-t-tongue!

Listen here you jumped up pencil pusher.I came here to get a job not be insulted! said Colin indignantly.

Actually, we don’t use pencils any more there is this thing here it is called a computer .intelligent people use it to try and find jobs for losers like you! Fanny spat back .

Look can we stop the f-f-foreplay and f-f-flirting and general f-f-fannying around and get back to you being a Civil’ Servant! asked Colin with a hint of exasperation creeping in.

Okay.now I have had my little power trip what if I start searching for some jobs which you can’t apply for anyway because you have no adequate qualifications, no appropriate work experience or have a snowball in hell’s chance of getting. ! suggested Fanny pretending to helpful.

What about Remploy then asked Colin hopefully.

The Yellow Tories closed it don’t you read the newspapers you sell it’s been all over it was a real Big Issue’. said Fanny.

Okay.I know you don’t believe me because I’m from Merthyr but I really want to workI want a proper job and not like last time where you made me call bingo at Castle Leisure.all the F-f-f- three- f-f-f-firty ---freesome of the poor grannies had died before they got to a f-f-f-full house! .

And no more f-f-fire warden jobs no more voice double for King George V in the Kings Speech.and no more mobile jobs where people are on-pay- as you -go or I’ll abduct you and drop you off in the New Forest in Moose-Hunting season you old cow! threatened Colin raising his voice.

Are you threatening me asked Fanny hand hovering over the security button.

No.I accept that you can stop my benefit if I do not take a job offered to me it is your power trip.and I have no option but to kow-tow to you and your little Red Book you petty Mandarin! replied Colin.

Good as long as you know your place.would you like a chocolate biscuit and a cup of tea she said totally out of character.

Perhaps, agreeing with a public official was a better line than before the old smile at the woman who served him chips approach- would pay dividends.

As he reached across the desk he felt the sting of a ruler smack the back of his hand.

No p-p-pick up a p-p-penguin for you Dole-y! snapped Fanny back on work mode.

Colin felt like punching her in her huge Elken-face but knew the security button would be pressed by the evil creature and he and his family would starve again for months.

So why were you sacked from Talk-Talk Talk Talk asked Fanny.

Did they not like your Double Talk she continued baiting her powerless customer like a cat playing with a trapped mouse.

R-r-racism they objected when I started saying but-but to the clients- I could help itmy stutter is completely involuntary when I get nervous or when I am faced with a beautiful woman it gets worse.I seem to be okay when I talk to you Gnu Faces don’t seem to affect it much! said Colin returning fire.

Do you consider yourself disabled?.having an upside down turkey wattle for a jowl like you tends to put people off that’s way I suggested a job suitable for you is one where you can’t be seen! said Fanny.

How about becoming an assistant rapper there is a job here as a roadie said Fanny pretending to check the screen.

What’s the jokeI suppose I am the next Eminemenenem is it asked Colin.

I was thinking more like MC Stammer.’ said Fanny moving her lips in a weird way.

Good one! said Colin grabbing the computer and spinning it round.

There isn’t any job menu here! he said looking at screen

’Can’t touch this ! said Fanny in Gurnos Ghetto speak-mode pulling it back in doing so expertly covering the security button with her sagging blacksmith’s thumb nipple.

So what that there are no real jobs to offer you in Merthyr they COULD be one coming in at any moment but let’s be realistic you take longer than Paris Hilton to finish a sentence! said Fanny.

As she did so the e-mail beeped on her machine.

Perhaps you are in luck after all. Perhaps there is a job in Galen pharmacy doing REPEAT Prescriptions! she teased.

Colin just sat back and took the abuse until all of a sudden his demeanour changed.

Why the LONG face Moosey got a GNU DEAL for me asked Colin sensing he had the upper hand.

I don’t believe it that e-mail ..it was my boss at Central Office sacking ME! said Fanny

It says here someone has complained about MY behaviour and that I am with immediate effect to switch sides of the desk and sign on! said Fanny still in shock.

If I’m honest said Colin.I don’t need a job I’ve already got one.two now- yours as well I became a Mystery Shopperand you were the one I shopped first!

That’s the trouble with p-p-people like you- the job gets to you in the long run seeing desperate people in desperate situations you become heartless and you take it out on the poor people that you have failed in lifeno man..no children..the only Fanny too ugly for a jump returned unopened or to put it my in- Nimmo-table way..

..........NO STAMMER-INA!