Tagged: boztalestag
Town Cryer Barry Short took his usual place in the Square of the little South Walian Hamlet of Merthyr Tydfil and ascended a wooden crate. Short by name and short by nature, at 5 foot 4 it was a strange choice of job given his diminutive stature but needs must when the devil calleth and with most of the men having been killed in the Napoleonic Wars there was not that many men to go around -Short or tall.But at least he was more difficult to hit with a musket ball. As he unrolled his parchment written by a quill on velum, Barry summoned up all his vocal strength to announce the week’s entertainment to the paupers and the very common people ofthe South Wales Valley area.“In the Year of Our Lord 1844, on the forthcoming Sabbath of 14th March, there shall be a duel to be held on the Morlais Castle Common at 11.30pm at Night between local publican,Morris Dancer of Ye Crown Inn, Merthyr Tydfil and his opponent Bartemius Pugh to settle a point of honour!” shrilled Barry.The great unwashed that gathered around now had something else to look forward to -to ease their plight which was filled with malnutrition, rickets and cholera- their own version of Match of the Day.“A duelling scheme up at the Heads of the Valleys is long overdue” muttered Old Hag, Bubo Popp in her native Welsh tongue clad in her Welsh shawl and Stove-pipe hat.
As usual, the tiny hamlet had become turned ‘Rumourville’ with idle tongues wagging as to the cause of such dispute.The real reason was that Morris Dancer, the Innkeeper of the Crown – a local hostelry and stage coach departure point - had accused Bartemius Pugh, a Venetian traveller o fgentlemanly standing, of groping his barmaid, Melony Toby, in front of several witnesses,who would swear blind that was what Mr Pugh had deliberately done, when she had bentover to pick up the Landlord’s latest culinary invention.A bar snack of potato origin mixed with fish into a pie – the ancestor of latter-day scampifries. A ‘Me-too’ list was chalked up on the Inn blackboard but one or two of them had to be ignored as they were actual requests. Bartemius also swore blind (as he was in fact truly blind after taking a pistol shot to the face in a previous duel in Paris).The Italian was well versed in duelling by pistol- it was in fact his tenth such duel, as he had been raised by fellow Venetian Casanova and was on the Grand Tour of Europe and just like his mentor- he was in fact a crack-shot.Somewhat ironic really, as he was now in another potentially deadly contest over a different crack that he was alleged to have fondled. Barmaid Melony Toby,- (or Toby Jugs as she was known to the local sheep farmers and swineherds that frequented the establishment with its solid stone slab flooring covered in sawdust & straw and spilt Rhymney Brewery Ales) was a lady of loose morals but only with gentlemen that took her eye.As Bartemius didn’t have any of his own, she wasn’t prepared to give him any.The Venetian tried to defend his actions by claiming that hadn’t realised that he was in fact in an Inn but thought that given the smell of the ‘plaice’ that he was in Olde Morgan’s the Fishmonger’s Shoppe.Toby Jugs, like most Merthyr residents past and present was not known for her love o fbathing – in fact B.O. was another invention that had been credited to the Hamlet. But then again Merthyr had little access to clean water- a Well at Tydfil’s and of course the River Taff often polluted with dead bodies floating down from the rough area known as China being the only options.“Why are they holding a Duel at night under the light of the Brecon Beacons?” asked another wizened old hag, Gwennie Turnip, a great grandmother at 40 years of age- though her solitary remaining tooth in the front – used for central eating her diet of thin porridge.It was a very ‘gruel’ existence.
“It is to even out the contest- replied the local Beadle- Jeremy-it was at the insistence of Morris Dancer’s friend and brave Second Mr Thomas Cooper!” continued the lawman.“Why is HE a brave man?” asked Gwennie looking puzzled.“Mr Pugh is blind but is known to have killed several men by accident in such events most of whom were Seconds!”“With a pistol?” asked local crazy cat woman Nut Meg.“It would hardly be with an epee now would it .....otherwise it would have been over in a split Second? “ Chortled the Beadle at his unintentional quip.The Beadle was not a big fan of the Landlord who had refused to pay him protection money or the manner in which he kept the Tavern going.“But I heard that the Blind Venetian only agreed to the terms put forward by Mr Cooper if Mr Morris Dancer would wear his traditional May Day costume to the duel!” whispered theBeadle as if imparting knowledge not readily available to the public- which had in fact been his own condition.“Pull the other one it’s got bells on!” replied the disbelieving Bubo.“Exactly!” replied the Beadle.“ Be careful who you tell that to mind .... you don’t want that Scold’s Bridle on again now do you?”Gwennie Turnip shivered at the memory of that metal cage around her mouth as punishment to stop her gossiping – she was still left with a drooling problem and mouth fatigue- but at least for the month that she was compelled to wear it,- she didn’t have to perform the usual matrimonial blow jobs.“Are you going on the Black Sabbath Night?” asked Gwennie to her fellow gossips.“Count me in!” – said an eavesdropping local pest controller from high up on a thatched cottage roof- Ozbert Osborne, as he bit into a fruit bat- in doing so risking COVID.“Why are you eating a fruit bat?” asked Bubo Popp confused.“Got to get my five a day in haven’t I ....-Herbie- the man who makes the potions told me that I should have a balanced diet ......”So I will bring the magic mushrooms! to sell at the Event””
Fast forward to the weekend and poor old Morris Dancer was cacking himself.
He was too young to die.He had never fired a flintlock pistol before let alone had a duel with a European Marksman.Thomas Cooper formerly of Caerphilly, took off his fez that he had once acquired from a tradesman when he had ordered by mistake some salad in.“Look ....said the second....I booked the last duelling slot available just before Midnight as there is an Act which went through Parliament making duelling illegal- it comes into force at12.01am....so you only have to delay the event for 30 minutes and then it’s over!” “To shoot you after that would be illegal and he would hang for murder!” Thomas continued. “Just like that?” “THIRTY minutes .....you are getting ahead of yourself .....how can I a simple Publican know when it is closing time?.....in the future there may be devices to measure the time like hour glasses or a device that can read the movement of the sun and moon .....but at present Iam governed by crows of the cock....!” moaned Morris .“That’s what got you into this mess in the first place....an argument over a woman!” said Tommy.“Just like twat!” he said mumbling but trying to create a family catchphrase.“Crows?” replied a confused Morris .“Sorry... I thought you said Grows!” replied the Second.“There’s me in less than two hours about to die and you are telling funnies....who do you think you are some kind of comedian?” said the nervous Innkeeper.“How the Hell am I going to delay the duel anyway!” asked Morris still sitting on the po on the floor of the food preparation area of his pub.“I’ll think of something!” replied his friend.
It is near Midnight and a crowd of villagers gathered around the light of a brazier.“How the Hell am I going to know when the time is up?” whispered Morris nervously to his second.Tommy Cooper said “Don’t worry I have arranged a few distractions to take us passed thewitching hour and save your bacon!”
“Besides I have asked Evans the Coal to pour some tar on the pitch to signify the end of legal hostilities....he has agreed to burn the ‘midnight oil’ as he is a hard worker in exchange for a few groats!” he continued.The independent Magistrate, Judge Jeffries Junior called for silence from the gathered throng- as he was of the opinion that people that were involved in duels deserved be hung-but then again he thought that way about every person that came before him – they all deserved to be hung- sheep stealers, thieves, highwaymen who ruined the safe passage of coaches around the Country- especially the highwaymen as the bastards took your road tax but didn’t fill in the potholes on the turnpikes.He had got himself stuck in a rut many a time and even hung hungry children as young as eight for stealing apples from overflowing gentry orchards.They wouldn’t do it again!The combatants were called together- and after they had turned Bartemius round in the correct direction first were read the rules of the day as to the duelling scheme.“Do both of you gentlemen wish to continue this dispute over honour or will either of you apologise and admit they were wrong?” questioned Jeffries.“He groped my barmaid....the foreign bastard!....he should be sent to Rwanda once it opens for business!” declared the future Brexit-loving Morris with false bravado not wishing to lose face in front of the majority of his xenophobic clientele.“I didn’t .....it was an accident....there was something fishy about the ‘hole’ place...I can’t see ....so how was I know it wasn’t the fish shop.....besides ask him why all the cats in the area follow her around otherwise?” grumbled the Venetian Blind marksman.“In that case, do both of you Seconds have the pistols?”“Yes!” declared Thomas Cooper and Casanova simultaneously.They both held mahogany boxes with green velvet inside and of course a single shot flintlock pistol.Toby Jugs stared at Casanova, cleavage poking out over the top of her Nell Gwynne style dress.Casanova fumbled with the pistol before using the ramrod to force the bullet down into the chamber.“Ooh I do love Sloppy Seconds!” she declared licking her lips and adjusting her ample bosom for the benefit of Casanova.“Are the pistols loaded?” asked the Judge.“Both barrels!” said Casanova staring back at Toby’s Jugs- not concerned with the single barrel flintlock pistol.
“Yes!” replied both seconds.“Now Gentleman you will both take ten paces back each and then turn and fire a single shot!”ordered the Judge.Morris replete in his May Day outfit started to ring out, as he went with the bells giving his opponent a big clue as to his direction.The time was now 11.40pm with twenty minutes left to kill without being killed.With that came the first of Tommy Cooper’s distractions. He had paid local harlot Erica Roe a few groats to invade the pitch topless.Obviously, this didn’t affect Bartemius as he couldn’t see the titties.But it did have some effect on the timing. Bartemius on 5 steps just stopped hearing the commotion and feeling the milk from the cowpox suffering merry milkmaid splattering on his face, wondering what the Hell was going on.Judge Jeffries ordered a reset and that as punishment Erica was to be sent to his room in the local law courts whilst he administered the cat of nine tails.He wasn’t just the local Magistrate but the Chief Whip too.“What you got there then Megan – a handwarmer?” asked Bubo Popp to her friend.“No...it’s my black cat!” said Megan.“Looks Familiar!” said local refuse collector ‘Dennis’ Norden.“He is missing half his ear only one eye and three legs left and has the mange!” continuedMegan.“He has been run over twice by Dennis’s ‘bring out of your dead’ recycling cart.“I thought I recognised him!” said Dennis.“What’s he called?” asked Bubo looking at the poor wretched creature and then at the cat.“Lucky!” replied Megan without any sense of irony.“What’s that around his neck?“ interjected Gwennie.“It is a home-made collar- he is a terror to kill local song birds -so I attached some metaltubular chimes around his neck to warn them he is around!” said Megan.“I found it by the Old Field!”
The duel continued with both Bartie and Morris standing back- to- back, pistols pointing upward to the full moon as they came together. It was now 11.45 and still plenty of time for the duel to continue legally. Morris was sweating under his horsehair wig and tricorn hat. All around him the common was busy filling up.The local brotherhood of monks had appeared in their ‘Dry Robe’ outfits so prevalent for the Merthyr area.They began a ‘Modern Talking’ chant about one of their order - Brother Louie, Louie, Louiewho apparently was a big fan of duels and being ‘undercover’. This had been arranged by Thomas to distract one of the few senses that had been enhanced by Bartie’s loss of vision.Bartie’s objection was lost in the chant. Magistrate Jeffries ordered the recount.“Ten paces each... then turn and fire...no more delays!” he declared with some authority.Both combatants began to pace out with Morris so nervous, he could feel the urine running down his campanologist trouser leg.Like a newly expectant Father filling his babies bottles with breast milk from a lactating milkmaid , he had lost count of the strides he took away from the Venetian crack-shot.Was it seven or eight?It was now five to midnight.Did he risk the wrath of the Magistrate and local reputation if he ducked?That decision was taken away from him by the appearance of Gwennie’s black cat Lucky which had crossed his path. Frozen in terror, Morris looked on helplessly as the Blind Venetian turned in one fell movement and fired his single shot in the direction of the hapless moggie that had been making a bee-line for Toby Jugs .“Talk about a black cat crossing your path .....how lucky was that?” said the open-mouthed Magistrate.“Did I get the Welsh bastard?” asked Bartie.“You killed my beloved cat!” wailed Gwennie.
The blood drained to the feet of the blind killer. He had not heard his opponent fire his shot and in terror and the heart of darkness stood there awaiting the impact of a bullet from Morris.Morris was in a quandary. He had never shot another human being before - especially one without sight. But on the other hand, he had called him a Welsh bastard and groped his barmaid. He owed it to all the women in the World to take out this sexual predator. Morris took aim at 10 seconds to Midnight.He pulled the trigger and out of the front of the flintlock pistol came a home- made flag withthe words B A N G written on it.“Watch out ....Beadle’s about!” said the local Magistrate before blowing his whistle to signal the end of legal duelling in Britain.
Cast of Characters
Miss Arly Marble- a Septegenarian Tea- Total Lady from Yorkshire England (drinksYorkshire Tea)- deaf as a post – avaricious reader who mishears everything.
(Glenys)Mrs Eira Ray- an Irish Nationalist Poet who is on the Cruise to Map the Tombs & Pyramids.
(Abbie)Mrs Jane Dough - a retired Dental Nurse with an OCD complex and a limp.
(Alison)Doctor De’ath- A Doctor who switches accents at Will.-
(Curtis)Phil Le Delphia- A lawyer who specialises in Wills etc.
(Jack)Mr Rhodes Drage- an Oxford Professor who has anger management issues.
(Ron)Mr Len Scrafter- a former US American Football Referee, who has very bad eyesight.-
(Phil)Mr John Dough- a self- employed baker from Abercynon, husband of Mrs Jane Dough ( newperson)
Mr Nile Rogers - a honeymooner (new person)
Mrs Chic Rogers- a honeymooner (new person)
Omar God- an Egyptian Boat Crewman (new person or second part)
Opening scene- a Dahabiya Dream Boat on the Nile River in 2024
Miss Marble:“What a wonderful Asian country Egypt is- such history going back over five Millenia!”
Miss Eira Ray: “ Actually, Egypt is in Africa!” corrected the Irish Poet.
Miss Marble : “Who is a Freak?” countered the hearing challenged Miss Marble somewhatconfused hearing only part of the word.
Jane Dough : “Turn your hearing aids on Miss Marble-(pointing at her ears) NO-ONE is aFREAK….Egypt is in AFRICA!”
Miss Marble started to rummage in her travel bag and after a few seconds produced a case ofanti-perspirant called Lynx Africa.
Phil Le Delphia : “Well it is damn hot- he said taking the can from the table and spraying hissweaty armpits- “I hate these warm Countries!” he continued.
Rhodes Drage: “ So if you hate this heat that much… why did you book up a Nile Cruise on this Dahabiya Dream cruise boat …..in August of all times then?”
Phil looked down at his rubber Fitbit which had partially melted in a vain attempt to checkthe onboard temperature.
Doctor De’ath: “96% degrees in the shade- the Doctor said looking at his rectal thermometerwhich appeared to have chocolate still on it- sounds like a Third World record!”
(PoshEtonian accent)Len Scrafter: “Call this heat?.....try officiating at the Pasadena Superbowl in California…..it was Reffing Hell….96% degrees is nothing compared to that final between the MiamiDolphins and the Buffalo Bill redskins in 1996…….”
Rhodes Drage: “Correct me if I am wrong but I thought it was the Washington Redskins?”
Lens Scrafter: “In that Rosebowl- with no cover- they all had Redskins!”As the sailboat continued its journey from Luxor up river, the party of individuals thrown together on a narrow boat tried to relax but find out a little more about the strangers that they were sat around the wooden table with.
Phil Le Delphia : “ If you must know I am not here on a pleasure trip like most of you….I am here on business at the behest of my client…Mr John Dough…on my left , the Sole Director 28of Pudding Club Limited…. he came aboard this ship at first light….you know what baker’sare like….up at the crack of Dawn!”
Miss Marble: “Who is in the Pudding Club and been up the crack of Dawn?” – a lover of gossip and scandal with her Women’s Institute Friends
Jane Dough : “No… Miss Marble we are talking about my husband - a passenger called JohnDough!” said Jane lifting her hat and speaking into her ancient ear trumpet and pointing ather spouse with a knife.
Miss Marble: “There’s no need to shout….I am not deaf you know!”
John Dough: ‘ Well you are doing a damned fine impression then….you CoffinDodger!” shouted the irritated businessman.
Miss Marble glared at John – she had heard THAT- if looks could kill.
Enter to the breakfast time the newly- wed couple.“Do you mind if we join you?” Asked Nile Rogers.The Egyptian waiter added two more plates to the table.
Mrs Eira Ray:“Could I have some fruit please!”
John Dough : “Three Thousand Pounds each for this trip and I can’t even get a bacon sandwich !” He mumped miserably.The waiter bowed and returned with a platter of selected figs, dates and Palestinian not JaffaOranges.The two new arrivals giggled excitedly enjoying their honeymoon experience.“Pass the sugar… Sugar…!” Asked Nile of his spouse.“Pass the honey…Honey !” Replied Chic passing the Tate & Lyle.The other members of the breakfast club looked around at each other jealously.Mrs Dough sighed looking directly at her much older husband John Dough.“You never talk to me like THAT !”“0kay ….pass me the milk you old cow!” Replied the baker without looking up.Mrs Dough passed the milk alright as she poured the entire contents over his head.John Dough didn’t flinch Like Donald Trump he was used to a golden shower. He continued to eat his porridge with the Asses milk dripping off his bald pate.
“Talk about passed your eyes milk!’ quipped Len Scrafter.Mrs Dough embarrassed by the comment- threw her napkin onto the table and stormed off angrily.
Mrs Eira Ray: “Poetic justice if you ask me….you deserved that you chauvinist pig!”
“So I am pig now!” Replied John Dough milk dripping from his head and porridge smearedall around his mouth.“Somewhat ironic when I can’t get any in this Country!”Omar God looked on at the Westerners upset at the mention of the dirty animal that Jesus had cast a demon into.And looking round at the white devils sat around him he could see the results. Did they really deserve to rule the Planet?
Omar God: “Offendi , please do not mention such a dirty animal on my humble boat….it upsets me and my crew!”
John Dough:“Look Fuzzy Wuzzy…I am paying good money for this floating sieve…and I can say what I pigging well want…..when I want ….and I don’t care what you and Mo Salahover there think about it one jot….”
Omar’s face suddenly changed as the Protective Eye of Horus took on the look of the Osiris -the Ancient Egyptian God of death and the Underworld.He was ‘Thothing’ at the mouth at the arrogance of the Englishman insulting him in his own Country and the boat he had lovingly crafted with his own hands. It was all he could do not to put his hands around John Dough’s throat and squeeze the Pilsbury dough out of him. Lens Crafter pulling a yellow referee card from his pocket and waving it at John Dough.“I am booking you….I think you owe this A-rab an apology!”
Omar God: “Thank you Effendi, but I am not an Arab but a Coptic Muslim!” Replied theboat owner.
“Mirror, Mirror on the wall who is the least pharoahest one of all!” Said the poetic Eira Rayglaring at John Dough.
“Typical Brexiteer, still thinks Britannia rules the waves…..I have a message for you John Bull….the Empire ended after the Second World War….if I had my way I would rid the World of all you arrogant English and unify the Emerald Isle in the process!”“ Cromwell didn’t go far enough with your lot!’ said John Dough without looking up fromhaving his gruel.“Here’s your Orange Order …you bloody banshee !” He said picking up a Jaffa and angrilyslinging one at the Irish Molly Malone.
It was all Eira could do to restrain herself clutching her cutlery and muttering the phrase:“Remember Louis Mountbatten Imperialist Englishman!”Professor Rhodes Rage was now face to face and nose to nose with John Dough so close he could taste the porridge.
Len’s Scrafter reached into his pocket and pulled a different card out this time.“Red card for the red coat …..and you Oxford Don......anymore and you will both be sent offthis lovely boat too”.“
I think we need a Ready Break Boyo!” interjected Doctor De’ath separating the two (Welsh Valleys Accent) .“ I thought there was still a special relationship between the US and Britain!” he said trying to appease the pair.
John Dough: “What do you know…you bloody Quack….I bet those certificates in your offices were printed off the internet and authenticated by Former Tory Party Chairman,Jeffrey Archer!”
Miss Marble: “If there is one Nation I dislike more than the Southern English it is their mutant offspring colonists it is those from the New World!” said the Northern English Female Sleuth.“I haven’t forgiven that lot across the pond for tipping all that lovely Yorkshire tea into thatBoston harbour in 1773….those sons were really taking a liberty!’ said Miss Marble handover the silver tea pot pouring out a cup delicately.
John Dough: “ Shut up you old trout….no one cares what you think….and I have got newsfor you …you need to change those batteries in your hearing aids….that wasn’t a silent fart you let out earlier….with table manners like that you need to be sent back to Richard Branson…. no wonder you are still a Virgin and will be returned to God in a box marked‘unopened’!”
Miss Marble suddenly lost her own marbles and picked up a butter knife and started threatening him with a throat slitting gesture like she was a member of the Bloods or the Crips.“Are you determined to upset everyone on this boat before breakfast?” Interjected Nile Rogers.
“If the cap fits!” Replied John Dough.“And I would put one on with if my Missus looked like THAT!’” he said pointing at his newwife.“I have never been so insulted in my life!” Declared the outraged Chic Rogers.“Surely…with THAT face you MUST have been!” roared John Dough unashamedly.Nile Rogers stood up to punch the obnoxious factory owner but was restrained by Lawyer Phil Le Delphia.“Careful …you don’t want to be charged with assault like that Turkish Football Club Owner now do you?”“And you …John Dough as my client…. I would advise you to tone it down until at YEAST you have SIGNED your new Will!”
Continued Phil.“Yes …ooh ah…think of your high blood pressure!” Continued Dr De’ath ( SwindonWiltshire Accent )The purple faced Gammon just glared around at the crowd of strangers he had already insulted.He looked like he would catch fire at any second.He loved his ability to upset other people and ruin their lives.It is all he lived for -as his lifetime accumulation of bread had not made him any happier- nor had his unlimited supply of crumpet over the years that his money had attracted.It would be a long week on this Dahabiya Dreamboat which would now probably turn into a nightmare.The guests one by one retired to their respective cabins below deck.
Scene Two
Thirty minutes later a piercing scream was heard from down below.It was Jane Dough- who had suddenly become the latest widow on the boat.
The tourists all rushed towards cabin 13-which bore the name of Julius Caesar.Each of the cabins on board the Dream Boat had names associated with Egypt.Ptolemy, Cleopatra and of course the Bangles. First to the doorway was Doctor De’ath, who complete with black medical bag rushed into tothe cabin to find Jane doing an impression of Edvard Greig’s the Scream - frozen in shockwith her hands over her cheeks like a version of McAuley Culkin looking through theNeverland Ranch window at an approaching Michael Jackson.
The doorway soon became crowded as the rest of the passengers and crew arrived one byone.The body of John Dough lay face down on the bed with a knife lodged in his back wedged between his shoulder blades.
“He’s dead!” Declared Doctor De’ath checking the cadaver’s pulse.As he moved the body slightly, the corpse let out a death rattle of his own which sounded like the horn of a cruise ship on the River Nile waking up Omar God asleep at the wheel with a start.“I think it was suicide and not a Murder!” Pronounced Dr De’ath looking at the entry wound of the knife.( Scottish Accent like Taggart)
“Are you REALLY a Doctor?” enquired Rhodes Drage suspiciously.“Please explain how the Hell he could have stabbed HIMSELF in the back?” said LenScrafter though his thick milk bottle glasses…..”
“I can’t see it myself!- although it is definite foul play!”Eira Ray :‘I agree with Mr Magoo here….what did he do ?……fall on the knifebackwards?….it is impossible - as he is lying FACE down!”.
Len Scrafter said what most of the innocent passengers were thinking“Good riddance to bad rubbish….he deserved to be sent off!”
Jane Dough: “Do you mind….where is your sensitivity?….he may only have been my husband for a year …but he didn’t deserve to be murdered in this way!”
Len Scrafter: “ I am a soccer referee …..we DON’T have any feelings!”
Dr De’ath : “We must inform the Egyptian Authorities immediately of the death….mainlybecause I get ash cash for pronouncing him dead….finder’s keepers!”
Len Scrafter: “ He was a goalie as well as a policeman?”
Jane Dough: “ Not that kind of keeper nor a Policeman-He was a baker !- that’s why Imarried him …. he told me he had loads of Dough!”Len Scrafter somewhat confused having been lost in translation.
Len Scrafter : “ But someone said he was a Pig earlier?”
Miss Marble: “ From experience….best not to involve the Police until we know what has transpired…..otherwise we could be held captive on this boat for days!”
Mr Nile Rogers: “ I agree ….if we tell the Egyptian Authorities they will stop the Cruise and ruin our Honeymoon and we won’t get to see all the Wonders of the Ancient World like Karnak and Abu Simbel “ he pleaded.
Chic Rogers: “ Please- it’s not like he was a good man now is it - you all bore a grudgeagainst him earlier!” The passengers all looked at each other and then back at the lawyer for guidance.
Phil Le Delphia: “ Well we could all be accessories to murder if we don’t report it to the crewbut we all have our individual good reasons for the Cruise to continue!”
Rhodes Drage: “What’s yours?”
Phil Le Delphia : “ His cheque for my services hasn’t cleared yet!….and he said whisperingin the ear of Jane Dough ….”His Will states you must survive him by a week before you get to inherit his fortune!”
Jane Dough changing tack like the wooden sail boat on the Nile she was on replied:“ Perhaps we shouldn’t act so hastily after all ….but we need to keep this quiet from thecrew until in six days time we arrive at the Aswan Dam!”
Eira Ray: “ In times of trouble we should do what they would do at the Stormont Parliament Buildings and have a democratic vote or blow up the boat with Semtex and destroy the evidence….I have a friend called Sean Finn you know!” winking with her eye.
Rhodes Drage: “ We could just wait till dark and tip his body into the Nile and report him missing later?”
Eira Ray: “ We wouldn’t want to give a Rivers of Blood speech to the Egyptian Authorities……besides there aren’t any Nile Crocodiles left this side of the Aswan Dam to dispose of the body!”
Jane Dough: “ We could just prop him up in the bed as if he is ill and tell the crew he is not to be disturbed…..I will bring him his meals to our room until Aswan !” she suggested.
Miss Marble : “ But there still leaves us with one big problem….there is still a murderer present on this boat and it could be any one of you lot!”
Nile Rogers: “ What about you….who do you think you are?....An amateur ColleenRooney?”
Chic Rogers: “ Yes…why are you above suspicion …while you point that bony wrinkled finger at the rest of us?”
Miss Marble : “My Heroine Agatha Christie wrote seventy five novels and fourteen shortstories and not once does an elderly spinster turn out to be the murderer!”
Len Scrafter: “ Not even in that Ku Klux Klan based novel? ….Ten Little ....” he was interrupted by Phil Le Delphia.
Phil Le Delphia: “ Us woke lefty lawyers do not use that word anymore ….but I agree withMiss Marble not even Hercule Poirot would point the finger at an innocent old lady….that would be ageist and flawed logic ….besides the noise of her zimmer clumping on this Lebanon Cedar wood floor would have given her away….!”
Eira Ray: “ Coming from Ireland, I have lived amongst murderers all my life so anotherweek or so won’t bother me….can we go to a vote now!….raise your right hand if you agree with the plan to postpone reporting the missing body until Aswan!”
The shell- shocked passengers raised their hands in turn starting with Eira Ray. Then Jane Dough.Dr De’ath.Phil Le Delphia.Rhodes Drage.Nile Rogers.Chic Rogers.Miss Marble.The only one hesitant was Len Scrafter- they all stared at him.
Len Scrafter: “ What ….I don’t want to be unpopular….but on this occasion I won’t be the one to blow the whistle!” He protested.Jane Dough- thinking off her inheritance started subliminally to hum ‘Crocodile Shoes’ by Jimmy Nail.
Eira Ray: “ It is unanimous….we all plead ignorance ….and pretend John Dough is missing until his partially eaten body turns up just like Steve Irwin and we blame the crocodiles and hippos for his death….we just need to remove the knife first and stem the blood flow….DrDe’ath can you stitch him up?”
Dr De’ath : “ Of course…we doctors took a Hippo- cratic oath…we have long been able to bury our mistakes….look how long it took the authorities to catch Dr Harold Shipman!”
Eira Ray: “ Talking about stitch ups ….my Father was a member of the Guildford Four Pub bombings and served fourteen years in jail for an offence he didn’t commit …so it would be sweet revenge to get one over on the justice system this time….in the interim, I suggest we appoint Miss Marble here to investigate this Death on the Nile!”
Miss Marble: “Who is Deaf on the Nile?”
Jane Dough: “ No one Miss Marble…but just like Jeffrey Epstein’s Black Book we do have a John Doe here and unlike Epstein we can’t afford to hang around!”
Rhodes Drage: “Besides they say that once you lose one of your senses the others are enhanced!” nodding at Miss Marble.
Miss Marble: “ Well my investigative sense is already enhanced….I know exactly who the killer is….but the big question is do you? If we all meet upstairs at the dinner table I will ENDEAVOUR to reveal the answer after we have all had the house speciality soup….having been on this cruise several times….it is to diefor!”
Scene 3 - the dinner table.
Omar God and his crew have prepared a delicious lunch of a local Soup delicacy.
Omar God: “ We have copied each of your passports and will return your original credit cards after dinner today….it is important that you all eat the food at the same time …..it creates a family atmosphere and bonds travellers on this unique experience!”
Just like an episode of TV show Death in Paradise, the passengers sat with baited breath hungry not only for food but also to find out what Miss Marble had discovered - she seemed so certain she knew the identity of the killer.
Miss Marble: “ I hope everyone enjoyed their meal ….one thing is certain you will never taste a meal like that again!”
Eira Ray: “ That soup was delicious Omar….what was it called?”
Omar God: “ Cleopatra’s Soup….a bowl fit for a Queen on the Nile!”
Jane Dough: “ It was so moreish ….if only my husband was still alive ….he would badger you for the recipe with his rolling pin cocked!”
Lens Scrafter: “ I have travelled the World …been on cruises on the Panama Canal and through the Amazon from Manaus to Puerto Rico but I have never tasted anything so divine….it even beats our home grown five star restaurants of McDonalds & KFC !”
Nile Rogers: “ If my new wife can cook anything like meal I will be a happy man….only this morning I asked her how she wanted her eggs this morning and she replied….Fertilised!”
Chic Rogers: “Omar God…what is the secret ingredient?”
Omar God: “ Ah…now I recognise that voice…I thought you were calling my name from the Honeymoon Suite earlier on!”
Miss Marble: “ If Omar reveals his secret he would have to kill you all as it goes back millennia- he calls it Gordon Ramses Soup because he says everyone swears by it!”
Phil Le Delphia: “ Well Miss Marble don’t keep us in suspense any longer…who amongst us is the murderer?”
Miss Marble: “ I will give you a few minutes to digest things!”The entire table started to belch & burp- just as is the Arab custom when I good Mcmeal has been provided.
Miss Marble: “ Oh that’s easy….it was me all along!” she said leaving go of her zimmer andwalking upright like Keyser Soze at the end of the film the Usual Suspects.Phil Le Delphia clutches at his throat as one by one do each of the passengers.
Miss Marble: “ Omar here and I set up this little venture three years ago now…we lure people to Egypt….take their passports and credit cards and bury their bodies in the Sudanese desert ….the soup you all ate contained a secret ingredient alright…deadly venom from theEgyptian Asp …the kind that killed Cleopatra 2000 years ago …if you had bothered to learn the Egyptian language you would have discovered that Dhabihah means ‘slaughterhouse’in Islamic - the ritual slaughter of multiple animals at the same time!’
Phil Le Delphia : “ But they know our whereabouts at the Hotel!” struggling to talk for the first time in his life before gurling and choking.
Miss Marble : “My friends at the Kempinski Nile Hotel will swear they never saw you and the US and British Embassies don’t care ….ask Nazanin Zaghari- Ratcliffe…when you meet her in the after- life!”
Dr De’ath: “ That explains it….as his head dropped to the table….I wondered why the trave lbrochure was called the Book of the Dead !”
Miss McMarble: “ Deaf initly!”
“Good afternoon and thank you for finally attending this Job Start Interview!” Said the Civil Servant.
“You’re welcome Mr Isious!” replied the attendee politely-reading the name badge on the Official- with all the charm of a gentleman that had been to Gordonstoun and then Dartmouth Naval College.
“ Mr Andrew Albert Christian Edward Windsor I presume,…do you have any photographic identification on you to prove this fact?” asked the former DSS snooper.
“Sorry…one doesn’t carry a wallet around with me…money is vulgar…hang on …One has a photograph of oneself flying a helicopter in the Falklands War …would that suffice…is that what you are Sea King?” Asked the eighth in line to the throne of England, passing over a tattered old Kodak snapshot, now yellowing with age.
“Not really but it will have to do…don’t forget you won’t be allowed to vote at the next General Election without proper identification documents you know!” replied the know -it - all Government employee reading from the YouGov site.
“ So why is one here….is one in trouble?” asked the disgraced Royal.
“Not compared to recent events….you are here because officially you have not worked since 2002 when you left the Navy!” Replied the jobsworth.
“That’s 21 years to be precise and you are only aged 63 and therefore still of an age that you are eligible to work!” He continued.
The Duke of York gulped nervously but didn’t sweat it.
“So according to our Government records, you are receiving State benefit from the Sovereign Grant , formerly the Civil List, to the tune of £250,000.00 ….the question is are you actively looking for work?” the interviewer said looking over his bifocal glasses.
“Well ….stuttered the Prince….my Mother has only recently died …!”
“That was over six months ago in September 2022!” Continued the Questioner.
“And what about the previous two decades….were you just F***ing about?” asked the Civil Servant turning very uncivil.
“Look…one told that BBC Lady, Emily Mattress, in my other interview that one doesn’t drink coffee and therefore haven’t been anywhere near a Maxwell House!” denied the Duke.
“So what exactly have you been doing since your last recorded job in 1982?” Asked Mr Icious.
“Do you have a first name ?” Asked Andrew.
“Of course…it’s Malcolm!” Replied the Government Employee.
“May one call you Mal?….Mr Icious?” Queried the Duke.
“Most certainly NOT!” Replied the Job Centre Plus Interviewer.
“This is a formal interview to determine if you deserve to continue to receive handouts from the state!” He continued.
“So other than playing around with your chopper for two decades…what exactly have you
been doing?”
“Well…one has been waving a lot …!” replied the Royal with absolute sincerity.
The interviewer furrowed his brow and stared at the Duke.
“Mainly from the deck of the Royal Yacht Britannia…!” he stuttered.
“ Do you know the song a life on the ocean ‘wave’ is better than going to sea?” Said the posh
boy.
“Is that why you are called Handy Andy then?….I thought it was for a different reason!” said Malcolm turning the Royal colour Purple, apoplectic with rage.
“Well we both sponge money off the Taxpayer don’t we?” Said Andrew trying to find ‘common’ ground with the commoner.
“ You mean as a civil servant I am obliged to accept a below inflation pay award and work till I am 67 …five years longer than any Frenchman …whilst you live the life of Riley….it’s complete nonsense!”
“Some would say nonce-sense actually!” Replied the Sniggerer.
“And don’t mention Frogmore please….it’s still a sore point with my family!”
“So are you claiming too for any dependents?” Asked the Interviewer.
“Yes, for one’s daughters Beatrice & Eugenie !” The Royal outcast said.
“ And how old they…are they still in school or full time education?” Malcolm pressed
harder.
“Let me see Beatrice is 34 and Eugenie 32 and of course Sarah my other dependent is 63!” Andrew continued.
“Don’t any of them have their own jobs?” Asked Malcolm absolutely flabbergasted.
After three long minutes of laughing from Andrew he replied “Are you serious?”
Looking around the whitewashed walls of the Windsor Job Centre, he uttered.
“Come on…who set this up ….Michael McIntyre or Ant n Dec?”
“Can’t be Jeremy Beadle….he is no longer about after all!”
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Mr Windsor…I am here to make sure that you find work or we stop your State ‘benefit’ like everyone else in this Country!” said the official in a more Mal Icious tone.
“So what skills do you have?” Asked Malcolm.
Andrew racked his brain and repeated “Waving?”
“There are several job opportunities available working in the Pizza Express Woking Branch….do you know it?” asked the Interviewer.
“No!” Replied the Duke immediately.
“Never been there in my life….oops…on second thoughts one went there with one’s daughter on the night that one DIDN’T go to Tramp nightclub…!”
“What perks do you get ?”
“Well it is a bit like the Hooters restaurants they have in Canada and the US with young girls serving in skimpy outfits only with different ‘toppings!” said Malcolm luring the new Prince of Darkness in to bite.
“Interested?”
The Duke was now leaning forward at the desk.
Malcolm lifted the telephone up and spoke into it.
“Susan…would you be good enough to bring me in the Pizza Express bakery job application forms for the Woking branch….you will find them under the
P- Dough File!”
Andrew looked suspiciously at the Official he had heard that word chanted a lot when he was in Buckingham Palace ever since he had innocently paid Three Million Pounds to a charity suggested by a girl he had never met.
“You are aware that the allegations about One and Miss Go Free were never proved in a Court of Law do you? said the Duke rather testily.
“Not my concern really!” Said Malcolm.
“Do you know why One did that free interview with Emily Mattress?” Countered Andrew.
“Former BBC reporter Martin Bashir rang up the Palace claiming he had further evidence….bloody phoney wank statements….how dull does he think one is? …Princess Diana or something?” raged Andrew.
“Oh ‘hang on’….there is also an International Job going as a prison officer at the New York Correctional Centre….sounds like money for old rope…!”said Malcolm looking at his computer screen.
“ Are you still allowed to visit the United States ….?” challenged Malcolm.
“Come to think of it….One does have a lot of Air Miles left on One’s frequent flyer account to Palm Beach , Florida….but on second thoughts best not to go there again…you know with all those selfies of people One has never actually met….!” mused Andrew.
“Sauna Tester in IKEA in Kyrgyzstan?” proffered Malcolm.
“You could do that no sweat!”
The evil eye from the Royal followed.
“Why does one have to get a job anyway …surely with all those people coming over in those small boats ….they need a job more than One does…after all…One’s ancestors created the British Empire especially for people who DO have the ability to break sweat….!” Replied the oyal in a posh voice.
“Oh they are fast tracked to Rwanda these days…so the Post-Brexit fruit is still rotting in the fields without anyone to pick it!” said Malcolm.
“Do you fancy a try?….after all you have a plum in your mouth most of the time anyway!”
He continued.
Andrew leaned in and whispered
“One thinks we both know that neither One nor One’s family are ever going to do REAL work as we are too important to the British economy given the amount we bring in from tourism?” Replied Not so Handy.
“How much is that a year?”asked Mal.
“19 Million Pinds!” said the Royal gurning with the pronunciation.
“And the cost to the tax payer for the Sovereign Grant ?” questioned the Interviewer. “Don’t know or care!” Said Andrew churlishly.
“It’s amazing what you can find on the internet especially with a Freedom of Information form these days…..try £369 Million give or take a few clocks…!” Replied the clear Republican.
“ So what is your point exactly?” Asked the peeved Royal feeling more exposed than Prince Harry at a Las Vegas pool party.
“Everyone in Britain must now pay their way or get deported to Rwanda!” said Mal “That’s the most ridiculous thing one has ever heard!” said Andy channelling the late Kenny Everett.
“What about Stanley Johnson up for a knighthood?” asked Mal the inquisitor.
“Point taken!” sniggered Andy.
Tony Robinson looked nervously at the television camera. This was a first even for the ‘Time Team’ and its archaeologists. The deep scan of the Norman crypt at Morlais Castle in Merthyr Tydfil had revealed a hollow
chamber behind the inner walls and the readings for metal possible gold and silver were going off the scale.
Tony genuinely believed they had discovered a treasure hoard possibly confiscated from local Celtic chieftains in the 13th Century. He felt giddy at the prospect of being as famous as Howard Carter, who had discovered the
unopened the burial chamber of King Tutankhamen in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt in 1922.
What treasure lay beyond these limestone walls that had remained hidden for 800 years?
He wanted to be recognised and not just being remembered as that ‘Baldprick’ from Black Adder who was ridiculed and bullied by Rowan Atkinson.
Tony scraped away at the remaining millimetres of limestone rock concealing the chamber and finally managed to pierce its inner layer enough to get a flashlight in the tiny aperture. He had been excited at the potential find and had in his childlike state put off using the toilet in all the fuss- he wanted to be the one to have the fame. Besides, there were no longer any public toilets in the Merthyr Town centre due to Council
cutbacks.
As he peered inside, he suddenly frightened the film crew who feared a booby trap for a grave robber, as he came face to face with a figure of a Norman soldier completely dressed in armour. The shock made Tony piss himself uncontrollably, as the result of a mixture of fear and anxiety.
There was another more welcoming emotion too- relief -as like Magnus Magnusson on Mastermind he had started so he may has well finish.
“ Oi Slackbladder...do you mind ?...You’re pissing on my suede shoes!” said the hatted figure of Time Team regular Mick Aston.
The warm of the yellow liquid on a cold grey day in a Valleys cave was welcome, but pleasure quickly became misery as he had ruined his expensive corduroy trousers. The cameraman panned down at the front of them to compound Tony’s misery. Ever the professional Tony said to the screen “ Be careful if you go into limestone caves as there is a lot of water around that can splash your clothes indiscriminately- drips from stalactites go down and stalagmites go up!” he said trying to bluff his way out of the embarrassment.
“ Oh and be careful of incontinent television presenters too ....always give them room to go into a dig ...in case they shit on you!” said Mick taking the mick.
Tony looked at his sidekick with a stare that could kill. He concentrated on the task in hand. He continued to gouge at the circle of wet rock in a circular fashion with a small hand drill until he had enough of a gap to get his head in.
When he had done so, he placed the torch in his mouth and shone it around with a jaw movement . If he hadn’t had to hold the light source in his teeth he would have been open mouthed. “ Is the crypt untouched.....the Norman seal intact?” asked Mick impatiently.
Tony withdrew his head and pass the flashlight to Mick.
“ See for yourself!” he said almost whispering.
Mick peered through the hole like an amateur gynaecologist and his jaw dropped. He could see row after row of Norman soldiers clad in full battle regalia like they originally wore in the 1066 Normandy invasion.
“ We have found the limestone equivalent of the Terracotta Army!” said Mick leaping on Tony in his joy forgetting momentarily that Tony had pissed himself earlier.
“ This is a living Bayeaux Tapestry....its priceless!” said Mick punching the air.
“ I have dreamt of finding something of this magnitude and historical importance all my life -even when I was a homeless student archaeologist....looking for ‘digs’!” said the one time stand in for Worzel Gummidge.
The overpowering smell of urine reached his nostrils, as he too realised he now smelt like he had trench foot.
Tony & Mick began hacking at the remaining wall to allow full bodily access all the while watching out for ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ style booby traps for intended grave robbers.
Mick half expected a giant ball to come rolling out of the darkness or for a crossbow to hit him King Harold style in the eye.
There was however, a warning written in French on a plaque above the head of the first soldier which the pair took to be William of Normandy.
They guessed this was the case as the towering figure was well over six feet tall and had a massive Eric Cantona- style nose .
“I assume that is William the CONKeror!” laughed Tony slipping back into character.
“ Can you read that sign in French?”
“ Of CORSE I CANNES!” quipped back Aston purtting on a phoney French accent and talking quickly.
“ It is a warning that if the seal of this burial chamber is broken the nearby Hamlet will suffer 200 years of decline, depression , famine and flood!” replied Mick.
“ Bit late for Merthyr either that or someone beat us to it!” laughed Tony his voice echoing around a chamber not opened for over half a Millenia.
Tony checked to be sure there were no trip wires in front of him before approaching the Norman Warlord.
“Look at that armour...imagine the weight of carrying that into battle every day!” he said looking up and realising he only came up to the nipple line of the historical figure.
“ I wouldn’t have lasted long against someone his size!”
Mick too was in an orgiastic state seeing such historical splendour laid out in row after row stretching back into the darkness almost as if the army was ready to march on the command from their leader.
“ We are Sooo privileged to be the ones to find this lot!” he said.
The eerie silence was broken as a whooshing sound was heard as a projectile hit the wall near the newly created entrance in the limestone rock. The normally bluey-white rock was suddenly covered in an explosion of orange.
“ Don’t move or Baldprick gets it!” shouted a Welsh voice from the Darkness.
Mick Aston suddenly realised the projectile hadn’t come from the crossbow of a Medieval army but a more modern source of a paintball gun.
“ These figures and any gold and silver in their pouches belong to us!” said another voice.
“ Who are you?” asked Tony.
“ We are the guardians of this chamber and these soldiers are our ancestors- we are the Normans from Bramble Close in the Gurnos and you are standing in our family grave.!” said the first voice obviously the leader.
“ We are from Time Team from the television...perhaps you have seen us on the Discovery Channel?” replied Tony.
“ No!” was the straight reply.
“ We found them in the same way we ‘found’ those frozen cod steaks when someone broke into the Merthyr Tydfil Iceland store....we call it ‘Findus Keepers’ or you might recognise it as ‘Treasure Trove’ a rule established prior to the coming of us Normans in 1066 under Edward the Confessor.” said the musclebound Gurnos Warrior.
“ You on the other hand are trespassers!” boomed the voice filled with the sound of aggression.
“ Do you know what we do in Merthyr to grave robbers?” asked the leader, all 6 ft 8 inches of him enjoying terrorising the minor celebrity.
“ No?” gulped Tony.
“ We eat them!” said the Big Boss.....” Bones and all!”
Baldrick’s incontinence flared up again and he promptly shit himself.
A small trickle of a brown rivulet rolled down from his Don Estelle-style shorts into his socks...turning khaki into kak.
“ I wouldn’t eat him now if I were you !” argued Mick.
Mick had heard of some tribes in Papua New Guinea being headshrinkers and cannibals, but didn’t think it still went on at home in England & Wales.
“ Do you know what we call you English in these parts?” asked the Leader licking his lips.
“ Long Pig!” said the Norman.
“ Do you know why?”
“ We taste....like.... bacon?” stuttered Tony.
“ Correct....like HG Wells Time Machine we are the Morlocks and you the Eloi...!” said the voice.
“ Is that camera on...filming live to the Nation?” asked the Morlock Leader sharpening a barbecue spit knife.
“ Yes...!” lied the spluttering Tony...hoping it might be his Saviour.
He knew Merthyr from reports in the Sun newspaper was renowned for having the laziest, un-fittest, workshy bunch of scumbags this side of the Great North/South Divide and had a lower life expectancy than Sierra Leone but cannibalism?
He bumped into the first soldier in the ranks and it fell backwards in a domino effect knocking down row after row of priceless historical limestone figures shattering and cracking them as they toppled one by one.
Tony’s heart was pounding and his blood pressure through the roof- if the Normans would eat him for entering their sanctuary what would they do to him in light of this sacrilege? He suddenly noticed another man stepping out of the shadows who had a familiar rubber face.
“ Rowan....is that you?” asked Tony clutching his chest.
The man responsible for Johnny English , Mr Bean and Blackadder bent over with laugh. He was joined by the fake Normans.
“ No... this isn’t Team Team or Not the 9 O’Clock News ...we are filming but a new edition of Candid
Camera as the BBC has run out of ideas....!” laughed Rowan .
“ Smile for the camera...it’s called Rowan’s laugh in!”
“ You bastard Atkinson....I nearly went the way of Mel Smith then...!” said Tony picking up his slurry filled pants that were hanging low like an MC Hammer video.
Looking at the grey limestone colour on Tony’s face , Rowan realised how close he had been to sending another member of the cast of Blackadder to that great Comedy Forum in the sky.
“ I think we both nearly made a grave mistake.!” said Atkinson.
“Now hold on everyone......sorry I am late but I am the Official delegate from the Green Party of Wales...and I want to say my piece!”
Morgan Chamber, known locally as Mog the Smog, was never one to go or come quietly, as his Fifth Wife on their second Honeymoon would undoubtedly testify.
He strode purposely towards the 24- carat golden podium.
The assembled delegates from over 400 countries looked somewhat confused as he had a small round wooden boat attached to his back.
As he took to the stage – Security was on high alert- fearful of a terrorist attack from the World- renowned Free Wales Army- whose military wing had first formed in the Former Lamb Inn in Merthyr Tydfil- and understandably the Arabs were worried about their monopoly on the stage and the prospect of there being different Martyrs to the Cause.
The Head of the Conference, Prince Al Bin Chopiz Ed Off raised his oily palm for Security to hold on. He was a fair man and wanted to listen to different cultures just like his ancestors had done sat around their Bedouin campfires at the oases in past centuries blowing camels and smoking cigarettes too. He believed that everyone from the Third World should be entitled to voice their opinion before ignoring all recommendations on the reduction of fossil fuels.
Mog was not phased seeing so many different coloured faces before him wearing different white robes and multi-coloured attire -after all he himself was dressed in the new National Dress of Wales- the bright luminous orange Railtrack jumpsuit -which made him look like an escaped prisoner from San Quentin Penitentiary in California. He stood before World Royalty and influential power people – the actual ‘illuminati’ that kept the lights on and controlled Global economies and decided policy for innumerable Nations.
“Evening all!” he said upon reaching the Magic Mike.
By some unknown technological wizardry his words were instantaneously translated into over 400 different languages, except of course for Welsh, for the 1001 Arabian Knights sat in the Blue Zone of the Great Hall of Aladdin.
“I am here so that the World can hear the voice of Wales- one of the oldest continuous Celtic Nations now consisting of 4 million people and eleven million sheep-who have been subjugated by our English Ironmasters- men, women and children have toiled in the bowels of the Earth and have been subjugated and forced into economic slavery and to mine the black gold from the Planet’s soft underbelly, in doing releasing thousands of tonnes of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere helping choke the lungs of the Earth- just like the English Ironmasters who filled the lungs of our little ones with pneumoconiosis and all for profit and greed- You the good people of the United Arab Emirates or the United States of America would never force anyone into slavery- just for greed, money and power – now would you?”
The room fell silent.
“We in Wales have tried our best to put in place many measures to reduce our genetic carbon footprint such as becoming the first Country in the former United Kingdom to impose a mandatory 20 MPH speed limit in urban areas – not just to reduce the number of accidents- but also to reduce traffic pollution from petrol and diesel engines- the extraction of oil and natural gas must stop otherwise we could turn the Planet into desert regions just like this one!” Mog continued.
The room was more silent than a Trappist Monk fart.
The Prince rolled his eyes but let Mog continue as each speaker was allotted 15 minutes.
Mog picked his nose and rolled it in-between his right thumb and fore finger and stuck the bogie to the underside of the podium- just like he did with his chewing gum in secondary school in his native Rhondda Valley.
“No more greenwashing- no more green credits for companies who burn wood from trees and claim tax relief on it.....otherwise the Ice Caps in Snowdonia will melt leading to the extinction of the endangered Welsh Yeti.....!”
Mog paused for dramatic effect.
“We conducted a survey in conjunction with Friends of the Earth and Greenpeace and it was found that one of the biggest sources of greenhouse gas was old cow farts...so we immediately recalled the Senedd and insisted they wear Michelle Mone PPE masks to cut down on their Bullshit....we also send a message on Facebook to our online followers to ensure that if they were returning from England that it was manda-TORY to defecate on the English side of the Owain Glyndwr Prince of Wales Bridge!”
“It had 11 million likes and was clearly a popular policy with the second generation ovine voters too!”
“Westminster has reduced the amount of money it gives to the Principality Post-Brexit- under the ‘Trinkets for the Natives’ budgetary policy recorded in Hansard- the Welsh people now have to have a roads curfew as the street lighting and road lighting gets turned off by most County Councils at 7pm-!”.....”We even had to pull the slogan of the extra £350 Million a week for the NHS off the side of the former Pit Ponies!”
“We have tried alternative green measures to increase the amount going into the National Grid but just like our Welsh Water it is syphoned off by our colonial masters- Water Mills, Wind Turbines (personally I am not a big fan) and solar panels on the roof.....we even attached a lead to the Pelaton of Olympic cyclist Geraint Thomas but it wasn’t enough and he crashed yet again as a result....!”
“We stopped burning down holiday homes in West Wales too – although the advent of Ring doorbell technology was a deciding factor too...!”
Looking directly at the Papua New Guinea delegate- “We even took a ‘leaf’ out of your book and started eating Pro-European Vegans- as they were filled full of vegetables- but Port Talbot’s Anthony Hopkins confirmed he preferred to eat a liver and a nice Chianti and not just the ‘Remains’ of the Day!”
Mog cast his eyes to the back of the hall where two delegates were leaving.
“India and China.....I can see you sneaking out”
The heads of the audience turned towards them – shaming them- and then back. Just like a Wimbledon Tennis Umpire when Anna Kournikova has bent over to pick up a ball.
“We Welsh and you Arabs must stick together....we go back over 2000 years to when Welshman Hugh Griffith playing Sheik Iderim in Ben Hur!”
“We must together stop the new chariots polluting our Cities ....I live in O.P.E.C that this generation of children will still be able to live on the Earth....after all there is no Planet B only a Cardi one....there can be no RE-GRETAS....we must (pointing at the sleeping or possibly dead US President Joe Biden) educate these Fossil Fools!”
“The two biggest perils to the Planet are caused by air pollution- how many of you 8,000.00 delegates walked in your Jesus sandals to this Climate Change Conference- you three (pointing at the British delegation consisting of Tory Prime Minster (this month) Rishi Sunak, Foreign Secretary & Pig F**ker David Cameron and King Charles III ....I bet you all flew here separately on private jets!”
“I, on the other hand set out a month ago arriving on this trusty coracle!” continued Mog.
“How much damage did I do to the environment and ozone layer?”
“Admittedly, I had to dump all my daily faeces in the Palm Jumeirah & the World Islands but it is only what the Former United Kingdom Government is doing Post-Brexit to our Welsh rivers anyway- the ‘Bog’ Snorkelling Championship is no longer confined to Llanwrtyd Wells!”
“And the second one from Silicon Valley- all the Earth’s precious energy is being wasted on mobile phone charging, I-Pods, I-Pads & Laptops.....just like your close neighbour from your friends in Israel- Moses- we need to take the tablets away..... !”
“And Swedish Doom Goblin Greta Thunberg has her part to play too- unless we change the ways of the young as well as the old and their addiction to selfies and social media- as time is running out -Tik- Tokking away if you like!”
“The only electrical appliances to be charged into the National Grid should be the Sinclair C5 electric trikes- pioneered by the late Sir Clive Sinclair- the purported Saviour of the Hoovers Washing Machine Factory- before it was hung out to dry in my native Merthyr Tydfil-!”
“What do you need a mobile phone anyway- except if you are hanging off a cliff precipice?...and with the exception of the Burj Khalifa how many off them do you have in Abu Dhaba?”
“ That is why the Swiss yodel!”
“The Global economy should not be built on a house of fog and sand!”
“It’s time to shut down the reliance on oil and natural gas before it destroys the Earth and the Planet overheats and turns us into Mercury!”
“You lot sit here and play Good C.O.P but outside its bad and please remember that ULEZ stands for Ultra Low Emissions Zones in London and should not be a reference to the lead lady in a Pride March- you bunch of Shi-ites!”
Prince Al Bin Chopiz Ed Off now made eyes at the security guards that Mog’s time was up. In his muslin robe, he looked as white as a Sheikh. Mog’s fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Warhol he had raved on about was now over.
It was his time in the sun. The Hosts would peg him out naked in the desert with no Boots Factor 50 to help him. Either that or take him to the Turkish Embassy.
His emaciated frame, topped by Michael Gove ‘Milhouse’ glasses, struggled to carry the spanking new leather satchel his Mother had bought him, which she insisted he carry to school every morning on his daily 20 minute hike from his house in Brecon Road, Merthyr Tydfil to his new educational version of Borstal. It was a Sisyphean task for the puny schoolboy, as the satchel with his exercise books weighed nearly half his bodyweight and made him look like a myopic hunchbacked King Richard III, as he struggled up the steep hills that led up to his new Alcatraz.
To get there he had to go through hostile enemy territory – well named as ‘territory’ as he was terrified of who or what he would encounter each day on his journey up the ‘Red Lane’ though the notorious Gurnos Estate. The Lane was so called because it was bloodstained from beatings and muggings in this little corner of Paradise. He often sang THAT 1980’s Phil Collins song that he had heard on Spotify for confidence, usually as he passed rough sleepers with their rabid XL Bully dogs, lying in unbridled layers of dogshit, broken glass and used syringes.
But the worst of all- was the elder groups of boys- who hunted in packs of threes for someone to bully and steal their lunch money. His Mother (who had separated from his Biological Father Gordon) was his only protection – as his Mother had told him that his real Father had left for Silicon Valley years ago. He had no recollection of this Father but as he had a penchant for computer sciences -he was always proud of this fact -until the day he discovered that Silicon Valley was the nickname his Mother had given to the big breasted implanted woman he had eloped with.
Which was somewhat strange as his Mother had told him that his Father was only a little over Five Foot in height- she told her son she should blame him for his genetic shortcomings- so he innocently assumed that he must have used them as ear muffs. His Mother continued to be embarrassed by the doorstep gossips as some years later his Father was caught indecently exposing himself to Women in Cyfarthfa Park. She wanted nothing to do with him and made up a story for her young son that his dad was into science fiction whenever the pair were cruelly shouted at in the street about ‘Flash Gordon’.
Brad felt given his wan stature made him a more akin to a test tube baby, as his Mother had worked in the Sekisui science laboratory for years. She claimed to be responsible for the discovery of Viagra but her test case had failed to stand up in the Patent’s Court. Puberty had not yet kicked in for little Brad- the hair on his head was brown and very wavy and every morning it stuck up in all directions for fine weather. During his first ever PE lessons he could remember being assaulted by some older boys trying to discover if the school rumour was true in that he had one solitary pubic hair downstairs.
Sadly for him it was. He had gone from being known as ‘the Nerd in the Corner’ to ‘One Pube’ in an instant.
A Tik-Tok moment that is when he was held down and filmed while one the bully boys put on a David Attenborough voice over – with the infamous words- “ And here we have the Amazon rainforest....decimated by illegal logging with only one tree left standing!”
He particularly hated cross country and was always last finishing last with all of the children returning hours before him but at least it had taught him how to run. One of his local sheep farmers had accused him of interfering with his livestock – suggesting he was seen lying down in his pasture smoking but it wasn’t certainly him- as despite his Mother’s claim to fame - he was incapable of Vape.
Brad had no social life- not surprising considering his face was permanently in a phone or computer screen. He like modern schoolchildren no longer sat around the dining table and actually spoke to his Mother. He only communicated with her by text. A lot of the time she was in work but it was often when they were in the same room. She – like most modern working single parents had little time to actually cook wholesome food- Brad survived on takeout meals from MuckDonalds & the bogus Colonel.
To get by she also worked part time in the evenings in a care home. Not surprisingly he was seriously malnourished, as his Mother was always taking part in clinical trials and was never there to ‘care’ for him. The only time he had nutrition in the form of fresh food was when one of his Mother’s ‘inmates’ went sick and the relatives brought in fruit. But even that stopped when Covid came.
His Mother would however bring home lots of old-fashioned clothes which were destined for the landfill when the old ladies died- which made Brad a little bi-curious when he put them on. He thought he had an alter ego which he called ‘Granny Tranny’. It was not his only alter ego though as he had discovered a new means of escapism from his miserable life. Online Gaming.
Here in the Meta Verse he was no longer called ‘Nerd in the Corner’, nor ‘One Pube’- he could be a virtual hero without challenge. Here he didn’t have to rub his Bitcoin with shit to get back at the bullies.
In cyber space, he was a keyboard warrior under his online masculine name of Arnold Schwarzawigga – which was totally inconsistent with his real life – as he was thinner than supermodel bulimia diet soup.Here in the Meta Verse he had an online presence that was noticed by his fellow female space aliens from all over the Universe. He loved his online Space Crusade game as part of World of Warcraft, where he could teleport into strange Alien Planets and spawn as his Schwarzawigga Hero or other sci-fi hero.
Brad, when walking to school, had his face in a mobile screen and then for six hours every night in a computer one. No wonder he had glasses thicker than the bottom of a milk bottle and that was even before he discovered the other ‘joystick’ evolution had given him.
At 11 years of age, he was like a mini-version of Mr Magoo – everything outside the end of his nose was a blur as he was always bumping into fellow pupils in the corridor as he passed in his own personal i-cloud. This didn’t engender to making new friends and he was often met with the jibe- “Careful One Pube or you will knock it off!”- not from the schoolchildren but from the cruel teachers, who doubled as Prison warders in his new reality Hell.
Academically, Brad was bright but sitting at the front of the class and raising his hand to answer questions just gave the bully majority more cause to pick on him. As soon as the teachers would turn their backs, the innocent child would endure more missiles than those in the Gaza strip. Brad wanted to learn- but the Neanderthal Bullies didn’t and disrupted the class at every opportunity.
He looked forward to the day that the knuckle-draggers were separated out into the remedial classes and he be placed into A-Band where he could actually learn something. Today had been particularly tiresome as his fellow classmates had discovered the art of chewing paper and then spitting it out like an old- fashioned pea-shooter through the hollow plastic tubing of Bic pens. His curly hair in the back was covered in them as he now contained more white spots than a septic tonsil. Even the teachers frustrated him by referring to him as ‘Boy’ when he had a perfectly good name.
No sooner than the school bell had rung for the end of the day than Brad was off running. Like Indiana Jones in the opening scene of the film Raiders of the Lost Ark, Brad sprinted towards the exit trying to get a head-start on the other Amazonian tribesmen throwing discarded cardboard boxes like boomerang frisbies, hoping to reach sanctuary before he lost his new adult teeth to a fist. Jogging down the Red Lane with a gravity assisted satchel the Nerd World Man made his escape. He had outwitted his tormentors once again who had paused to pick on some slower animals on the Gurnos/Serengeti Plain. In a race with a cheetah only the slowest of two men get devoured and he was determined today it would not be him.
That cross-country training must be finally paying off. In through the front door he leapt, stopping only to grab the remains of last night’s pizza delivery as he went upstairs heading for his safe space. His computer and the Meta Verse. He soon became immersed in an alien world of strange characters with blue hair and tattoos everywhere.
A World not dissimilar to James Cameron’s Avatar – a World he controlled and could interact with fake humans just like on Love Island. As he ‘spawned’ his character onto a planet with moon like craters. He was suddenly approached by a three-breasted semi-naked woman.
“Hello Muscles....why aren’t you handsome!” said the stranger. Brad suddenly had a picture in his head of a slim Ariana Grande. But just in case Brad kept his fingers poised above the X button. This was the button that enabled him to raise his gigantic Highlander sword.
He had encountered virtual sirens like this one before and always erred on the side of caution. “How old are you?” asked the virtual stranger in bubble speak. Brad looked at his spawn clock.
“Two minutes old!” the keyboard warrior replied also in caption form.
“What’s a good- looking thing like you doing in a place like this?”
Brad wasn’t sure whether to press the X button and strike or continue the Artificial Intelligence chat. He decided on the latter.
“Why don’t we go over to the power juice bar and I can buy you some liquid steroids ?”
Brad followed the stranger – interested to see where this new emotion of affection might lead him. He did after all have some stirrings in his Nether Regions that he could not explain even if he could put his finger on it.
“The bar takes payment by bitcoin or if you go to your Mother’s handbag and get her credit card its free!” said Three Tit. Brad paused the game and went downstairs to get the requested card.He could hear that his Mother was in the shower.
“Schwartzenwigga .....do you have the card?” asked the stranger. Brad typed back “Yes!”
“Good Boy!”
“ Now read me the long numbers off the middle there should be 12 of them!”
Brad started to get suspicious. “Why did the stranger call me Boy when I am a man in this World?” He still typed in the numbers but more slowly this time.
“Well done Boy!” replied the stranger.
She called me Boy again he thought.
“What do you want to drink?... Power Juice....Steroid Surprise.... or a Tiny Cocktail?” questioned the Tri-mammoried Avatar.
“Power Juice please!” Brad replied knowing his character would take on extra energy for the game ahead.
“Okay Boy can you read me the expiry date on the card?” continued the stranger.
“Why do you need that?” typed back Brad hackles beginning to raise. He then typed the numbers.
“And finally Boy ....what about the three numbers on the signature strip....its so we can both pay for the Power Juice of course!” replied the Alien Avatar.
Brad began to smell a cyber rat.
“I can’t find them!” he typed.
“Boy ...look on the back of the card!” demanded the stranger.
“Sorry I can’t see it....the numbering is too small for my limited eyesight!” replied Brad frustrating the efforts of the Avatar who was now paused with three tits swaying angrily like a cat’s cradle.
“I say there Boy.... do you have a web cam?” asked the stranger.
The Avatar had now called Brad ‘Boy’ more times than cartoon rooster Foghorn Leghorn.
“Yes....a Spiderman Web cam from my Mother for Christmas!” said Brad.
“Good...then switch on then Boy and put the card up close to the camera!” ordered the stranger.
From his early schooling through to present day, Brad was hard-wired to do what he was told by adults but coming from Merthyr he had been born with the rebel streak. He was no longer confident that the alluring semi-naked space alien that was the other end in cyber-space was who she claimed to be, but in his innocence, he didn’t know what harm it could do to give his mother’s information out. He did however, reach across his desk fumbling for something. As the two-way camera whirred into action, the sight that met his bespectacled eyes was not what he had expected.
It was not the beautiful US cheerleader schoolgirl that he had imagined but a fifty year old man sat in stained vest and y-fronts squinting back at him trying to see the card. Brad turned the laser pen on full beam blinding the Yankee Con-Man as Brad took on the mantle of his old man -an alternative Flash Gordon and ‘Boy’ had he been ‘merciless’ to that Minging creature at the other end of that lens. Just like Mannfred the other Man had been ‘blinded by the light’ and the Nerd World Man had triumphed over the First World one.
The Welsh worm had turned.
“Good afternoon and thank you for finally attending this Job Start Interview!” Said the Civil Servant.
“You’re welcome Mr Isious!” replied the attendee politely-reading the name badge on the Official- with all the charm of a gentleman that had been to Gordonstoun and then Dartmouth Naval College.
“ Mr Andrew Albert Christian Edward Windsor I presume,…do you have any photographic identification on you to prove this fact?” asked the former DSS snooper.
“Sorry…one doesn’t carry a wallet around with me…money is vulgar…hang on …One has a photograph of oneself flying a helicopter in the Falklands War …would that suffice…is that what you are Sea King?” Asked the eighth in line to the throne of England, passing over a tattered old Kodak snapshot, now yellowing with age.
“Not really but it will have to do…don’t forget you won’t be allowed to vote at the next General Election without proper identification documents you know!” replied the know -it - all Government employee reading from the YouGov site.
“ So why is one here….is one in trouble?” asked the disgraced Royal.
“Not compared to recent events….you are here because officially you have not worked since 2002 when you left the Navy!” Replied the jobsworth.
“That’s 21 years to be precise and you are only aged 63 and therefore still of an age that you are eligible to work!” He continued.
The Duke of York gulped nervously but didn’t sweat it.
“So according to our Government records, you are receiving State benefit from the Sovereign Grant , formerly the Civil List, to the tune of £250,000.00 ….the question is are you actively looking for work?” the interviewer said looking over his bifocal glasses.
“Well ….stuttered the Prince….my Mother has only recently died …!”
“That was over six months ago in September 2022!” Continued the Questioner.
“And what about the previous two decades….were you just F***ing about?” asked the Civil Servant turning very uncivil.
“Look…one told that BBC Lady, Emily Mattress, in my other interview that one doesn’t drink coffee and therefore haven’t been anywhere near a Maxwell House!” denied the Duke.
“So what exactly have you been doing since your last recorded job in 1982?” Asked Mr Icious.
“Do you have a first name ?” Asked Andrew.
“Of course…it’s Malcolm!” Replied the Government Employee.
“May one call you Mal?….Mr Icious?” Queried the Duke.
“Most certainly NOT!” Replied the Job Centre Plus Interviewer.
“This is a formal interview to determine if you deserve to continue to receive handouts from the state!” He continued.
“So other than playing around with your chopper for two decades…what exactly have you been doing?”
“Well…one has been waving a lot …!” replied the Royal with absolute sincerity.
The interviewer furrowed his brow and stared at the Duke.
“Mainly from the deck of the Royal Yacht Britannia…!” he stuttered.
“ Do you know the song a life on the ocean ‘wave’ is better than going to sea?” Said the posh boy.
“Is that why you are called Handy Andy then?….I thought it was for a different reason!” said Malcolm turning the Royal colour Purple, apoplectic with rage.
“Well we both sponge money off the Taxpayer don’t we?” Said Andrew trying to find ‘common’ ground with the commoner.
“ You mean as a civil servant I am obliged to accept a below inflation pay award and work till I am 67 …five years longer than any Frenchman …whilst you live the life of Riley….it’s complete nonsense!”
“Some would say nonce-sense actually!” Replied the Sniggerer.
“And don’t mention Frogmore please….it’s still a sore point with my family!”
“So are you claiming too for any dependents?” Asked the Interviewer.
“Yes, for one’s daughters Beatrice & Eugenie !” The Royal outcast said.
“ And how old they…are they still in school or full time education?” Malcolm pressed harder.
“Let me see Beatrice is 34 and Eugenie 32 and of course Sarah my other dependent is 63!” Andrew continued.
“Don’t any of them have their own jobs?” Asked Malcolm absolutely flabbergasted.
After three long minutes of laughing from Andrew he replied “Are you serious?”
Looking around the whitewashed walls of the Windsor Job Centre, he uttered.
“Come on…who set this up ….Michael McIntyre or Ant n Dec?”
“Can’t be Jeremy Beadle….he is no longer about after all!”
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Mr Windsor…I am here to make sure that you find work or we stop your State ‘benefit’ like everyone else in this Country!” said the official in a more Mal Icious tone.
“So what skills do you have?” Asked Malcolm.
Andrew racked his brain and repeated “Waving?”
“There are several job opportunities available working in the Pizza Express Woking Branch….do you know it?” asked the Interviewer.
“No!” Replied the Duke immediately.
“Never been there in my life….oops…on second thoughts one went there with one’s daughter on the night that one DIDN’T go to Tramp nightclub…!”
“What perks do you get ?”
“Well it is a bit like the Hooters restaurants they have in Canada and the US with young girls serving in skimpy outfits only with different ‘toppings!” said Malcolm luring the new Prince of Darkness in to bite.
“Interested?”
The Duke was now leaning forward at the desk.
Malcolm lifted the telephone up and spoke into it.
“Susan…would you be good enough to bring me in the Pizza Express bakery job application forms for the Woking branch….you will find them under the
P- Dough File!”
Andrew looked suspiciously at the Official he had heard that word chanted a lot when he was in Buckingham Palace ever since he had innocently paid Three Million Pounds to a charity suggested by a girl he had never met.
“You are aware that the allegations about One and Miss Go Free were never proved in a Court of Law do you? said the Duke rather testily.
“Not my concern really!” Said Malcolm.
“Do you know why One did that free interview with Emily Mattress?” Countered Andrew.
“Former BBC reporter Martin Bashir rang up the Palace claiming he had further evidence….bloody phoney wank statements….how dull does he think one is? …Princess Diana or something?” raged Andrew.
“Oh ‘hang on’….there is also an International Job going as a prison officer at the New York Correctional Centre….sounds like money for old rope…!”said Malcolm looking at his computer screen.
“ Are you still allowed to visit the United States ….?” challenged Malcolm.
“Come to think of it….One does have a lot of Air Miles left on One’s frequent flyer account to Palm Beach , Florida….but on second thoughts best not to go there again…you know with all those selfies of people One has never actually met….!”mused Andrew.
“Sauna Tester in IKEA in Kyrgyzstan?” proffered Malcolm.
“You could do that no sweat!”
The evil eye from the Royal followed.
“Why does one have to get a job anyway …surely with all those people coming over in those small boats ….they need a job more than One does…after all…One’s ancestors created the British Empire especially for people who DO have the ability to break sweat….!” Replied the Royal in a posh voice.
“Oh they are fast tracked to Rwanda these days…so the Post-Brexit fruit is still rotting in the fields without anyone to pick it!” said Malcolm.
“Do you fancy a try?….after all you have a plum in your mouth most of the time anyway!” He continued.
Andrew leaned in and whispered
“One thinks we both know that neither One nor One’s family are ever going to do REAL work as we are too important to the British economy given the amount we bring in from tourism?” Replied Not so Handy.
“How much is that a year?”asked Mal.
“19 Million Pinds!” said the Royal gurning with the pronunciation.
“And the cost to the tax payer for the Sovereign Grant ?” questioned the Interviewer.
“Don’t know or care!” Said Andrew churlishly.
“It’s amazing what you can find on the internet especially with a Freedom of Information form these days…..try £369 Million give or take a few clocks…!” Replied the clear Republican.
“ So what is your point exactly?” Asked the peeved Royal feeling more exposed than Prince Harry at a Las Vegas pool party.
“Everyone in Britain must now pay their way or get deported to Rwanda!” said Mal
“That’s the most ridiculous thing one has ever heard!” said Andy channelling the late Kenny Everett.
“What about Stanley Johnson up for a knighthood?” asked Mal the inquisitor.
“Point taken!” sniggered Andy.
Merlyn Hawke was a predator.
A sick one at that.
He was the ultimate Zooadist- he hated all animals -except that is his two hunting dogs, a lurcher called Addams and a Jack Russell Terrier, named Nipper, because that’s what he did to his Ex-Wife.
Merlyn had a small kennel on some land he had pinched from the Commoners Association on the Penygarnddu Common near Dowlais Top.
He had always been an outdoorsman, with his wrinkled and weathered face making him look much older than his actual 65 years of age.
Merlyn had always enjoyed causing pain to animals, his earliest memory was of his father, Buzzard, encouraging him at the age of four to throw stones at the multitude of rats that inhabited the open sewer of the Morlais Brook, that ran down from Dowlais through Penydarren, carrying the effluent and pollution from a population ravaged by Industrial pollution.
At six, he had already learned the dark art of shooting tree sparrows with his Diana SP50 slug gun.
He enjoyed burning insects with matches and cutting worms in half with a scissors and watching try to regenerate before cutting them in half again.
It was no surprise then that as an adult, he become involved in the local fox hunting scene, not for the Boxing Day pomp and ceremony but he was first to admit for him it was purely to see a defenceless animal ripped apart by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds.
They say that evil isn’t born but made.
Merlyn Hawke appeared to be the exception to this rule.
Merlyn didn’t live like most people in 2023, he lived off the grid- he had made himself a bivouac out of branches and lived off the land in the Taf Fechan Woodland Area.
He had few Earthly possessions but despite this fact he had booby trapped the area around his makeshift home with bear traps to foil the unwary.
His eco-home blended into the woodland with only a Stephen King -style Red Indian ‘Dreamcatcher’ the only evidence of his existence on Planet Earth.
Merlyn didn’t believe in the concept of money- to him it was just a legal fiction- designed to keep the lower classes in economic slavery- he had what he needed from Mother Nature by way of food, foraging for nuts, berries and mushrooms and of course meat from rabbits, voles and fish when he could get them.
He had modelled himself on the Sylvester Stallone character, John J Rambo although without the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Merlyn had never claimed a single penny but spent many a penny marking his scent on the proliferation of hawthorn bushes and ash trees in and around the Taf Fechan River.
Just like a bear, he too shat in the woods and wiped his caked arse on the Dock leaves that were in abundance in his little valley.
Merlyn avoided society like the plague, had never had any form of inoculation as his late parents had not believed in them.
Surprisingly, Merlyn had rarely been ill since he left school at 11 , mainly due to his lack of contact with other humans especially since his estrangement from his ‘wife’, Jane.
They weren’t married in the eyes of the law, but had followed his parents traditions by ‘jumping the broom’ together.
It did however, confuse the Hell out of the Council Street Cleaner.
Merlyn had decided that his dogs were much more reliable and trustworthy than humans and certainly far more loyal.
When they went hunting together, he always ensured that the dogs got a fair share of any catch- both in terms of meat and the marrow from the bones too.
Nipper was very partial to rabbit stew and he would place a bowl out for him once it had sufficiently cooled after transfer from his big metal stewpot.
Merlyn had recently found a little human companionship with a local lad, formerly of Romany extract.
He had taught Merlyn the delights of eating hedgehogs and of course their use as a toothpick.
His name was Perry, which was short for Peregrine and Merlyn had experienced great delight in taking him under his wing.
They both enjoyed hunting together taking Nipper & Addams on long walks to pastures new.
Perry had his own pet , a tame ferret called Flusher- which he had so-named after finding him in an outdoor toilet when he was a kid.
Flusher lived in a side pocket of his camouflage trousers and went everywhere with Perry in his trews.
He still lived with his elderly 40 year old Grandmother, on the caravan park at Glynmil situated between two busy roads on the Slip Road.
He knew that soon he would have to find new ‘digs’ because it was a Romany tradition to burn out the wooden didicoi after the owner had died.
Today, Merlyn & Perry had been up to the kennels early, as they had planned to go hunting together near Brecon and it would be a long days haul, as neither of them drove or possessed a car for any purpose.
As usual the pair followed the line of the River as they headed North.
Not far from Talybont, the dogs picked up the scent of an animal and began to turn in a circle to notify Merlyn of this fact.
They knew that hunting rabbits and small mammals was allowed but certain creatures were off-limits with their dogs, especially when it came to foxes.
Not that the pair had any reservations about the fact- as they would do so undetected anyway.
Lurcher Addams had the keenest nose of the canines - a fact that Merlyn boasted about -claiming that his dog could smell a rabbit fart from five miles away-as long as Perry wasn’t upwind of course.
The pair of dogs took off at speed, as they hurtled up the valley and then pounded up a steep embankment in search of the source.
Perry ran after them but Merlyn being more advanced in years was a lot less light footed.
The pair had stopped near a large hole with the entrance partially obscured by ferns and bracken.
Addams and Nipper were now being restrained by their collars, as they we’re definitely onto something.
Barking and hollering at the hole.
Merlyn suspected that it wasn’t a Warren but couldn’t be certain as to what creature the dogs were sensing.
The hole was larger than an otter’s holt and probably too far away from the river in any event.
He turned to Perry and asked his opinion.
“Not sure ….but I suggest we send Flusher here on a scouting mission!” Said the youngster.
Reaching into the side pocket of his camouflaged trews, he lifted the little mammal out very carefully.
He knew from experience that the little member of the weasel family possessed tiny but very sharp teeth.
Sharper teeth than the zip of the second hand pair of knock-off Levi jeans that he once found in a bin that had taken his foreskin off.
Boy did he curse the bastard that had shat in them and then dumped them.
He lifted Flusher to the hole and he merrily made his way inside.
Flusher wasn’t normally scared of anything.
He had once dispatched eights rats in less than five minutes when he had entered the Waterloo House culvert near Penyard.
The camp had eaten well that night.
Even if the young uns had asked as to why their hedgehog tasted a bit funny.
Perry had laughed it off under the cover of a joke, where two cannibals were in the process of cooking a circus clown.
They agreed that also had tasted ‘funny’ too.
Flusher disappeared from view but suddenly returned as he retreated backwards out of the hole- such an event Perry had not witnessed before.
It literally was a ‘reverse ferret’.
Strange thought Perry.
“I’ll send in Nipper!” said Merlyn.
In through the dark earthen hole went the Jack Russell only to come back out missing his collar and half of his ear.
“Jesus…what’s in there?” Said Merlyn looking aghast at Perry.
It was Addams turn to try and flush out the occupant.
Initially, the second dog made some progress, but being much bigger in size and more muscular, the Lurcher got trapped in the burrow and had to be dragged out by his back legs with blood dripping from his face having been attacked by something.
“Your turn!” said Merlyn barking out an order to his young human companion.
Perry, not being the sharpest tool in the box, felt ‘under pressure’ and despite the obvious risk to his health decided he would squeeze up the narrow tunnel and see what critter was inside for himself.
Like an Egyptian pyramid tomb raider, Perry shuffled his way up the passageway - he was not bothered about being covered in grime or insects -after all he was of Romany stock- but he was apprehensive about what he might be facing.
With a miniature torch in his mouth, he crawled along the earthy tunnel like Charles Branson in the Film the Great Escape-as he reached the end he peered inside and was shocked to see its occupants.
He immediately retreated narrowly avoiding the swipe of a set of razor sharp claws on the end of a furry paw.
Shuffling backwards he made it out of the burrow far quicker than he had entered.
Merlyn was desperate to know what he had encountered.
“Th…th…there is a Q..Q…Queen in there!” Stuttered Perry.
“Queen?…..there are bees in there?” Asked Merlyn looking puzzled.
“No …that bloke from Queen was in there….the one with the frizzy hair and an electric guitar!” Replied Perry.
“How the Hell did he get IN THERE?” Asked Merlyn.
“ How the Hell did he get on the Buckingham Palace roof to play God save the Queen?…I don’t know that either?” Replied Perry.
Merlyn decided the only way forward was that he must investigate the opening for himself.
Perhaps his gypsy friend had eaten too many magic mushrooms and was hallucinating?
As he crawled along the narrow tunnel he began to feel jittery, he was never good with enclosed spaces - he stopped a foot or so before the end of the crawl space and peered into the wider chamber and as his eyes adjusted to the underground gloom, he was shocked to see a rather cavernous drop and even more shocked to discover humans sitting there anticipating his arrival.
There was the original guitar hero, Brian May from Queen and alongside him sat Mike Batt staring back at him with ‘Bright Eyes’ and James Dean Bradfield of the Manic Street Creatures.
“What the Hell are you guys doing in here?” Asked Merlyn in disbelief.
“Protecting the badgers!” Replied May without hesitation.
“Why?” Continued Merlyn still in shock head protruding into the badger hole.
“See I did warn you….said Bradfield to Batt.
“If you tolerate this then your Wombles will be next!” warbled Bradfield.
Mike Batt just nodded in agreement.
“Aren’t you guys worried about getting tuberculosis in here?” queried Merlyn.
“The link between badgers and bovine tuberculosis has never been proven!” raged May.
“If you continue with this line of questioning….we will…we will …Brock you!” threatened the Killer Queen.
Merlyn’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the fact that there was a huge sharp badger claw rigged on a booby trap wire above his head.
“More importantly what were YOU doing sending your dogs into a badger hole…I believe they call it ….badger baiting? “queried Queen Brian.
In the narrow confines of his earthy coffin, Merlyn found it hard to shake his head in faux denial- as he attempted to do so- loose soil fell from the tunnel ceiling onto his face causing him to appear to nod accidentally, as he tried to dodge the dust.
“Get Sett Go!” shouted May and the claw swished across the aperture and with a direct hit scratched both of Merlyn’s eyeballs at once damaging his optic nerves as it went.
The Hunter had now become the hunted.
“You bastards….,” Merlyn screamed as the blood began to fill up in his eyes.
“ Another one bites the dust!” laughed May and Bradfield ‘manically’
“ Karma is a bitch!” spat back blind as a Batt- Merlyn….” I’ll be back with more female dogs and sort you do gooders out once and for all!”
“Don’t stop me now!….the show must go on!” May sung theatrically, as he applied a giant mole thumper to the trespasser’s head….shooting Merlyn out of the hole quicker than Mercury.
As the huntsman flew past Perry even the two dogs were silent.
The only faint sound audible to both human and canine alike came from the hole and was a trio singing
“We are the Champions ….of the Worms!”
Elliott Thomas was a loner.
He had for the entire sixty years of his life lived with his late elderly Mother, Norma, at their remote log cabin home in the woods near Pontsticill in South Wales.
He had few human friends with his ten year old cat ‘Jonesy’, (named after the cat in the horror sci-fi film ‘Alien’ ) being his only regular companion.
Elliott loved that cat and Jonesy loved him back.
Most evenings Elliott would put his feline friend on a lead and walk him in the
Taf Fechan woodland for the cat to do his business.
Clearly it is not just bears that shit in the woods.
One thing was certain though Elliott was not frightened of the dark- his Mother had taught him that there were no monsters under the bed and that the same things would be still there whether or not he turned the bedside lamp on or off.
Jonesy had grown accustomed to their twice daily stroll in the pine fresh clean ozone of the Brecon Beacons National Park- once in the Morning at 8am and later each night at 9pm.
Jonesy being a cat, didn’t like to defecate in his own garden but preferred to leave his faeces for someone else to step into his second hand Whiskas supermeat and share the love.
Elliott had been left comfortably off by his late parents, with his only expense being having to have his septic tank emptied once a year.
He didn’t pay Council Tax as his Property straddled the border with Merthyr and Powys and he fraudulently told both sets of Councils that was paying the other one - he felt is was unfair anyway, as if he wasn’t receiving any direct services from either in any event.
At the age of 60, he like most people in Merthyr had never held down a job but unlike the majority had never claimed any Government ‘benefits’.
Elliott spend most of his time reading old back issues of his treasured Americana, such as the now defunct ‘2000 AD’ and looking towards the Heavens with his telescope.
He didn’t possess a television set as the thick conifer and fir trees that surrounded his camouflaged cabin wouldn’t permit a terrestrial signal.
Despite it being 23 years since the title of his beloved sci-fi comic had passed it’s sell-by date- Elliott didn’t possess a mobile phone nor a landline.
He loved the concept of the future but didn’t embrace it.
His electricity and heating came via an ancient oil generator but generally speaking Elliott would turn into bed after his evening ‘catwalk’ and as soon as the sun set through his solitary West facing window.
His only contact with the outside world was the cash in hand, six monthly oil delivery and once a week the postman would deliver Mail always addressed to his late Father.
He hadn’t told anyone that his Father was dead and had assumed his identity and National Insurance Number as he was Elliott Thomas Junior.
Accordingly to official NHS records he was over 120 years of age.
There was a pile of letters from the local hospital inviting his deceased father to attend the ‘well man clinic’ which was somewhat ironic as had been dead for over 50 years, killed and buried in the woods after a single blow from a frying pan had done for him, after his Mother had accidentally killed him mistaking him for an intruder when Elliott Junior was just ten.
He had helped his Mother bury him downwind of the septic tank so as not to raise any suspicions on the rare occasion a lost rambler knocked on the cabin door.
Elliott was not just a loner- he was a Ufologist and believed that the Earth had been visited not just once by aliens but several thousand times over the last millennia believing that the purpose of the Blue Planet was as an Alien Ant Farm.
His one true friend, Mulder Rice, who had emigrated to the USA many moons ago continued to send him clippings of ‘Close Encounters’ with Alien visitors from his Roswell home in the Nevada desert near Area 51.
Elliott didn’t believe the official USA Government’s version of events from 1947 that the famous Roswell incident was in fact the remains of a weather balloon rather than the wreckage of an alien spacecraft.
He was convinced that it was all a big cover up.
Elliott was also dead jealous of Mulder’s claim that he had been abducted by grey aliens and taken up in a spacecraft.
He loved reading about the British version of Roswell - the Rendlesham Forest incident in 1980 - when various US Air Force staff witnessed strange lights around their Suffolk Airbase.
Elliott longed for his own close encounter with a creature from another planet and frequently dreamed of experiencing the same.
The young Elliott had never owned a television-only his late Father’s radio with a very limited signal which had ultimately indirectly brought about his Father’s death.
His Mother had been in the kitchen listening to a re-run of Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of War of the Worlds from 1938 and mistakenly believed her prankster husband to be a real alien and whacked him with a Teflon Saucepan across the temple.
Poor amateur astronomer, Elliott Thomas Senior , was seeing a whole universe of unknown stars before his legs buckled from under him, dropping dead to the floor like a version of tragic Merthyr boxer Johnny Owen- only ‘Match(Non)Stick Man- hands closed like a fist.
Such a tragedy had a massive impact on the impressionable Elliott Thomas Junior, as he was instantly promoted to doing all the things ( bar one) that his Father had always done.
It is certain that if Elliott Junior was examined by a psychiatrist, then that would have explained his series of facial ticks and sudden aversion to fried foods.
But after the recent death of his Mother, Elliott’s only companion was Jonesy- the last surviving kitten of a litter of five tabbies who had been adopted by Elliott when found abandoned like Hansel & Gretel in the woods.
He had never forgotten the sound of their mewing in Owl’s Grove and often woke up in a sweat as to what their fate would have been if he hadn’t taken them in that Autumn night.
Every since, Elliott always checked the area around the car park for any strays because he had heard innocently from the local Postman that it was a known ‘dogging’ spot.
Just like the disciples of a Judas goat, Elliott was easily led- except went it came to his body.
Elliott stared at the pile of letters but like most men of PeterPan persuasion, he didn’t want to accept the inevitable in that he was aging quickly.
Nowadays, whilst waiting to urinate at his makeshift wooden toilet, he had become conscious that it was taking longer and longer for his ‘engine’ to start.
And once he was in midstream , he was like Magnus Magnusson on Mastermind in that he had started so he would have to finish.
Unbeknownst to Elliott, he had an enlarged prostate and it was interrupting his rite of passage.
But contrary to posthumous advice from the late comedian Bob Monkhouse, Elliott was too proud and too scared to have the simple test.
He believed stringently that it was purely an exit and not an entry hole.
Unlike the rock band , Led Zeppelin, he didn’t agree with going ‘in through the out door’.
It was nearly 9pm and Jonesy the cat was rubbing his body against his master’s legs - a sign he was ready to lay some cable.
Elliott grabbed his late father’s Gannex raincoat, last in fashion when Harold Wilson was Labour Prime Minister in the Seventies, put Jonesy on his lead and the pair set off in the direction of Owl’s Grove.
******************************
“Pass me the paste brush!” ordered PC Wolf Blass of his partner.
Constable Isaac Haynes reached onto the floor of the ‘Jam Sandwich’ police car and dipped the brush into the bucket of Solvite.
Holding onto the paste brush, Wolf Blass grasped the sticky bristles before dropping it on the floor next to the lighting column.
“Nice one!” He moaned, as he rubbed the excess paste onto the grey concrete upright.
He picked up the brush and pasted the Police Notice onto the lighting column next to the Red Cow Public House in Pontsticill, Merthyr Tydfil.
The headline read:
Police Notice:
Missing Hitchhiker, Woody Stock last seen in this village on Friday May 4th.
Anyone with information please ring Crimestoppers on 666.
There was a photograph of the missing hiker replete in his Hippy outfit taken from his drug arrest charge sheet from Glastonbury Festival 2022.
“666 is that the number for the Australia Police force?’ Asked Haynesy the detective.
“Printer Error …I ‘suspect’…but probably the reason we haven’t yet had any public calls at HQ!” Replied Wolf Blass.
“Went missing on Star Wars day too!” declared Haynesy.
“Star Wars day?” Asked Wolf Blass scratching his policeman’s helmet then his hat too.
“May the 4th!” Replied Haynesy.
“Huh?” Said Wolf Blass not following the reference.
“May the Force be with you? Said Haynesy quoting Obi Wan-Kenobi.
“The Force is always with us?” Queried Wolf Blass still lost in the conversation.
“Never mind….no wonder you didn’t make it to detective grade!” puffed an exasperated Haynesy.
“Perhaps we should consider putting up posters when we retire as a part-time job!” suggested Wolf Blass.
“Become Bill Stickers, you mean?” queried Haynsey.
“ We could call it ‘Old Bill’ Stickers?” He chuckled sarcastically before eating the last of his KFC mega bucket.
***********************
About two miles away in the woodland glade near Owl’s Grove, Elliott was excited he could see flashing multi-coloured lights ahead and he knew instinctively that it wasn’t Mr Whippy the usual ice cream van at this time of night.
Tying Jonesy’s leash to a thin sapling, he approached stealthily hoping not to startle the diminutive occupants of the spacecraft, who had descended down the metal steps and gone into the woods.
As he approached he suddenly noticed an unusual smell not normally encountered in the backwoods of Powys.
Unbeknownst to him, it was the Gallifreyan version of chloroform and by the time he had worked it out he was suddenly dropping unconscious to the forest floor.
******************************
“That’s the last poster finished….shall we go back to the station or do you want to chance a visit to Owl’s Grove to see if that Ice Cream Van is still there!” Asked Wolf Blass.
“ Do they still do alcoholic ice cream?” Asked Haynsey.
“Yes…they do Police ‘special’ versions with 999 flakes…!” Replied Wolf Blass also desperate for a fix.
“Owl’s Grove it is then!” Hands on the wheel trembling with delirium tremens.
******************************
Elliott came round from his enforced slumber and found himself strapped to a medical table.
He was experiencing ‘fifty shades of grey’ alien.
He glanced around the interior of the spacecraft and noticed huge transparent glass cylinders around the perimeter containing many specimens of animal species all floating in a clear liquid.
Suddenly, his nose detected a familiar pungent perfume-like aroma.
Petunia Oill or Junkie Juice to give it its colloquial name.
He turned his head to his right and could see that there was another human male wearing a dirty yellow bandana, a CND tee-shirt and faded blue denim jeans.
He looked out of it - but he gave the impression from his outfit that he was always out of it.
Suddenly, a metallic door slid open and three grey aliens with huge saucer-shaped black eyes and three elongated thumb-like fingers entered the room.
The adjacent Hippy suddenly came alive.
“Not again!” He screamed at the diminutive creatures.
Elliott suddenly began to regret his lifelong ambition to be abducted.
“The name’s Elliott Thomas !” Said the nervous captive trying his best to extend a hand of friendship from Earth to the rest of the Universe from his restrained position.
One of the Aliens ticked off a sheet of paper bizarrely marked NHS with his middle finger.
“ET …I would phone Home if I was you!” Warned the Hippie.
“I don’t have a landline or a mobile !” Replied Elliott.
Suddenly, the table he was lying down on parted and his legs were spread in opposite directions as his lower body was raised.
He could feel his lower garments being removed telepathically and no sooner than they were at half mast then the middle finger of the lead alien began to glow and light up.
The table then turned 45 degrees, so Elliott was now facing the hippie and the smell of Petunia Oil mixed with Body Odour became overwhelming.
The glowing alien thumb like finger then entered Elliott’s rectum and began to burn all as it went higher and higher into the body cavity.
All Elliott could manage to say was:
“Does this mean we’re engaged?
The Alien scribbled something onto the sheet of headed paper before a computer in the corner of the room went into overdrive with more flashing bulbs than a celebrity on a Hollywood red carpet.
“Be Good Elliott…your prostate is fine…but you need to drop 35 pounds…you’re fat!” declared the lead Alien whose white name badge showed he was called Woo.
“Doctor Woo from Gallifrey?” queried Elliott as the straps began to undo untouched by any hand -human nor alien.
“Og ot eerf er’uoY!” Said Woo as Elliott was propelled slowly backwards towards the metal steps.
Elliott had never really reversed himself before, as the Time Lord disappeared from sight as he involuntarily backed out of the spacecraft.
As he reached the sapling still holding Jonesy the cat captive, he was astonished that time seemed to go in reverse.
Jonesy was even more in shock than his human master, especially as the shit he had just laid a few Earth minutes earlier had shot back up his furry feline arse.
The pair then moonwalked backwards like Paedo Pan of Pop, Michael Jackson being led to his cabin by Bubbles the Chimpanzee for their Honeymoon night.
The Spacecraft then simply took off at high speed into the night sky heading in the direction of Exoplanet, Proxima Centauri b.
A few minutes after, the cops arrived at the copse only to be disappointed that the ice cream was no longer in situ.
They were surprised to see however a cat taking its owner for a backward walk on a leash in the woods.
The pair decided that such an unusual event was worthy of further investigation- as they only really walked backwards after a heavy session on the beer at the Merthyr Rugby Club.
As discreetly as two 25 stone policemen could be, the pair followed paw patrol by car until they were forced to park up and follow breathlessly on foot.
Jonesy knew the way back to the log cabin backwards - which was good really - as to the untrained human eye he was in fact leading his human master back to his log cabin home.
***********************
At the Queen Camilla Hospital in Merthyr Tydfil, the Computer in the Proctology Department run by Artifecal Intelligence (AI) burst into life…printing a series of ‘semi- colons’ and colons on the NHS pages marked Elliott Thomas Senior.
Prostate check complete.
Enlarged but not cancerous it concluded.
The report was torn off and then filed by a Filipino Nurse under T.
Jeremy Hunt’s much lauded reduction in NHS waiting times using
private ‘illegal aliens’ had worked to the disappointment of small craft watcher Nigel Farage.
***********************
Outside the log cabin the pair of detectives lay in the undergrowth eating the last remnants of their sirloin sandwiches.
They were on stakeout.
“Right…do you want to be good or bad cop this time?” Asked Wolf Blass.
The pair made their way to the cabin door and rapped on the wood.
Inside the cabin, the time warp had rectified itself and Elliott was now moving forward once again.
As he opened the door, Jonesy slipped outside.
He was desperate to offload his recycled log having been trapped in the environment of the non-log cabin.
It didn’t possess a cat flap but his furry arse did.
He was so desperate to go he could only reach the septic tank area before evacuating his bowels.
“Can I help you Officers?” asked Elliott- face ticking nervously like he held a guilty secret.
“Have you seen this man recently?” Asked Wolf Blass holding up a sticky paper poster.
“ Yes…that’s Colonel Saunders!” replied Elliott innocently.
Haynsey tugged at the front of the KFC wrapper that had become stuck to the front of the Missing Person poster.
“Sorry…not him…HIM …Woody Stock !” Wolf Blass said apologetically holding up the photograph of the Hippie.
Unbeknown to Elliott everything that had happened to him on the flying saucer had been deleted from his memory banks.
“No…!” denied Elliott believing that statement to be true.
“ If you can remember Woody Stock you weren’t REALLY there!’ Quipped Elliott half recalling the strange alien hippy encounter.
Haynsey’s attention was now drawn to where Jonesy was frantically digging trying to cover his shit in his own back yard.
“He was last seen hitchhiking in the nearby village of Pontsticill!” continued the unrelenting Bad Cop, instinctively smelling a deception and second handed petunia oil.
“Sorry …but I don’t drive or own a car!” replied Elliott.
“Are you trying to point the finger at me?” he continued.
Haynsey then pulled his partner’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of the cat and the septic tank area.
Poking through the mud was a bony male thumb.
Boz
“Did you forget something from last time?” Asked Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.
Disgraced Former-British Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, held out the hand he had previously offered to COVID patients in 2020 expecting the President to grasp it.
He declined.
“What do you want Boris?…..did you come to Ukraine to claim ‘Non-Dom’ status like some of your former Cabinet colleagues?” continued the President in impeccable English.
“Don’t mention that weasel Cummings to me!” replied Boris, still stung by the previous back stabbing from his former aide.
“Are you in trouble again and want to distract the public attention?” Asked the wise President.
“Boris….isn’t that a Russian name…as in Boris Johnson, whose Conservative Party have had multiple donations from Russian oligarchs and likes to play tonsil tennis with their wives?” Interrupted former World Heavyweight boxing champion, Vitali Klitschko.
“Not that one….so honoured to meet you though ….always been a big fan of the Klit !” said Boris switching his hand toward the pugilist.
The handshake was once more declined.
“Friend of two beards …Lord Lebedev of Hampton & Siberia?” continued the boxer.
“Shall I punch his lights out Mr President….we ARE supposed to be in blackout!”
Zelenskyy raised his hand for the Southpaw threat to stop.
“Look at that Chicken Kyiv…he is shaking more than a Russian conscript holding a Molotov cocktail!” Continued Klitschko.
“ Did you bring any tanks with you?” Asked the President.
“No …but I assure you that they are on order….I did however bring a few jars containing tomatoes for your civilians to continue taking down those pesky Russian drones!” Said Boris still shaking like Matt Hancock having a cupboard knee- trembler.
“ You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble!” Said Zelenskyy sarcastically.
“No trouble…I put it on my parliamentary expenses anyway!”
“We have invited ‘Biden’ to the Feast - to finally win the Cold War for the West!…surely then we will get our wish to join the United Nations, NATO and the European Union?” Said Zelenskyy hopefully.
“Of course!” replied the professional liar.
Boris looked more sheepish than a Welsh Hill Farmer.
“Sleepy Joe has agreed to send 31 M1 Abrams tanks to add to the German offer of 14 Leopard Tanks so we can decimate the out-dated Russian T72, T80 and T90 tanks on the battlefield and reclaim Donbas & Crimea from Putin the Great Bear!” The Ukrainian President announced triumphantly.
“ And make him more like ‘Winnie the Pooh-tin’ when you, the Victorious Ukrainian Paddington ‘peppers the pigs’ with tank shells?” Replied Boris trying to play to the crowd with his usual unintelligible drivel.
“Any chance you could close the crack in that ‘Iron Curtain’ over there ….as the orange flames from the missile fires are blindsiding me more than Keir Starmer at the dispatch box?” pleaded the former PM.
“So exactly when will we receive the promised British Challenger 2 tanks, so we can make UK Rain with them ?” demanded Zelenskyy.
“ Or even copy Flybe and impose a no fly zone over our Country!”
“It will have to be after the release of the Russia Report, the Sue Gray Partygate Enquiry and of course, the inquiry into how so many Gangster Russians have entered the Upper Chamber- the inquiry into the Soviet ‘Crimea’ Lords if you like…!” Continued Boris.
“That goes against the grain!” Replied Zelenskyy.
“Is that a veiled food threat ?” Asked Boris.
“My former KGB contact…oops sorry …that evil Vlad the impaler Putin threatened me too recently ….he offered to send me on a cruise - I thought marvellous…another freebie holiday….but sadly he was referring to the missile !”
“Did you have any witnesses present to corroborate that claim?” Asked Zelenskyy.
“”Of course not…but you can ask my former editor of the Times Newspaper or Tory grandees Michael Howard and Michael Gove….I never fabricate stories or lie…!” protested Boris.
“Back to the original question Boris….when will we get the Challenger 2 tanks?” Ordered Zelenskyy
“Well, the Challenger 2 tanks will take some time but we have some tanks we can offer immediately - they are the Ajax tanks built in the original Donetsk -in the South Wales Valleys!” offered Boris.
“ They are ready to ‘rumble!’ he continued.
“ I have heard of that place….Hughesovska Tydfil ….on a Friday and Saturday nights it is more of a war zone than Ukraine…It is the amateur boxing capital of Wales especially near the Kooler nightclub…I fear to go there on my own!” Said Klitschko.
“Rumble’ alright….those tanks are reputed to suffer excessive noise and vibration and have a top speed of 20mph and no reverse gear !…..my military advisers have told me they are about as useful as PPE from a Conservative Party Fast track company!” Complained Zelenskyy.
“But what you do is to ‘Putin’ your older more deafer Tank Commanders in them from the Ukrainian equivalent of the Walmington-on -Sea Dad’s Army Home Guard- the most expendable ones…like we did with Liz Truss and hide the better tanks behind them…!” Said Boris.
“Who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler?” Asked Zelenskyy.
“ I prefer the comparison to Winston Churchill if you don’t mind!” Replied Boris.
“ He wanted to ‘Nuke’ Russia too …if my reading of history on Wikipedia is correct!” said Zelenskyy.
“And ordered the British Army to open fire on his own people- the Tonypandy miners!” Interjected Klitschko.
“Yes …but at least we Brits are more decent …it’s not like we would ever invade the Crimea like the Russians did in 2014!” declared Boris.
“Now that operation would be ‘unthinkable’! “ said Zelenskyy taking the piss.
“Would you take a bullet for your leader?” Asked Klitschko beating his chest.
“For Rishi Sunak?” Chortled Boris.
“ I would die for my Country like thousands of my countrymen have before me!” said the patriotic boxer.
“ I NEARLY died for my Country when I caught COVID in 2020….in my own version of the Cold War….does that count?” Replied the narcissist serial shagger.
“No!” Said Zelenskyy bluntly.
“Sign this commitment to Ukraine!” Ordered Klitschko.
Boris took one look at the paper containing lots of clauses all written in a foreign language and grabbed a pen.
“ I don’t do detail….as the Brexit deal and the Northern Ireland Protocol proves!”
“Us True Blue Conservatives are diametrically opposed to ‘red tape’ !” boasted Boris.
“ I assume ‘shchytok tila’ means ‘Free Trade Agreement’ in Ukrainian?” laughed Boris knowing that he had no mandate to act on behalf of the British people anyway- in the exact same way that two of his successors Prime Ministers have.
“There….I have signed it….it’s all there in black n white…or more precisely in blue & yellow!……now where can I find those Babushk’s?…I too want to get inside those Russian dolls!”
“ Shchytok Tila means ‘body shield’ in English in the same way Lonsdale means below the belt in Boxing!” replied Klitschko.
Boris looked more worried than the time Wife Carrie cracked his laptop password.
“Congratulations President you have your Churchill Tank after all!”
“Oh Harry.. you are so gullible!” Protested his Wife, Meghan lying alongside him in the purple Heather of the Balmoral Estate.
“ I’m not meant to be a gull ….I am meant to be a chicken!” His Former Highness snapped back.
The two were dressed in blue and white bird outfits that Meghan had borrowed from a Hollywood backdrop of the Gene Wilder film ‘Stir Crazy’.
“Let me have a look at that invitation again!” she demanded.
He handed her the expensive card with its emboldened heading.
“ It’s not the RSPB ….it’s RSVP which means respondez s’il vous plait - you idiot-!” Meghan complained.
“ Well it does say it is a surprise party for Dada…and that it is Fancy Dress too!” Harry replied.
“Well it WILL be a surprise when you and I turn up …I mean they had to invite us but they don’t REALLY want us there, after your revelations in your book Spare now do they?” Said Meghan.
“Yes…it is almost as if we have become the ‘black sheep’ of the Royal family!” Said Harry sarcastically.
“Fuck Off Ginger!” came the Princess-like reply.
“Look it says here that we are to come on foot - use the tradesman’s entrance- the one Sammy Davis Junior had to use - to prevent any unnecessary press intrusion for a the event-low key after the expensive Coronation in May …it is the correct date is it?” She continued with the attitude of a menopausal woman with haemorrhoids.
“Definitely August 12th !” Replied Harry ….”I checked that bit….it seems to ring a bell for some strange reason but I can’t remember why!”
“This bloody outfit is too hot to wear!” Complained Meghan.
“ What are you moaning about now? I thought you being an actress would love to dress up….in fact it ‘Suits’ you!” Said Harry.
The Medusa-like stare was enough, as she began to strip down.
“What’s this?” She said seeing the sun reflect off a piece of metal in amidst the Erica.
“Careful …it could be a land mine that my late Mother was always ‘banging on’ about I witnessed a few of them I.E.D devices when I was hero in Afghanistan…have I told you about the time I killed 25 Taliban?” asked Harry.
“Me and the rest of the World …ad nauseam!” Grunted Meghan.
Harry crawled forward like a commando and began to remove the top layer of the Heather from around the metal.
“The closest you ever came was a Telly Ban from the BBC for bring ‘The Firm’ into disrepute!” Replied Harry.
“It’s okay…it is only part of a stash my late Grandmother’s Sister, Margaret kept hidden around here…look it is a full bottle of a sixty year old whiskey….!” Said a delighted Harry…
“Well we are in Glen Fiddich after all!” quipped the former actress.
“ Oh you are Nut Meg!” Said Harry.
“ You too Ginger…you too!”
***************************
The golden ceremonial coach pulled up on the gravel driveway of Balmoral Castle.
Inside was King Charles III , Camilla, Duchess of Rothmans and William- the self proclaimed Prince of Wales.
“Do you mind…there are three of us in this carriage!” protested William.
His Father having vaguely heard a similar phrase before somewhere, stopped canoodling with his former mistress and now Wife.
Dropping the King Charles Spaniels’ ears in the process.
“I thought this was meant to be a low key affair a surprise party for you away from the constant hounding of the press!” queried William looking around at the journalists and their motors parked in the grounds.
As the footman opened the day from the outside, William could make out the gargantuan shape of former Rotherham Observer journalist, Jeremy Clarkson and Former Daily Mirror Editor, Piers Morgan chatting outside the Aberdeenshire Country Pile.
“ What are THEY doing here?” asked William.
“It’s not really a surprise party….it is a way of luring your brother Harry and his ghastly bride back to Britain to sort him out once and for all…you know from his Las Vegas days that he can never resist a freebie party!” Replied his alleged Father.
“After all it is in his Hewitt blood!”
“Why is the former BBC journalist Martin Bashir here too?” asked William.
“Are you trying to make a statement?”
Outside, Clarkson now the owner of a Cotswold Farm and Stores was talking to the shining star of GB News.
“Haven’t seen you on TV much lately?” asked Clarkson.
“ I was headhunted by Rupert Murdoch for his new right wing Channel GB News!” Replied Piers.
“ Have you watched it?”
“No…terrestrial television has had its day….I myself am still in the ‘Prime ‘ of my career!” Boasted the former Presenter resplendent in his Top Gear.
“If there is one thing that I love most, since I became a Class Traitor, its the advent of the Glorious Twelfth and the start of the Grouse shooting season!” he said lifting his 12 bore shotgun onto his tweed jacketed shoulder, nearly knocking his undersized deer stalker hat off his ginormous cow head.
“What time IS lunch?” continued Clarkson.
“I know from experience you get punchy if you haven’t been fed on cheese and meat platters, so I will hack into the Chef’s mobile phone and find out…after all I wouldn’t your modern day Grand Tour to be spoilt!” Replied Piers.
“When do they expect you-know-who to turn up?” asked Clarkson.
“Well the fake invitation said to be hear before 12 Noon but you know those actresses they like to make a grand entrance and steal the limelight!” Replied Piers.
“Where did you get the personalised barbour jacket from ?” Asked Jeremy noticing the letter MORON written on the back.
“The Head Gamekeeper gave it to me- apparently the late Duke of Edinburgh used to keep this spare in case I ever showed up….I didn’t receive a gong off him during his lifetime …..I was hoping to be named as Piers of the Realm …but even so I deeply honoured!” Replied Piers.
Clarkson sniggered knowing he had one up on the know-it-all former GMTV presenter.
The shooting party headed for the stables heated by a concessionary cold weather payment from Chancellor, Nadia Zahawi.
*********************
“Oh Mellors, Mellors take me!” Cried Meghan orgasimically , as she stood upright against a tree being ravaged by her husband.
“ Are you fantasising again about Tory MP David Mellor?” Asked Harry.
“ No …it is a scene from my new big budget movie Lady Chatterley’s Ginger and just like me …coming soon to Netflix!” She groaned.
“ Time for a third one, as we already have a boy called Archie and a girl called Lilibet it would be nice to have a mixed one and call it after your Uncle Edward!” Meghan continued breathlessly.
“There is no greater feeling than being rutted by a stag in front of a highland herd of deer- take me …my Monarch of the Glen!’ she continued lustily.
**********************
“My heat-seeking device has located them Sir” said the Chief Gamekeeper, Clay Widgeon.
“They are at the bottom of the Glen, near where your late Sister-in - Law Margaret keep her secret stash of booze!”
“Can you narrow it down a bit?” Asked the new Bonnie Prince Charlie.
“Near the area where we raise the Capercaillie flock !” continued Widgeon
“Well done that man….you deserve a reward and I promise that the first £1.00 coin minted with my face on it will be yours!” replied the King.
“Gee thanks Guvnor’ said Clay doffing his cap to the Regent.
“Do I take the high road and you take the low road?” asked Charlie innocently.
At that point Clay was considering regicide but then thought against it.
“C’mon lads and bring that trebuchet!”
*********************
“Bloody minge!” complained Meghan.
“How long have you been in Scotland now and still don’t understand the vernacular….these flies are called midges not minges!” Replied Dirty Harry.
“Not the flies….what do they call it at the Palace now ….front bottom….the
Lady Di Tunnel?” Asked Meghan.
“Ooh you can be so cutting at times Meg…that was my mother…the queen of hearts you were referring to…..besides my Father used to call it the Nicholas Witchell!”
“So can you that frostbitten knob of yours has caused me more damage to the Windsors than the Netflix series ‘the Crown!” Replied the Throne Wrecker.
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted as the August Sun went dark.
In a split second, Harry puzzled if there was a solar eclipse but as the dark cloud landed with a splat.
“Let them eat kak!” Declared Camilla as the Trebuchet full of Highland Cow manure landed on the recently copulating former Royal Couple become the Duke & Dookies of Sussex.
“Bullseye- !” Declared Fi Calmatter, the new Groom of the Stool, to the HRH and the gathered cabal of former muckrakers.
“I hate that woman on a cellular level !” Declared Piers…”not just because she opted for Oprah over me but because I couldn’t hack her phone!”
“This is the part I have been dreaming about -parading the new Wallis-Simpson through the streets of Aberdeen naked covered in excrement!” Replied Clarkson.
Dripping in slurry and smelling worse than Gary Lineker’s 1990 World Cup caught shorts, Meghan was fuming.
With steam coming out of her bejewelled ears she wasn’t the only one going ‘spare’.
A new chapter in the Meghan Markle debacle.
As King Charles III muttered from his elevated position.
‘Suits’ you Luv!”
The young apprentices at Hoovers in Merthyr Tydfil looked on in awe.
They had heard the phrase, ‘necessity was the Mother of all invention’ and this was in fact the ultimate Mother.
Sat in the now empty Pentrebach Factory, that had once employed thousands of local people, was a brand new car- the like of which the World had never seen before.
If the Sinclair C5 Electric trike produced in the 1980’s was to be the saviour of Hoovers- then this new invention was bound to clean up.
It was the brainchild of local man Ian Venter, who had used the discarded scrap parts of old washing machines, tumble driers and vacuum cleaners to create the ultimate ‘Hoovercar’.
The apprentices could not believe their teenage eyes- it was like something from an episode of Futurama.
A vehicle that could hover above ground – just like the vehicle driven by Luke Skywalker on the planet Tatooine in the first Star Wars film – it really was a ‘New Hope’.
A new hope alright to employment in the small but historic, South Wales Valley Town that had been in recession for over two hundred years.
“I don’t believe it!” said local lad Vic Meldrew.
“There is something in the Air!’ expressed open-mouthed Aled Jones Junior- singing out in his dulcet Valley tones.
The car was not surprisingly made up of metal from white goods and had two vacuum hosepipes as the exhaust to filter out the gases.
To limit the effect on the environment, the patent holder, Ian Venter had it linked to a tank of Lenor, which gave it a softness and a freshness that people just couldn’t ignore.
It had a twin tub engine, which was fuelled by a new secret biofuel which Ian Venter didn’t want revealed to the World, unless he was to mysteriously Die Son.
“Does it really float of its own accord?” asked Vic- doubting even more than his mate Thomas standing next to him.
Ian produced to the apprentice a skipping hoop acquired from the local Afon Taf school.
Just like a magician’s assistant, he passed the hoop over the car to show that it was not being held up by invisible wires attached to the Factory ceiling.
“Unbelievable!” said Chris Kamara Junior.
“There is a lot less Bovver with a Hoover!” said Ian proud of his creation.
“When are you going to reveal it to the general public?” asked Thomas sceptically.
“I plan on a big publicity splash soon and seek to recreate the original bet between Ironmaster Crawshay and Richard Trevethick but this time have a sponsored race with an Tesla electric car retracing the original route from the Tramroad at Penydarren to Abercynon- but using the existing road network- I will of course stick to the Taff Trail- so it is a Musk Win for me!” Ian continued.
“Sounds great!” the wide-eyed teenagers felt like they were witnessing an important event in human history.
A vehicle that was not only eco-friendly but might offer one or two of the acne brigade a chance to impress teenage Scandinavian green Viking warrior Greta Thunberg.
“How did you come across the formula for your bio-fuel?” asked Victor.
“My Grandfather was a soldier in the British Army that liberated Berlin in 1945- he came across a famous German Physicist, Otto Von Jizzmark, who had unfortunately just taken a cyanide capsule rather be taken alive by the Red Army- in his laboratory coat pocket was a series of algebraic equations that Gramps had not seen before and which the dead scientist had been testing on a metal bell which apparently floated in the air unsupported- only the Nazi Swastika symbols could he recognise- but when he came home he gave it to Grandmother who kept it safe- it had weird alien spray writing on it too!” continued Ian.
“Do you think it has extra-terrestial origins?” questioned Victor further.
“Either that or my Grandfather found the original ‘Banksy’… Ian replied.
“But first, I need a volunteer pilot to test drive the car!”
“Any takers?”
All three teenagers shouted ‘Me’ at once.
None of them had full driving licences but both Chris and Vic both had passed their theory driving tests on Glebeland Street and held provisional licences.
Chris had the advantage though, as he was much lighter than Vic and had driven his Father’s milk float around Galon Uchaf on more than one occasion- as his Father needed someone to ride shotgun.
Not to just sit on the front passenger’s seat but also to ward off ‘the Humphries’ or milk thieves that lived near the Frontier Town’s Wild West Trading Post.
The ‘last straw’ for him was watching the Humphries ‘cream’ off all his weekly profits by pinching his ‘white goods and cheeses’ from the back whilst distracting him at the front of the vehicle.
He had got one of them back by reversing over his head whilst he ‘supposedly’ reached under the milk float for his football.
It didn’t kill the young soccer thief but it was very ‘Messi’ and his new triangular shaped head had earned him the nickname ‘Dairy Lee’ locally.
Chris didn’t know it at that juncture but being appointed the first ever test pilot of the Hoover Car would secure his place in history and of course the Guinness Book of Records.
Ian lowered the car to the ground and switched the engine off.
Chris moved quicker than an England Football Fan without a Euro 2020 ticket at Wembley.
As he clambered aboard, Chris was reminded that unlike Princess Diana, he must wear his seatbelt.
Chris looked at the series of dials on the dashboard.
There were red buttons, green ones and amber ones too- but was more scary than the ‘Squid Games’.
“Whatever you don’t press that button with the ‘Red Arrows logo’- or the one emblazoned with the faded words ‘Spin Cycle’….as it turns the car upside-down’ and is only to be used on an official fly past above the Queen of England!”
“Press the circular one to start the engine!” instructed Ian.
“The one marked ‘Up’ is what you press very slowly…if you press it too hard you would shoot up like a Harrier Jump Jet and will be crushed by the asbestos ceiling tiles!” the creator explained.
Chris did as he was told and raised the car three feet up off the factory floor.
All he could manage to utter was the word ‘cool’.
He hovered there suspended in mid-air like a fart in a vacuum.
Whereas he was in fact a fart in a different kind of vacuum.
His pals looked jealously on at the chosen one.
“What is its top speed? Shouted Chris from mid-air of the designer.
“Don’t know yet!” Ian replied.. but I have the ideal test track on the former Hoover’s cricket pitch..I should be able to discover its ‘run rate’ then easily!” he continued.
Schrodinger’s Chris was encouraged to return to Earth and landed like an expert.
“When is the test scheduled for?” he asked excitedly.
“Saturday, so be there promptly for 7am, I don’t want too many of the HGV lorry drivers to see my invention as they should all be stuck in Dover post-Brexit by then!” Ian declared laughing.
The students went home each fantasising about joining the Mile High Club with the young Thunberg for ‘Swede Dreams’.
When Saturday came, Chris was dressed to impress his Teacher.
Dressed in a Second World War jump suit obtained from the Army & Navy Stores bearing the word ‘Stig’ written in Sharpie Black pen on the top he stood with his Uncle’s Helmet ‘borrowed’ from his Vespa Scooter.
In his eyes he felt he was wearing ‘Top Gear’, whereas in fact to all and sundry he looked like a complete pillock, as he ambled down Pentrebach Road past the long red-brick building.
Ian was waiting for him as he entered the ‘Field of Dreams’.
As a child Chris had not been breast-fed but raised on Formula One and felt that this race was his destiny.
His shot to be the new Lewis Hamilton and move all his assets and domicile to Switzerland- where he would live the good life in the land of milk and honey surviving on Milka bars & Toblerones to keep his big race energy up between Groupies.
Chris climbed into the cockpit feeling just like Tom Cruise in Days of Thunder or Steve McQueen in Le Mans.
He was familiar with the controls and upon the lowering of the chequered flag by Ian, he set off in a clockwise circular direction around the field.
His trusty steed handled like a dream.
He felt cocksure with the arrogance that comes with youth that he could beat any mortal in a fair race.
Even a Tesla.
The Morning of the promotional race came around and Chris was sat in his prototype whilst he had learned that his rival was Malcolm Campbell Junior, Junior, from Pendine Sands Carmathenshire- a very religious driver who had christened his Tesla ‘Sunbeam’ in the hope of getting approval from his big boss upstairs.
As everyone knows Jesus loves a Sunbeam.
He genuflected before putting on his helmet, clutching the steering wheel theatrically and revving his silent engine, just like Marcel Marceau would have done.
Chris started to get nervous- looking at the model of Trevithick’s Engine in Pontmorlais he said a silent prayer of his own but given his green credentials to the Greek Earth Goddess Gaia.
The race was on.
Whilst the Tesla sped away silently like a chapel fart, it soon becoming entrenched in Merthyr Town Centre’s demonic one-way traffic system which must have designed by Chris Rea.
Malcolm Campbell didn’t like having to stop at the Pontmorlais ‘Circus’ zebra crossing as high above his head was the red-and yellow brick former Young Man’s Christian Association building once listed now just listing and looking like it could collapse at any moment.
Even the pigeons that roosted there would confirm that it was no longer ‘fun to stay at the YMCA’.
On the other hand, being much narrower and more flexible, the Hoovercar could use all the escape lanes known only to local taxi drivers and car thieves to get ahead as it sped down the Tramroad behind the Red House, Old Town Hall, whilst the Tesla was still log-jammed at the top of Town.
As it sped along, Chris suddenly realised what the environmental benefits the Hoovercar could bring to South Wales.
As it went along it sucked up all the discarded fly-tipped plastic bottles and containers and used them to burn away the air miles.
It was a real shame that Erin Brockovich wasn’t present, as the plastic fumes from the twin tub exhaust filtered upwards and started the fill the hole in the ozone layer as it solidified.
Used discarded syringes were no trouble for the Hoovercar, in fact they gave Chris’ vehicle an ‘injection’ of pace and left the Sunbeam ‘Chasing the Dragon-Park Silver Machine’
Sweeping and cleaning as it went, it would have saved the Council a fortune in street cleansing- if only they hadn’t stopped street cleansing due to austerity measures five years before.
Flying across the junction markings without stopping, just like the average Audi driver, Chris sailed on passed the temporary car park at Tesco that has been up for over two decades.
Using the pavements and side alleys he flew on without impediment as he made much swifter progress than the conventional cars gridlocked and frustrated by streets and lanes designed for horses and carts.
Being faithful to the route taken a few centuries back in Victorian Times, he was cheered on by a time-travelling member of the Conservative Party replete in Top Hat, tails and pin stripe trousers all laid out for the Right Honourable Member for Somerset North by his Nanny that Morning.
He made good time whilst his race rival was trapped in the Wacky Races behind the Merthyr Tydfil version of Penelope Pitstop, busy putting on her make-up in the rear-view mirror.
Sounding his steering wheel horn, Campbell received a dirty look that would have put Medusa the Gorgon to shame.
Chris had now reached the Rhydycar zebra crossing and floated across the road, narrowly dodging myopic pensioners who only passed their tests when accompanied by a leading man with a white flag and cyclists from the Taff Trail who refuse to dismount or slow down.
Complete cycle paths the lot of them.
As he passed over the River Taff, he admired the number of migratory supermarket trollies caught up in the torrent, that hadn’t yet reached the Merthyr salvage yards in Penygarnddu.
Now on the Taff Trail behind the Rhydycar Leisure & Swimming Pool which sadly had built too small to host Olympic Competition, he began to become worried that he would run low on fuel but fortunately there was plenty of nitrogen and methane available thanks to irresponsible dog owners in the form of discarded dog-shit.
Chris had once thought that dogs were dumb animals but realised that he had never ever witnessed a dog stepping in human shit.
His machine, originally modelled on the Sinclair Trike, had a top speed of 20mph and floating above the tarmac he didn’t need to worry about lumps or bumps unlike the Tesla, who had to negotiate the surface roads with less tarmac than the ones in Kiev during the Russian Invasion.
Malcolm Campbell loved a challenge but driving on these Valley roads left him shaking more than Billy Connolly coming back from a wanking contest.
Unfortunately, his progress was also hampered by the knock- on effect of roadworks on the A465(T), the A4060 slip road, the A4102 at Jackson’s Bridge in Georgetown and the A470 (T).
He couldn’t understand why all works were scheduled for the same date- especially on the day of the exhibition race.
The effect was total gridlock on streets designed for horses and carts with only fools and horses driving them.
Even the speed camera van had given up the ghost – there would be no soft motorist targets with cars moving less than 10MPH.
Malcolm Campbell was however, very competitive and even more resourceful.
As new laws had been brought in banning the use of handheld mobile phone devices in moving vehicles- he realised that there was still a loophole in the law, sat in his log-jammed car he googled the sound of an ambulance siren and set his phone to the loudest noise setting.
He knew in a lawless Town like Merthyr Tydfil it was no good calling up a Police Siren, as it was an everyday sound and no-one would voluntarily pullover to assist the Cuntstabulary in the lawful execution of their duty.
He would now drive like he did on Gran Turismo, forcing vehicles off the road in a fraudulent ‘Dai- version’
Using this technique, he soon reached the ‘A470’ at the Trago Mills roundabout glancing up at the grey towers of Merthyr’s version of Cinderella’s Palace.
He was now able to start making ground on the Hoovercar, which was now speeding down the Taff Trail, passed Upper Abercanaid- with hums and arias, as it nodded in the direction of its birth place and the land of its Father.
The Hoovercar was now low on fuel as a local charity ‘Bags under your Ayes’ had been busy clearing the illegally dumped plastic containers, beer cans and soft drink cans tipped merrily down the side of the embankments of the Taff Trail by a local publican enraged at the cost of commercial waste collection by the Local Authority.
The Gethin Woods now looked like it was sponsored by Pepsi to the Max and of course Red Bull.
The Charity collection organised by a group of local politicians to assist with a donation to the MP’s ‘Commoners’ bar at Westminster.
After all, the cost of living crisis meant that the price of alcohol had risen, together with sharp fuel cost rises and with a mere 15% increase on their salaries some MP’s were struggling to heat their stables effectively.
The Hoovercar began to chug and splutter like Boris Johnson at the dispatch box, as the rubbish began to run out.
Chris scanned the immediate location and suddenly struck gold as a local fly by night removal company had tipped a load of unwanted items previously destined for the Antiques Roadshow which had been looted years ago from Cyfarthfa Castle archives.
A signed first edition copy of Charles Darwin’s book the Origin of the Species – previously thought to be a study on the finches of the Galapagos Islands- but was actually about the building of the houses in the Gurnos and the Council policy about bringing up the standard of the poorest by rehousing gypsies and battered wives amongst the managers of the Imperial Chemical Institute (ICI) and their Stepford Wives.
Next came, Lord Nelson’s telescope and eyepatch last used in the 1805 Battle of Trafalgar.
Then to boost the fuel was fed the handwritten missing ending for Charles Dickens’ the Mystery of Edwin Drood together with the ostrich feather used to pen the same.
Dozens of stuffed animals-a taxidermists’ nightmare- ‘stuffed’ into the fuel tank as the Hoovercar regained the initiative on the Tesla.
The Taff Trail ended and the two vehicles came side to side on the Cynon Valley Road as the Mountain Ash Dash intensified.
Who would cross the finish line first?
Rounding the bend serving the Mountain Ash Rugby Club the rivals suddenly realised that there were pedestrians in the road ahead.
Joe Rassic-Park had a chip on his shoulder.
His Mother had in the 1960’s, whilst pregnant, taken a drug to ease her morning sickness and as a result he had been born with two tiny arms but oversized hands.
He looked like a cross between Kenny Everett character Brother Lee Love and a tyrannosaurus rex.
Today, he had a chip on his shoulder principally because that was the only way he could eat his food.
The environmentalist and green campaigner had tried to make a difference all his life raging against Big Pharma and the Multi-National Corporations that were destroying our Planet with their plastic pollution, car fumes and engineered wars.
This is why at the age of Sixty, he had joined the protest group Insulate Britain to become a cool cat.
Money was no longer of any concern to him following his early retirement – as he had just discovered that his occupational pension pot was empty after being looted by the Trustees, and who were now based in the Cayman Islands- so angry that he had just decided his moral crusade was justified for the next generations of children that regional and National Governments were failing.
Despite having a small amount of money, he was in fact insolvent.
Stuck to the tarmac road by his face, he refused to move as he lay right eyelid glued to the road surface of the A4059 Mountain Ash Road.
If only inventor Percy Shaw could see the alternative cat’s eye stuck in the middle of the highway.
Little did Joe realise that today like suffragette Emily Davison, he would literally die for his cause.
The glass of water perched next to him to ease his dehydration began to ripple.
Something big was coming his way- he couldn’t hear it but he could sense it.
Since the introduction of electric vehicles and their silent running, pensioner deaths had trebled.
The Government’s master plan of Covid Herd immunity had saved the Non-Dom Chancellor of the Exchequer at Westminster a fortune in pension pay- outs so much so he could afford tax cuts for the Times Newspaper ‘Richi’ List.
It was now onto the next phase of the cull of the surplus population, the roll-out of fully driverless cars and smart (no- hard shoulder) motorways.
The planned reduction of the number of cars on our roads by lethal but legal means.
Malcolm Campbell’s silent machine of death had already left a trail of dead hedgehogs in its wake.
The poor creatures had merely stepped out from their Chris Packham Springwatch nature-built apartments to meet with their friends for a short time but instead ended up visiting their ‘flat’ mates.
Now it was the turn of the ‘Swampy’ pensioner to fill the potholes.
The Tesla ploughed into the OAP shocking him than a monkey in a test laboratory experiment.
Never mind being tasered by the Met Police- being Tesla’d was much worse.
Chris in the Hoovercar just floated over the human roadblock and crossed the winning line to the sound of a loud cheer from his sponsor- Ian Ventor.
In triumph however, Chris made one fatal mistake.
Glancing back over his shoulder and giving his rival the bird, being a youngster he took his other hand off the wheel for a mobile phone selfie to upload to Instagram and just like 1970’s T-Rex frontman, Mark Bolan ploughed straight into a Mountain Ash tree the village was named after.
That too was to be his biggest ‘hit’.
His car burst into a ball of flame at the edge of the Taff Trail.
To the horror of Ian Ventor, the plastic prototype melted quicker than a Kardashian standing too close to an open fire.
Chris had become a Trail blazer indeed.
“For the third time this Morning… 11.00 am!” replied her Partner-in-Crime, Joe Boxer.
“ I am the one that suffered multiple blows to my head not you!” he said hands shaking violently.
“Sorry, but it’s this Long-Covid…it’s a bugger with your memory!” said Hannah.
“ And I am nervous too!” she continued.
Hannah checked the letter headed by a green Westminster Portcullis.
“I never thought that I would get to meet the Health Secretary, Mr Handjob, in person!” she squealed excitedly.
“It’s not Hand-job -It’s HanCOCK !” scolded Joe “And don’t call him that for F***’s sake or he will definitely stop our funding!”
Following his retirement from the ring, due to the early onset of Parkinson’s disease, Joe and his business partner, Delroy Boyd from the house clearance business, they had turned into a pair of entrepreneurs.
Movers AND shakers if you like.
Their latest venture had been to turn the former Green Boxing Hall at Eighth Avenue into a vaccination centre for the local population on the Galon Uchaf Estate.
It was known locally as Jabber the Hut.
The Secretary of State for Health was so impressed with their reported performance levels in administering the vaccine shots that he wanted to see the place for himself.
Wales was ahead of England yet again and not just in terms of Six Nations Rugby and he wanted to understand why.
It was also an opportunity to turn yet another traditional Labour heartland into a Tory Blue voting area.
After all, Merthyr Tydfil had voted on a majority basis for Brexit – principally because they believed the Conservative lie that they would be able to stop immigration.
If there was one thing the residents of the Estate did not want, it was Foreigners coming over here and taking THEIR benefits.
Considering there were only a thousand residents within Motability scooter battery distance, they had done very well in their returns to the Department of Health.
Especially as there was only 500 people actually living on the Estate.
To ensure they were AL L inoculated within a week was extremely impressive and worthy of praise from Central Government.
After all, large swathes of the Country were misled into believing that the vaccine was made up from a combination of dead baby stem cells, Bill Gates Spunk, Arsenic and a tracking device.
Certain sections of the great unwashed didn’t believe that there was in fact an invisible germ that was killing them just because they were all obese.
Besides who wanted to live to the age of 35 anyway?
These people didn’t want any microchips, unless of course they were from McCain that is.
Nor did they want anyone checking on their every movement, whilst they were on Facebook or their Mobile Phone.
How else could they moonlight as a window cleaner, painter, hairdresser or nail beautician otherwise?
Their employee-Hannah was a large lady indeed.
Like most ex-nurses that had actually survived the pandemic, she was grossly overweight.
Her arse was so big that you could balance a cup of coffee on it without her knowing.
In contrast, Joe being an ex-pugilist was built like a split-pin.
His body was his temple and his claim to fame was that he had once had a part as body double for World Champion Merthyr boxer Johnny Owen – in the film ‘Snitches get Stitches’.
Both Joe and Delroy had been forced to live by their wits.
Dodging and weaving in the Business World just as they had in the ring.
It was strange how close the two former boxing rivals had become after retiring from taking low blows, and had both come up with joint ventures that had kept them one step ahead of the local rent collector.
After throwing in the towel, they had become designers of men’s underwear- and marketed a brand of men’s underpants that stretched automatically as they bent over.
It was named after a ‘left/right combination’ of famous people.
A Labour politician and a millionaire boxer.
It was goodbye to Builder’s cleavage when you owned a pair of ‘Wedgie Benn’s’.
Facebook had afforded them the business opportunity their parents and grandparents never had.
But the pair never rested on their laurels.
They were always looking to their next big venture and they realised that the time was right, just like everyone in the Government to cash in on the Tax-Payer during the pandemic.
They saw it as a way of getting some tax money back from Central Government -even if they hadn’t actually paid any themselves.
It was surprising what a bout of hysteria in the media could do to drum up business.
They had tried their hand at creating PPE out of old boxing head guards and gloves, but found that no-one in the local Queen Camilla hospital wanted to go into work looking like Muhammed Ali.
Not even Doctor Muhammed Ali.
The next best thing was to create their own supply of vaccine to the Third World – or Galon Uchaf- as it was known locally.
They had an insider in the hospital- a friend of Hannah, who was happy to smuggle a phial of the experimental Oxford Vaccine out and a Sixth- Former in the local Penydre School with a C at O Level in Chemistry to create their own knock-off version.
They could then undercut the competition by reducing manufacturing costs and jump the waiting list by purchasing directly from the pair under their Company name of Jabber the Hut Limited.
The advert on Facebook for their product boasted of a special ‘Happy Hour’ deal.
They had even added their own ingredients to help fight off the different variations of the germ that had developed in the former United Kingdom.
The Government recommended that a person be given a first shot of the vaccine which could provide up to 75% cover for six months and a further jab within twelve weeks to bring up immunity to 93%.
With the Jabber the Hut vaccine- which contained coffee and diet-coke and crystal meth- two shots was never enough.
Some people just coming back for more as they had become addicted.
Now in Galon Uchaf money had gone by the wayside.
They had reintroduced the barter system, as it didn’t affect their state benefits.
There was no Universal Credit level cut-off when it came to the number of chickens that you kept in the garden.
Outside the hut, queues were starting to form- all two metres apart that had been spray painted onto the pavement like a Premiership referee marking a wall from goal.
The fear of the Kent variant, meant that long queues just like that of the HGV lorry drivers near Dover were forming all the way down First Avenue.
A black limousine, now missing one of its wheel trims, arrived at the Hut and out stepped a weasel looking man surrounded by more bodyguards than Maria Carey.
He was ushered into the Hut to meet the owners but obviously to avoid shaking their hands.
‘Good Morning….said Hancock swiftly changing into a white lab coat for the photo opportunity before adopting the Tory Power stance which made him look a politician desperate to hold onto his deposit.
“Welcome Matt!” said Joe hands already shaking but not making contact.
Hannah curtsied and the sound of ripping of material could be heard in the street.
“I always wanted crotchless panties Mr Cock…!” she blurted out without thinking.
The glare from both Joe Boxer and Delroy Boyd was worse than the face-off at the Nigel Benn and Cwis Eubank fight.
Hancock then point up at the Price Tariff Board and enquired if it was a joke designed to raise spirits.
He read aloud:
‘One shot of Astra Zenaca for £3.00 or two for a Pfizer’.
He was surprised to also see a list of vegetables underneath and their vale on the Galon Uchaf equivalent of the FTSE index.
He then enquired as to where the vaccine was stored as it had to be below minus 80 and minus 60 degrees.
Joe opened the door and proudly displayed his storage area.
It was a former ice-cream van marked on the side as ‘Crony-Bell’.
“If you are a good boy you can have a ‘Moonshot Rocket Ice’ with it in exchange for one turnip- thanks to you we have lots of lolly!!!!” said Anna trying to be helpful.
“What about people who do not possess green fingers?” chuckled the Health Secretary.
“Then we have a watered-down version of Astra Zenaca for them…in Wales -we call it the ‘Poor Dab’!” replied Del.
“We do however warn them that there are some potential side effects- such as not being able to ever work again but strangely enough most people in this area are happy to accept such a risk!” interjected Joe.
“Who administers the vaccine?” asked Hancock.
Hannah stepped forward wearing a pair of Alan Titchmarsh gardening gloves and a phantom of the opera mask autographed by Michael Crawford covering her eyes only.
“Me!” she said proudly.
“I used to be a nurse and I had the pleasure of training under my good friends Baroness Munchausen Beverley Allitt and Dr Harold Shipman in Manchester!” Hannah continued.
“So that is how you got on the approved supply list….a Baroness!....of course!” said Hancock.
“Of course, I only put this gear on not to frighten the kids, as I tell they that I am really the ‘Masked Syringer’ off the Saturday Night Show of the same name!” continued Hannah.
“Although a lot of them already know how to find a vein, lots of them have seen their parents chasing the Welsh Dragon!” she continued in a matter of fact fashion.
“That was why we set up this Gym in the first place…interrupted Joe Boxer…to teach the females in the families how to dodge punches in the ring….otherwise it would be a bloodbath in this pandemic!”
“ A regular Quentin Quarantino!” if you like!” interrupted Del pleased at his comedic ad lib.
“Do people REALLY live like this in the 21 st Century?” asked Hancock of one of his aids horrified at the prospect.
“Never been to Merthyr before then Butt have u?” said an elderly woman sticking her head around the door.
“Who the Hell are you?” asked one of the Bodyguards from Serco.
“Mrs Paula Grady!” fired back the resident.
“Who wants to know?” she spat back with all the viciousness of a cat in the middle of a cat fight.
“Her Majesty’s Health Secretary” came the reply.
“Look…replied Paula….I queued up overnight to make sure that I was first in line for the jab…to give you an idea of what it was like - imagine the queue for Wimbledon or outside Harrods on Black Friday before Christmas….except with more Police sirens and Fire Fighters being pelted with stones!”
“Or in Merthyr the queue for the Dole Office!” she continued.
“Please let her in Officer….she has been outside since 5am in sub-zero temperatures…she will be our first guinea pig of the day!” said Hannah.
Joe tried to distract the Health Secretary from that comment.
“Before we inject them with the vaccine…we try to put the patient at ease by asking a few simple questions!” Joe said showing his authority.
“Name?” asked Joe shaking whilst holding the clipboard giving the appearance of the former football scores vidiprinter.
“Paula Grady!” replied the elderly woman.
“Address?” asked Joe.
“53 Thirteenth Avenue!” she replied.
Joe raised an eyebrow suspiciously as the Avenue count only went up to Twelve.
“Age?” Joe questioned further.
“Eighty years of age!” replied the old crone.
“Date of Birth!” he continued left eyebrow raised higher than Everton manager, Carlo Ancelotti.
“01/04/1991…sorry I meant 1941!” said Paula.
Joe reached across and snatched at the elderly woman’s beard sharply.
It revealed a much younger woman in her early thirties.
“Well Mrs Doubtfire…where do you think this is?..... America?” he said booting the woman up the arse out through the door of the hut.
“I thought it was suspicious….no-one has all their OWN teeth at that age on this Estate!” said Joe triumphantly.
“When can I have my vaccine? Because I am in category Ten!” moaned Paula (whose real name was Dani La Rue).
“Come back after Meghan Markle gets accepted back into the Royal Family with open arms!” said Joe.
“Come back any sooner and you will get a different jab!” shouted Delroy, as the attempted fraudster slunk down the street.
“So near…. so Spar!” Paula moaned shaking her head to the next imposter in the queue.
“I think we have seen enough!” said Hancock signalling to his lackies.
“What about our licence….will it be renewed?” asked Joe nervously.
“Can you make a donation to the Conservative Party?” asked the Health Secretary.
“Will a sack of turnips, some prizes from Castle Bingo and a chicken do?” asked Hannah.
“ I think we already have enough vegetables in the Cabinet already!” came the reply.
Statue of Eddie Thomas, Merthyr Tydfil cc-by-sa/2.0 - © Ian S - geograph.org.uk/p/4001542
“ When shall we three meet again?” asked Daniel Druff dramatically.
The remaining two members of his drama group at Merthyr Tydfil Technical College stared back from their online Zoom meeting and shrugged their shoulders.
“I think it best if the ‘Read Brigade’ meet in person to discuss our proposal, in order that no third party can infiltrate our Group or stop our plan…agreed?” continued Daniel.
His fellow Brigade members of Grant Aide and Douglas Deep nodded their approval from their respective bedroom laptop computers.
“5.00 am at the statue?” he suggested.
Daniel was the ringleader of a plot to get even with society over the issue of the unfair treatment of Black & Asian people caused by the British Empire and all it stood for.
His lecturers (when he saw them on the Merthyr Tydfil equivalent of the Open University) called him Danny Boy.
Post-Brexit English Nationalism was on the rise and like everything in this World this was the check and balance.
Danny Boy was the antidote to fascism.
He wanted to push back.
Daniel was so incensed after watching the 1970’s Alex Halley mini-series ‘Roots’, that he felt that he should make his stand with his Bristol brethren, who had demolished slave trader and capitalist Edward Colston’s statue and thrown it into the harbour.
Daniel wanted to do the same with other forms of slavery- just like the 19 th Century English Ironmasters, Crawshay, Guest & Homphfrey had done to Dowlais, Cefn Coed & Merthyr Tydfil but couldn’t find any statues to tear down of these evil tyrants.
The ‘Read Brigade’ decided that they would have to make do with the former Coal Mine- Owner Eddie Thomas statue in Georgetown- on the justification basis that he was always surrounded by people with black faces which were beneath him.
They felt that miners should be included in the definition of BAME- Black and Mineral Extracts- after all the history books showed that the members of the NUM had taken ‘Rodney King-style-beatings’ from the Police at Orgreave Colliery and other places around Great Britain in 1984.
There was no doubt that Daniel Druff had rebellion in his blood.
His family had descended from Irish immigrant ancestry that had come to Merthyr to work in the Ironworks after the terrible Potato Famine that had hit Ireland.
He was fed up of decades of Tory Rule and was particularly incensed, as the current Government had taken away his one chance of going abroad by removing the Erasmus Programme Post-Brexit.
No longer could he or his fellow students have the freedom to roam Europe or have roaming data but the inept handling of the coronavirus issue by the same Eton Mess, had meant that a visit to the European Continent was now out of the question for the foreseeable future.
He was determined to follow in the footsteps of the Chartists, who had met at the nearby Cambrian Arms Public House (currently closed in its modern- day form of the Lantern) and raise his own ‘Read Flag’ of defiance to the powers that be.
5am was a little early but if he wanted his disciples to be ‘Woke’ then this the appropriate time.
Besides, they would get a march on the Police at that time in the Morning, who were probably dozing in their vehicles on night shift.
Z ZZ- Cars most likely.
The call sign of the Read Brigade was that of an owl.
They really did give ‘two hoots’ to make sure their subversive agenda was met.
They had all agreed to dress the same.
Balaclava Road black ski-mask and khaki camouflage coats with tracksuit bottoms for warming their hands down the front- in true Gurnos tradition.
They wanted to give the appearance of Irish Terrorists but not too fashion trendy-they didn’t want the Sun newspaper to refer to them as the ‘New Look’ IRA.
Daniel was first on the scene and had brought with him the tools for the job.
His neighbour’s van had a sticker on it saying that no tools were left overnight in this van.
Daniel had made sure this statement was true by pinching them.
If there was one thing young Daniel had taken from his schooling at Penydre High School, it was his ability to break into vehicles.
He had a jack-hammer, sledgehammer (once registered to one Peter Gabriel) and a series of guy ropes.
He stood next to the tall figure of Eddie Thomas former boxing promotor, mine-owner and former Mayor of the Town.
He stood hands out as if sparring in the air.
Daniel was determined that this stand would make a show that the underclass of Merthyr Tydfil had risen again, once more against their puppet masters in Westminster and Cardiff.
They no longer spoke for him.
Talk and debate never got anywhere- it was time for direct action.
Grant was second to arrive and hooted loudly before he emerged from the thick bushes on Avenue De Clichy, left to go wild after the initial landscaping budget had run-out.
That was the way with Merthyr.
Nothing was ever maintained the way it should be.
Always cutting corners and opting for cheap rather than quality.
Grant had his own hidden agenda.
He wasn’t as committed to the cause of his fellow students as Daniel was.
His plan was to achieve notoriety and achieve a career path of his own.
Activist.
Media Exposure.
Reality Show influencer.
Strictly Come Dancing.
I’m a Celebrity get me out of here.
Welcome Break Magazine Cover model.
Retire to Emmerdale.
Unlike Norwich Union- Grant really wanted to make a drama out of a crisis.
With that, forgetting to hoot came Doug Deep.
But then again there was little need -as you could hear him coming from a mile away, after all it is difficult to silent pushing five stolen Iceland trollies.
“ It’s no wonder Peter Andre is ripped….pushing this bloody lot uphill from Town!” he said gasping for breath like an asthmatic smoker with one lung.
“That Long- Covid really takes it out of you!” he rasped noisily.
“What’s that Gibberish written on the front handlebar?” asked Grant.
“Bee Gee language of course from the Isle of Man!” replied Danny Boy pulling their legs.
Grant and Doug looked blank.
“Welsh…c’mon boys it’s your Mother tongue!” said Daniel.
“What does it say then?” asked Doug.
“I have been trying to read what it says while I was pushing them!” he continued.
“May contain horsemeat!” stuttered Daniel trying to convert it into English for the pair of numbskulls.
“That’s not horsemeat!” proffered Grant as he pointed into the final ‘fifth columnist’ trolley.
“What the F*** is that!?” asked Danny.
“It’s my Jamiriqui hat for the start of the Friday, Bloody Friday rebellion….I bought it on e-bay for £5.00….only cost me £40.00 in postage too….bargain…!” replied Doug.
“Besides, you told me that you wanted us to get on national television and what better way than wearing a Red Indian Buffalo Hat?” Doug replied.
“Didn’t you think we would lose the support of the vegetablists?” said Danny wisely.
“Most of Merthyr is now vegan after seeing the looks on the faces of the sheep and cattle being transported up the Slip Road to Cowsvitz in Pengarnddu!” agreed Grant.
“Any way, no time to lose, the sun is coming up and we need to separate the statue from the Plinth of Wales before the Cunstabulary release what we are doing !” ordered Danny.
As he unloaded the jack-hammer, Grant – the electronics wizard- began to patch the power supply into the adjoining traffic lights shorting them out.
Just like the film Ocean’s Eleven, another Danny had a masterplan to help their cause by creating mayhem with the traffic in Avenue De Clichy which would prove even worse than the existing confusing road layout.
Ocean’s Eleven had nothing on River’s Three.
As Doug Deep dug deep, it came as a shock to the three would be rebels that the ground around the statue was so soft it took minimal effort for the statue to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the Merthyr equivalent- the mining subsidence hit Edwardsville Swimming Baths where the shallow end was now 45 feet deep.
“Stop!” warned Danny, as the statue began to list at a 3.99 degree angle.
Both of the others ran into position to support the statue and were shocked to see how light it actually was.
“It’s hollow!” declared Danny surprised- noticing a tracing crack around the neck of the former Mayor- where his goldie looking chain would have been.
“A bit like Nigel Farage’s life is after achieving Brexit!” he continued.
“Bring the trollies around to the front!” ordered Danny, just like a foreman of the Council watching others toil away filling the potholes in the road with fairy dust.
Grant manoeuvred the Iceland metal carts with a mind of their own under the structure and lowered the statue onto them to take the weight.
“Take the knee!” shouted Danny back straining under the weight.
Doug immediately dropped to the floor like a Pre-Match Premiership footballer.
“No….you dopey bastard…HIS knee!” screamed Danny to avoid a sucker punch from the Welsh Muhammed Ali.
There was no cheer like the fall of Saddam Hussain in Baghdad, just a few grunts that would turn into full-blown hernias in 20 years time for the foot soldiers of the Read Brigade.
Now controlling one Iceland Trolley with a wonky wheel is hard enough, but attempting to guide five of them downhill on a slope towards the Civic Centre is a Herculean task best left to Greek hero of the Underworld Sisyphus.
The runaway train of carts began to pick up pace with the incline and like most drivers in Merthyr refused to stop at the junction with Avenue De Clichy.
There was a massive ‘wind rush’ as the students flew pass the Council Offices and out onto the Fire Station Bridge without stopping, mounting the pavement and finally only coming to a halt when it bashed into at the metal bridge railings- leaving the statue teetering like the van in the 1968 Italian Job film over the edge of the parapet.
“Oi…what are you bunch of teenage delinquents up to?” shouted local Official, Hectorz House, who appeared to be cleaning peanut butter off the outside of the windows of his office attached to what looked like a bungee chord.
“I may be suspended but I am not having that….Not In My Back Yard!” he screamed at the trio.
The volatile situation was bad enough as the three students had to use all their puny muscles to keep the statue from going over too early.
They wanted maximum publicity and the arrival of local ITV news correspondent, Hanna Barbara to film the event.
She had received a tip-off to be at the bridge at 5.15am for some excitement which would go far beyond the usual local news stories such as a goat being born in Vaynor with the face of Jesus Christ.
As she arrived the bridge, the Mexican stand-off with Hectorz and the Fire Brigade, just like the River Taff was in full flow.
“What are your demands?” asked Hanna pointing a microphone in the face of Doug, still partly covered in goatshit.
Doug just smiled weakly, as the cannabis from Amsterdam he had smoked early that morning to give him Dutch courage kicked in, as he tried in vain to hold onto the feet of the deceased boxer.
The Fire Brigade had already worked out a plan to defuse the situation and Fireman Sam ‘Sparkes’ Toomey was busy twirling a lasso around his head.
Its purpose to ‘rope a dope’ if he had too.
Hectorz House too was closing in on the students from the other side of the road.
“That’s close enough!” warned Danny, reaching into his pocket with one hand and producing a neatly typed list in Gaelic Font.
“The demands of the Read Brigade are as follows:
One : the immediate demolition of all statues of slave traders and Ironmasters in Wales.
Two: A declaration that Winston Churchill and Tony Blair be deemed War Criminals.
Three: That all student loans be wiped and replaced by Student Grants – except for those doing a degree in David Beckham Studies.
And
Four : The release of all political prisoners currently held on Gogglebox.
“ It is Merthyr Council Policy not to negotiate with Terrorists or Blackmailers!” replied Hectorz.
The crowd suddenly gasped as the Official had used the B word in public.
A Note was immediately added to his extensive Personnel File by a member of the Council CIA (Council Interview Associate).
“Now if you drop that Statue into the River Taff you will never get that job at the Guardian Newspaper as a Fifth Columnist and will be in big shit!” Hectorz continued.
“ I will see to it that you lot get more F’s on your college report than if it was marked by Gordon Ramsey!” hectored Hectorz.
The flooded River had turned black from the overflow of 58 unsafe spoil tips that still blight the Unitary Authority Land.
It was also receiving raw sewage from the Morlais Brook outlet , with turds now racing the squadron of plastic bottles dumped on the steep side of Abermorlais Tip.
Daniel was not an easy one to imidate.
He decided to fight fire with fire.
“Very soon we won’t be the only ones!”- he said pointing the boxer in the direction of Cardiff Bay.
As he did so, the top of the Boxing Promoter suddenly fell off into the raging River below.
Miraculously, just like a miracle of Fatima, the gathered crowd watched as Eddie Thomas face did a reverse Michael Jackson and turned from white into black.
Some began genuflecting.
Then even more miraculously for Merthyr, a series of Ten Pounds Notes began shooting out of the head of the statue like a broken cash machine.
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” said Hectorz, trying to hold onto his trousers- as the Monica Lewinsky career following female assistants from the Council surrounded the Dreamboat.
“I think you have discovered the fabled Reddy Money from the Atlanta Match in 1987!” he continued.
“Quick Fireman Sam….jump in and retrieve the monies we could plug the Gap in the Council Budget with that lot!”
Too late.
The three students in a pre-determined plan all smiled at the ITV Camera, produced their mobile phones and shouted ‘Selfie!”
As they did so, gravity took effect and the remainder of the headless statue toppled into the fast-flowing Taff waters, before landing upright on a small island- standing there stranded just like Robinson Crusoe.
The Iceland Trollies, one by one, tried to follow the statue into the raging black waters as if drawn in by some ghostly invisible drunken hands on a night out at Koolers.
Just like the three students- they had to be forcibly restrained.
It was just another Black, Black Friday in Merthyr alright.
There is a strange order of hatred on the motorways, highways and by-ways of England & Wales these days.
HGV Lorry drivers hate white van drivers, white van drivers hate slow moving buses, buses hate tail- gating BMW and Audi drivers, BMW and Audi Drivers hate Citroen Picasso Mobility car drivers that hog the middle lane.
But they only have one thing in common that unites them all.
All road users hate cyclists.
And today on a Sunny Autumn day of 2020, in the sleepy former Mining Town of Merthyr Tydfil there was to be no exception.
Cyclist, Hal Ford, had all the cycling gear on that made him look like he was busy competing in the Tour De France.
Yellow jersey, green lycra suit, last seen in a fitness video worn by TV Green Goddess, Diana Moran, and of course the obligatory state- of- the art cycling helmet.
As he came to a stop at the Taf Fechan Pontsticill reservoir, he dismounted his trusty Raleigh steed that had served him well for 150 miles.
He needed to stop not just to take in the beauty of his natural surroundings, but to give his meat and two veg a rest after the intensity of the journey too.
He looked down and did a quick tally- unlike American cyclist Lance Armstrong, they were all present and correct.
He then lit his roll-up cigarette with his 2014- Leeds Tour de France Souvenir Lighter.
He looked around at the trees still in leaf- red, yellow, brown and green of all different hues – he asked himself ‘why did people bother to fly to the West Coast of the USA -New England especially- to become ‘leaf peepers’, when they had this artist’s pallet of colour on their very doorstep in Old Wales.
Hal was now in his late Seventies and was always being stopped for photographs by people who thought he was former Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn.
In the beginning, he had pointed out the error of their ways, but now had endorsed his new celebrity status by smiling for ‘selfies’ with his new- found fan base.
He sighed, as he lifted the lid of his cycle seat and produced his packed lunch.
In lockdown Wales, everything was closed – pubs, restaurants and even shops alike.
A bit like it had reverted to its’ natural state in the 1970’s.
Before Sunday Opening Hours came into effect and Chapels were the only place left open on a Sunday.
Legally speaking, as he had cycled down from a Tier Five Covid-19 area- he was not supposed to even be in the Principality at all, but he didn’t’ see the harm in it, as most of the youths in his native Liverpool Dock area were massed up closer to each other than a Ryan Air Economy Flight to Majorca.
The arrogance of youth.
Hal himself had suffered from it once but that was long ago- way before his testicle sack had dropped and he was forced to tuck them in the tops of his Liver-bird emblazoned football socks for safe keeping.
Unlike the Conservative Government, who had adopted a Laurel & Hardy approach- he had his own UK- wide Coronavirus strategy to survive the pandemic.
He would take a leaf out of Thomas Hardy’s book and head ‘far from the madding crowd’ and take sanctuary in the sparsely populated rural upper highland communities of the Welsh Valleys.
Exercise, good eating, and plenty of vitamin D sunshine would stand him in good stead, while the rest of the Country, spread the disease like a pre-potty-trained toddler left without a nappy.
The noise and vibration of bass music pounding broke his idyllic bucolic existence, as an overloaded Tory blue Vauxhall Corsa pulled up alongside him onto the reservoir road bridge.
For a minute, he thought he was back on Merseyside.
No sooner than the car had stopped, then four baseball -hatted youths tumbled out of the back seat of the car.
“What’s ‘appening Gramps?” nodded the first youth approaching the geriatric septuagenarian.
“ Two metres please!” countered Hal.
The youth had an unusual swagger about him like he was carry a rolled- up carpet under each arm.
“Steady on ‘Puff Daddy’!” sneered a second youth, whose bumfluff moustache and blackhead pimples made him look like a hyena pup.
As he approached the stone reservoir wall that had been raised up by the Private Utility Company (somewhat bizarrely advertised as being ‘not for profit’) to the height of four feet in case of the risk of a thousand- year flood.
The Hyena youth then openly produced a small clear bag of white powder and laid it out on the wall in a line before snorting it up through a McDonalds milk shake straw into his broken nose.
“That Devil’s Dandruff will kill you!” warned Hal.
“No! HE will kill you!” said Hyena.
“Do you know what a tear tattoo means?” said the first youth-as the driver of the car- Swastika, also sporting a blue Nazi emblem on his far right of his cheek close to his ear.
“He is an Everton fan?” asked Hal sarcastically.
Hyena ignored the remark as his head was buzzing with more Charlie than the Vietnamese Jungle in the late 60’s.
“It means he has killed a man!” Hyena boasted proudly.
“Good for him!” said Hal at the first sign of danger mounting his Raleigh bike.
“Now if you don’t mind, I must be on my way!”
“Oi Corbyn, ain’t you gonna have a selfie with the Crew then or what?” demanded Swastika.
“No!” said Hal pushing off from the kerb and pedalling away from the Corsa, as fast as his plastic hip replacement would allow.
“Oi Corbyn…I thought you were a man of the people?” protested Hyena.
As ‘Corbyn’ disappeared around the bend of the road heading towards Taf Fechan Houses, Hyena was not a happy bunny.
“I thought HE was supposed to one of us lazy lot, supporting the people that don’t want to work and cop handouts from the English for free?” said Hyena.
Out of the car appeared four more of the great unwashed.
From a safe distance away hidden by the tall deciduous pine trees, Hal thought it reminded him of a Roy Castle’s Record Breakers attempt to see how many people could fit into a Mini.
Completely pointless but compelling 1970’s children’s TV.
He looked back to see if he was being following by those ‘Woollybacks’.
That was an abusive term for Welsh people but specifically for louts like the ones he had just encountered.
Every City, every Town had its fair share of scum- and clearly Merthyr Tydfil had theirs.
It was such a shame that the great beauty of the Welsh Countryside was being ruined by the likes of this kind of people.
Halford recoiled in horror, as he witnessed the car being cleared of rubbish at the expense of Mother Nature, as out of the Vauxhall Corsa was dumped a brown MuckDonalds bag, week old KFC buckets with chicken bones and of course used Lottery Scratch-cards.
He wondered what sort of upbringing these youngsters had received and what the future held for them.
With almost all manufacturing jobs now all transferred to Child Labour in Asian sweatshops by ‘British’ Entrepreneurs- there was little or no-hope for this generation of rebels in finding work even if they wanted to.
Most of their families were third generation that had not had a working parent.
An endless cycle of ever-decreasing circles of poverty, food banks and alcoholism.
His home- town of Liverpool had suffered under decades of Tory rule- as if still being punished by the Government of the day for the stubbornness of Derek Hatton and Co in the Eighties.
The Welsh Valleys - strong Labour heartlands too- were no longer the last great bastion of the working man and trade unionism- there were precious few still employed and with the inequality of the Council Tax funding system they were rapidly turning into Rotten Boroughs.
Hal Ford still saw a glimmer of hope for the upland Town- it was perched on the edge of the Brecon Beacons National Park and the future -once the Covid-19 Pandemic was over- then the Town had a chance to remarket itself as a Tourist Town.
The reason he had decided to come to South Wales was the lure of the clean air, the open road, the Taff Trail and a chance to visit Bike Park Wales.
Whilst all the jobs had gone to Asia on the plus side, so too had the pollution.
Halford decided he had better get on, as the Scummy Six were all re-entering the car and that meant they would soon be behind him on this B-road in a few minutes time.
He started to pull away on his bicycle and soon realised as he began to slow, that the road would lead to a sharp incline after a series of bad blind bends.
Inside the Corsa, the four that were jammed onto the back seat were busy fighting for whatever space their different body shapes would allow.
Pencil was fine- he was so thin from malnutrition -he could fit anywhere.
The object of most complaint was the room that supersized ‘Jack the Lard’ was taking up and that he was becoming a little too handy with ‘Easy Rider’.
The complaints only subsided after Stinkbomb did what he was famous for and a dropped a silent but deadly chapel fart that not only stopped the car mid-acceleration but also created a mass rush to open the windows.
Both driver Swastika and Hyena in the shotgun position were fine but trapped in the back of the tiny car with child-locks on – the smell malingered in the back- causing each of the trapped occupants to gag and retch- whilst Stinkbomb sat proudly savouring his own faecal aroma.
“Why is it that a fart only smells bad to those that didn’t do it? He pondered the age- old question aloud.
“You are only one fart away from a shit!” complained Pencil.
“You better not stain my seats again Stinky or you will be the second victim killed by me!” warned Swastika.
Stinkbomb went quiet both ends, as he shivered at the prospect of such a threat.
He knew that Swastika had a violent temper, which he had inherited from his abusive Father- a former amateur boxer that had taken one too many punches to the head.
In a Town like Merthyr, one of the few paths out of the gutter was the ancient gentleman’s art of pugilism.
Swastika had killed a man in only his second fight in a bout at Rhydycar Leisure Centre- hence the tattooed teardrop on his face, which was in fact a boxing glove gone wrong.
He didn’t deliberately set out to kill his opponent, but he was caught up in the legalised violence of the moment and with the furore of the crowd egging him on he just went for it.
Stinkbomb had the capability of killing people with his ring too- if only someone had informed the Bio-Weapons research facility at Porton Down in Berkshire, then they wouldn’t have had to engineer the Covid-19 virus in the first place.
Front windows down, the Corsa made its way along the length of the reservoir road with driver Swastika trying desperately to pick-up speed with the weight in the car in a car fitted with a 50 MPH speed limiting device.
Up in the distance, Hyena could just make out the lycra- clad rear end of Halford, as he struggled up the steep incline.
As he got closer, Hyena was puzzled as to what was going on in the outfit that ‘Corbyn’ was wearing.
Standing up off the seat trying to pedal hard, Hal Ford had developed a tear in the material over his long journey.
Clearly his testicles had gone South for the Winter and surrounded by a mound of white pubic hair it was quite a revolting sight.
Hyena asked Swastika – “Is that old geezer smuggling a nest of baby swans?”
Hyena loved birds.
So much so, he was always stealing eggs from nests in the Spring and after watching the plethora of cookery shows on television, made a fine Tree Sparrow Omelette too.
He used to trap ‘Greenies’ -Greenfinches and Siskins in his nets and sell them on to International Traffickers via Swansea Market.
Well -he had to find a way of sourcing his drug habit somehow.
As the car eventually drew alongside the puffing pensioner, he snorted in a deep breath and from the back of his throat compiled a huge ‘Greenie’ of his own and let fly with a loogie that struck the glasses of Hal Ford with some force.
Blinded by the snot, Hal Ford careered off the bend and into some old buddleia bushes which thankfully broke his fall.
“This is OUR turf!” shouted Hyena as the car chugged up the road as if powered by kangaroo petrol.
After checking he was uninjured, Hal Ford wiped the phlegm off his glasses and shaking with rage he set off furiously after his assailant.
“Doesn’t that scumbag know there is a pandemic on!” he fumed as he set his bike to automatic battery power.
As he caught up with the struggling car towards the prow of the second hill, he held out his right hand which contained the corkscrew of his Swiss Army knife (which he had obtained free with a Year-long- Subscription to Reader’s Digest) and proceeded to scrape the full length of the car with the point.
“Have a taste of your own medicine!” shouted Hal Ford, copying pensioner vigilante Harry Brown, as his light-weight bike flew past the overladen Corsa.
Inside the car, the sound of metal on metal was met with horror by the driver.
“Look what you have done!” screamed Swastika at Hyena.
“ You have started another Turf War over a couple of baby swans!”.
“There is no need to have a Cob on!” sulked Hyena at his admonition by the Gang Leader.
Hyena knew he would have to displace the anger onto Corbyn otherwise he would feel the wrath of Swastika.
A bit like what the Mainstream Media had done with foreigners before the Brexit vote.
Hal Ford felt great.
The worm had turned- all his life he had shied away from conflict situations but now in his Seventies, he no longer cared about his own life.
How much time did he have left anyway?
He was only a short bike ride away from the Nursing Home after all.
Those scumbags had started it and he was determined to finish it.
It could have been the onset of early dementia, but he now saw himself as Don Quixote and his trusty steed- his Raleigh Chopper – that of Sancho Panza.
As he chuckled maniacally to himself, Hal Ford reached yet another crossroads in his life.
Did he turn right through the village of Ponsticill or left towards the Dolygaer Outdoor pursuits centre?
“Which way did the old bastard go?” said Hyena as they reached the same crossroads.
“Ask that bloke in the Beanie Hat!” suggested Easy Rider from the backseat.
“Oi Butt...have you seen a pensioner on a weird bike?” asked Hyena of the village simpleton, Paul Henry.
He stared back at them for a minute before coming closer to the car.
The Village Covidiot stuck his face in through the open window and began to count the occupants.
“One...two...four...three!” he said.
“Never mind!” said Hyena.
“It’s Corbyn....he must have gone to the left!” suggested Pizza-Face.
“Left Turn Clyde!” ordered the runt not realising it had a film reference.
Hal Ford now had a five- minute head-start on the Hyena Pack and was determined to make it count.
He knew he could outrun his pursuers going uphill but not on the flat or going downhill.
As he left the village of Ponsticill, heading towards Pontsarn, he lifted his legs up off the peddles and free-wheeled, just like Paul Newman in Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid.
Very soon raindrops were falling on his head too, as the grey Autumn sky decided to add some more profit to Welsh Water plc.
He flew down the hill slowed only by the Meredith Lake near Bragdy Cottages, Vaynor, out of the thin mist appeared a semi-derelict Spanish Villa and decided he would hole up in its grounds until danger passed.
Sure enough it was a wise decision, as the Corsa suddenly passed the front gate at speed, taking the corner on two wheels with only gravity and the weight of Jack the Lard-Face bring the car level again.
Fortunately, there was no car coming the other way on the bend.
Swastika clearly hadn’t passed his driving theory test studying the correct Highway Code Manual, but from hours playing the video game ‘Grand Theft Auto’.
It was an uncomfortable ride for the front seat passenger, but in the back of the car it was terrifying, as they were thrown this way and that.
Stinkbomb was the only unmoveable object and that was because he had followed through and was now stuck to the seat.
He was now subject to a flurry of arm punches from Easy Rider, as the loose woman joined him due to seepage.
“Open that window for F**** Sake!” pleaded Pencil.
“I could chew that one!” he protested giving his fellow gang member an evil look.
The Corsa now reached another Crossroads.
“Did Corbyn go left up the Sanatorium Hill or on and up through Trefechan?” asked Swastika intent on revenge now that his car had been scratched AND his back leather seats ruined.
“Perhaps we passed him?” suggested Easy Rider.
“He can’t have got THIS Far without us catching him!” said Swastika punching the dashboard angrily- almost setting off the passenger side airbag.
“We could stop, wait for him and get out of the car?” pleaded Stinkbomb sitting in a puddle of his own shit.
“Senor Corbyn....so what do I owe this great privilege ?” came a Spanish Voice from behind him.
Hal Ford looked up and noticed a pug-ugly dark- haired woman, high up on the veranda of the building.
“I last saw you at Glastonbury when we all sang O Jeremy Corbyn!” she continued.
“I will be down now!” said the only European still left in Britain.
In the distance, Corbyn could hear the sound of a labouring Corsa engine getting closer.
He hid his trusty steed in the bushes out of sight of the road.
The door was opened and Corbyn stepped inside without invitation.
Unfortunately, he was spotted by Hyena entering the Villa, just as he rounded the bend.
“The canny old bastard just ducked into the old Addams Family House!” Hyena raged.
“What do we do?” asked Stinkbomb, desperately hoping to be allowed home by the gang leader to ‘clean up in aisle one’.
“Just like we always do with the grannies on pension day, we wait for them to come out and then mug him!” suggested Hyena.
“I’ve got a better idea!” said Swastika, der Fuhrer of the self-named Cyfarthfa Corsa Crew, eyes rolling black like an epileptic Great White Shark.
“We dump one or two of the foot soldiers off to stand guard, while we nip to the petrol station to buy a can of petrol and burn the bastard out in true Gurnos-style!”
Each of the ‘foot soldiers’ shit-welded together in the cramped seat, glanced nervously at one another.
It was one thing being involved in deep shit for the gang that controlled their activity, but this kind of arson was a whole different ball game.
“Out Jack the Lard...you’re on first watch!” order Swastika.
“Why me?” protested the obese sixteen- year- old, whose age had now been surpassed in stones on the weighing scale.
“Because the car will move faster without your weight- you great fat lump!” cackled Hyena- who had earned his nickname from the sound of his evil laughter.
Since he had teamed up with Swastika, the two had developed a reputation locally as the evilest duo since Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.
In their Pen-y-dre End of Term School Report, Swastika was described by his frustrated teacher as being the most likely pupil to commit a McDonald’s massacre.
After much struggling out of the Corsa tumbled Jack with a huge sigh of relief from the other three who no longer needed to take turns to buddy breathe.
Swastika before setting off, opened the glove compartment of the Corsa and reached inside.
He then boastfully produced a gun and waved it in the air just like he was part of the overthrow of an African Military Dictator.
“What are you going to do with that?” asked Easy Rider nervously.
“I am going to pop a cap in his wrinkly ass!” he said with all the nonchalance of Woody Harrelson in the film Natural Born Killers.
She gulped with fear.
Stinkbomb was a little less concerned, as he recognised that the gun was in fact a Diana SP50 slug-gun.
It also explained the mystery of who had been responsible for the recent spate of cats on his local estate that had died from constipation.
The car sped off in search of the closest petrol station.
Inside the Spanish House, Hal Ford was sat on the sofa holding a fine bone- china cup of tea.
“Please tell me Mr Corbyn, did you come down here on a rally?” questioned the Spanish Senorita.
“Well- a Raleigh...yes!” said Hal Ford trying not to lie by referring to his bike.
“I am Barca Loner and have been a big fan of the Hard Left for a long time!” she said putting her hand on the knee of his lycra-clad outfit.
Hal looked at his temporary host and realised he was in trouble.
Hal had jumped out of saucepan straight into the fire.
Did he remain in the house at the mercy of a local ‘cougar’ or take his chances outside with the pack of hyenas stalking him.
He felt trapped.
“So, what brings a European to come and live in Wales -especially after Brexit?” asked Hal trying to change the subject.
“My Family originally came to Merthyr from Toledo, Spain to work in the great Steelworks here- along with many other families- we were trying to avoid the clutches of General Franco and the Far Right-and Merthyr with its left-wing leanings seemed the perfect place!” said Barca.
“I have heard you are a lover of your allotment and am interested to discover what size Marrow you have?” asked the desperate Widow.
“Is that Picasso Cubist painting an original up there?” enquired Hal once again trying not to be drawn into a conversation about a bodily function that his body no longer had any relevance for.
“That is a portrait of my family!” said the surprised Senorita.
That figures thought Corbyn.
“Do you think it is well hung?” asked Barca moving her hand up closer to his crotch- but unwittingly further away from Hal’s genitalia.
“So, tell me Barca how long have you been a Labour voter?” asked Hal.
“For decades now- I was drawn in by the dashing good looks of Harold Wilson in the 1970’s and have long had the urge to be a real supporter of a good union....I love a Red Wedge me!” she said pressing her body against Hal seductively.
“Could I use your bathroom?” said the nervous pensioner.
“Dodgy Prostate!” he said dragging himself up off the sofa.
“Third door on the left!” said Barca frustratedly.
Outside the Spanish Villa, Jack the Lard was struggling to read the name of the Property on the dilapidated name plate- ‘Hy Brazil’ he concluded.
“Sounds like a made-up place!” he thought to himself, as he sat down on the wall of Dol- Y- Coed House close-by.
No sooner than he had done so than he heard a frail voice from the side entrance.
“Oi, Humpty Dumpty get off my wall now before I call the police!” said the voice.
Jack turned his head only to see a male pensioner on a walking-frame in a dressing gown and slippers despite the fact it was nearly 2pm.
“F*** Me....if it’s not Captain Tom!” said Jack unperturbed by the threat.
Even so he stood up off the wall.
“What are doing hanging around here?” queried Jerry Attrick, the original founder of Vaynor Neighbourhood watch.
“Would you believe admiring the architecture and history of one of Merthyr’s Historical buildings?” replied Jack.
The pensioner softened his tone.
“Not for one second!” said Jerry.
“Are you casing the joint?” he continued.
“No...said Jack the Lard....I am no burglar....but I AM hungry!”
The pensioner disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with a plate of biscuits which he left on the wall six feet away from the teenager.
“Here you are then but be warned if you try and break into my house, I will set my dog on you!” threatened Jerry pointing into his garden before returning into his house.
Jack could see a huge dog standing upright was attached to a chain.
An attack dog that is silent and doesn’t move?
That’s odd thought the teenager digesting his third digestive.
I wonder what breed of dog it is?
He pondered.
Perhaps it was a ninja?
Or it was stuffed?
After all you had to be very strange to live out in the Country.
Back inside Hy Brazil, Hal Ford was stuck in an uncompromising position.
One leg inside the bathroom and one leg outside reaching for the external window ledge.
His lycra suit was not the best material in the World for climbing.
His ‘Beth N Gallows’ was scraping around the metal catch.
He was determined to get away with his dignity intact.
“Are you okay in there?” shouted Barca through the locked door.
“Fine....just waiting for the engine to start!” he called back trying to sound calm.
For a brief second, he just hung there like the last turkey in the shop, before thankfully the lycra material finally gave way and gravity took effect and aided his great escape sending him tumbling towards the floor into the rear garden of the Villa.
He was soon surrounded by a colony of huge Black Celtic Rabbits- a strange sight even for Hy Brazil.
He blinked his eyes and they all magically disappeared.
He raced towards his Chopper with his own chopper hanging like a limp game bird on a poacher’s belt.
Retrieving his bicycle from the front bushes, he set off past the heavyweight schoolboy who was busy devouring the last of the biscuits and too stunned to react swiftly.
As he sped around the corner, he was pursued on foot by Jack the Lard, who suddenly disappeared from the bike’s rear-view mirror.
As the gabion wall reinforcement for the tarmac road gave way, Jack the Lad tumbled down the Pontsarn Viaduct embankment doing the ultimate roly-poly.
Hal sped on towards the Pontsarn Inn and as he rounded the corner was horrified to see that the Vauxhall Corsa was coming in the other direction.
He swerved away from the oncoming car, who had tried at the last moment to run him over.
Like a modern- day joust, the car did a doughnut turn in the former car park of the Inn before chasing after the pensioner on the bike.
Hal knew had a split-second decision to make.
Did he turn sharp left passed the Aberglais Inn or continue on towards Trefechan.
He decided that the sharp bend would be more difficult for the heavily laden car and opted for the direction towards the Blue Pool and the steep Sanatorium Hill.
The narrowness of bridge might also cause the car difficulties too.
He sped on around the bends at ridiculous speeds skidding on fallen wet leaves as he went.
He knew he would have to get across the ancient bridge first, if he was to have any chance of escape.
The car had to do a nine-point turn at the Aberglais crossroads sign, which slowed up its’ high -speed pursuit significantly.
Hal Ford could hear the Corsa Engine closing in behind him but could sense victory as he reached the narrow bridge.
He was however startled when he heard the loud bang of the car colliding with the bridge wall and wedging itself sidewise in the structure.
So much so that he wobbled on his bike, losing his balance and struck a rusty metal signpost warning of the narrow bridge- sending him flying over the handlebars and buckling his front wheel in the process.
When Hal regained his senses, he suddenly realised that the driver, Swastika had managed to free himself from the car wreck and was standing next to the wedged vehicle pointing a pistol at him.
He also noticed that there was a liquid leaking from the car spreading out onto the bridge road surface from an open cannister.
Hal reached into his belt before putting his hands up in the air in an act of surrender.
“Give me a sporting chance!” pleaded Hal of the cold- blooded murderer, as he stood there defencelessly with his bollocks hanging out of the enlarged hole in his undercarriage.
“Okay!” said Swastika, enjoying the power trip and finally having his nemesis at his mercy.
“Swing ‘Em!”
Looking down at his human cat’s cradle, Hal still had one trick up his sleeve.
He struck the lighter flint and flung it at the car.
Almost as if in slow motion, the metal slug projectile passed the lighter in mid-air as it lodged in the left gonad of the pensioner.
Hal hadn’t had any feeling in his numb nuts for years.
The lighter too found it’s target.
It ignited the fuel pool and the subsequent explosion blew the car and its occupants apart, sending Swastika high into the air and off the bridge towards his death in the Blue Pool below.
Hal was once again knocked to the ground.
When he came around some 20 minutes later, he suddenly realised he was being shaken by a masked policeman.
“What the Hell happened here?” PC Wise questioned.
Hal just shrugged his shoulders and pleaded ignorance.
“Sir, Name & Address?” asked the Copper.
“Jeremy Corbyn- Islington North!” replied Hal in a posh London accent.
“Okay....on your bike!”
The camera pans to the grey-haired Welshman sat behind his desk.
“Good Evening and welcome to this special BBC edition of Celebrity ‘Evil’ Mastermind!” said presenter John Humphreys.
“On tonight’s edition – my last ever for reasons that will become apparent later – we have a special show lined-up for you and in order to show balance we have three Right Wing narcissists and one Commie here to answer a series of questions in the allotted time of two minutes!”
“Let’s meet them!” continued the former newsreader.
“From the USA- President Donald Trump!”
The POTUS turns and smiles at the wrong camera.
“From Islington London – former Leader of the Opposition – Comrade Jeremy Corbyn!” said the presenter.
The Cameraman adds a special Newsnight filter to make it look like he is wearing a Red Ushanka hat complete with hammer and sickle on the front.
It is plainly visible as an add-on- as Corbyn nods towards the viewers at home.
“Liberty Peace Prize Winner and former Prime Minister Tony Blair!” announces Humphreys.
His Royal Tonyness, smiles cheesily, just like a ‘Cheshire Pony’ at the little screen whilst looking around for the autocue.
“And last and by all means least- current Prime Minister of the United Kingdom but mainly England- Boris Johnson!”
Boris is slouched in his chair, dishevelled blonde hair pointing in all directions, just like a schoolboy who hasn’t been dressed by his Mother/Nanny that Morning.
“Who Me?” replies Johnson as the studio goes quiet – all the time looking around for Dominic Cullings.
“So first up, we have the Leader of the Western World, President of the United States of America, Donald John Trump- if you would like to take the chair?” invited the presenter.
“Take it where?” replied Trump.
“It looks GREAT (showing all of someone else’s teeth in his mouth) but I have better one back in the White House in Washington back home in the US of A- it is probably made in China anyway….!” He continued unabated.
After a hand gesture from Humphreys towards the Hot Seat- Trump made his way slowly – just like a bear nurturing a ten pound turd but unable to find any woods close by- .
No sooner than he had sat down heavily breaking the thing than he uttered –
“Definitely China… look how easy it broke under my nine stone frame- Do I have to raise my right hand for the Holy Book like the Grand Jury?” asked Trump.
“‘No-there is no book for you to swear on!” replied Humphreys.
“Good-not a bigly fan of books anyway-don’t colour or read them anymore!” replied the President.
“So, your chosen subject is?” asked Humphreys.
“Me!” replied Trump
“Okay -you have two minutes on your specialist subject starting now!” said the Presenter speeding up towards the end of the sentence.
“ You were born on 14 th June 1946, what sign are you?”
“Cancer!” replied the POTUS.
“Incorrect- you are Gemini- the Twins” said the Presenter.
“Fake news….there is only one Donald J Trump!” replied Trump.
“What number President are you?” asked Humphreys.
“Number One- better than Osama- less impeachable than Nixon!” said the Don.
“Incorrect- 45 was the answer!” continued Humphreys.
“Fake news- 45 was the answer I gave to the N.R.A to stop the school shootings- I told them to arm the teachers and the children too, that way they would have a fighting chance if the terrorists attack- it’s the in the American Constitution – the pursuit of happiness- Will Smith or Kayne West told me- I can never tell them apart-!” replied Trump.
“Are you referring to the second amendment and the right to ‘bear arms’? “replied the quiz host getting all confused by the replies.
“Who wants bear arms?- there’s nothing wrong with these human ones I got!”
Humphreys shook his head- half of the allotted time was up and he had concluded that this President’s head was more shot than JFK.
“Which political party do you represent?” asked the interviewer.
“Is this a trick question? Oh KKK… because I am tempted to say I was ‘Putin Power” by my good friend and good friend to America….to help turn back the clock…return to the use of fossil fuels and that fake global watering ….install coal burning fires and surrounds and make America ‘Grate’ again!”
Humphreys just shook his head and ploughed on.
‘So, what excuse did you give to dodge the Vietnam War Draft?” asked Humphreys.
“It WASN’T an excuse… said Trump glaring at the Welshman….”I had bone spurs…if you don’t believe me ….ask Stormy Daniels ‘She will confirm… I had them on when riding her dressed as a Dallas cowboy!”
“‘I’ll accept!” said Humphreys.
“What did you claim was your favourite rock album on Radio Station Minneapolis Burning?” asked Humphreys.
“Houses of the Holy by Led Zeppelin!” replied the Orangeman.
“Incorrect- it was the Wall by Pink Floyd!” said the presenter.
“Fake news- I don’t like any rap music by protesters from Dixieland or is that Disneyland?” replied the walking Tango Advert.
The end of round claxon sounded.
“Congratulations Mr Trump you scored one and pissed on two -Russian Prostitutes that is-!”
Trump smiled to himself- remembering that experience warmly- whilst sleeping in the shallow end of that impromptu Moscow waterbed.
He had beaten his own high score and now deserved a UK tax-free Costa Cofefe for his efforts.
As he had been sat in the Hot Seat under the BBC studio lights- there was a pool of orange liquid underneath the chair and a familiar stain on the back of his fawn golfing trousers.
“Second Contestant would you please come to chair!” asked Humphreys.
‘Please state your full name for the record….I would remind you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you probably out of context and to our own ends…do you understand?” asked the BBC Griller.
“I understand…Jeremy Bernard Corbyn… but known to my followers simply as JC!” said the former Leader of the Opposition.
“ Bernard!” sniggered Humphreys.
“As in Bernardo O’Higgins, the Chilean Communist Guerrilla Leader?”
“Yes but No but he was a Freedom fighter!” replied Corbyn made to sound like Little Britain character Vicki Pollard.
“And your chosen specialist subject is?” asked the questioner.
“Allotments that changed the World” replied Corbyn.
“Okay!” sniggered Humphreys once again.
“You have two minutes starting now!”
“How do they arrange the ‘radishical’ movements of root vegetables in the Moscow State Allotment Society?”
“In Red Squares!” replied Corbyn.
“Correct!” announced Humphreys.
“Which vegetable was King of the Hippies, John Lennon promoting with his bed lie in protest with Yoko Ono in Amsterdam in 1969?” asked the presenter.
“Peas!” – replied Corbyn.
“Give peas a chance!” he said quoting the dead Beatle.
“Correct!” said Humphreys.
“He is giving him the easy ones!” moaned Trump as he put his tiny ‘GI JOE’ sized hand up and whispered behind the back of it at the other two contestants.
“What luminous vegetables did the Conservative UK Government import in bulk from Mother Russia in 1986 because they were cheap to supply to the poor?” asked Humphreys glaring at a different kind of luminous vegetable for the interruption.
“Chernobyl Carrots- they came with a ‘glowing reference’ and a shelf life of 1-5 years!” replied Corbyn.
“Correct!” said Humphreys.
“A bit like his chlorinated chicken then!” said Corbyn nodding at the Political Oompa Loompa.
“Fake News!” came the broken record reply.
“What was the name of your Palestinian cook book about your fresh allotment produce penned in 2016?” asked Humphreys.
“From Hummus to Hamas!” replied the weirdy beardy.
“Which record did you say you would take with you if you were castaway on a deserted atoll off Cuba on Radio Four’s Desert Island Discs?” asked Humphreys.
“Rhapsody in Blue by the Gershwin Brothers” replied Corbyn.
“George always stole the limelight from his elder brother so I felt a little sorry for him!” he continued.
“Correct-so, we can confirm on the BBC that you are now an admitted IRA sympathiser?” said Humphreys seizing on the slip.
“Do you know -there are thousands of women in this Country on NHS waiting lists and I am always the first to get smeared!” replied Corbyn- red smoke then liquid emanating from his ears- just like a poisoned Communist Pope.
“What group are Angel of Islington blood oranges?” asked the interviewer.
Corbyn shook his head and looked doubtful for the first time.
“Blood Group A Positive- as they contain a red wedge?” said the fairest Prime Minister this Country never had.
“Incorrect- it was O-Jeremy Corbyn- O- Jeremy Corbyn!”- sang Humphreys in a Pre-Covid-19 Glastonbury 2017 White Stripes tune….”But your Trotskyist Red Blood Group is noted!”
As the claxon sounded- Humphreys announced that Corbyn had scored 5 out of a possible 6 and not passed on any questions- unlike the current Prime Minister Boris Johnson in his time at the Despatch Box in Parliament.
“Fair play- the many and not the few!”
Corbyn flicked a V at Humphreys before turning and heading for his vacant seat.
“Next up- we have former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom Anthony Charles Lynton Blair!” said Humphreys.
The darkened BBC studio was lit up by the most enormous set of gnashers to grace the place since Esther Rantzen had a ‘sausages’ face- off with Theo the Poodle.
“Hi, I’m Tony!” announced the politician.
“Well would you like to tell the audience at home what your specialist subject is tonight?” asked Humphreys.
“Spin Doctoring, manipulating the media and how to win elections!” replied the former PM, whilst continuing to smile at the camera the whole time just like a ventriloquist dummy.
“Okay , Mr Blair you have two minutes on the subject starting….NOW!” Said Humphreys.
“Can’t I have three?” asked His Royal Tony-ness.
There was a pregnant pause before John Humphreys replied
“Okay- because you put it so nicely, you can have three!”.
There were howls of outrage from the previous two contestants who were busy muttering the phrase ‘BBC Bias’.
“That’s spin for you!” Blair said smiling all the while.
“Question one- Who did you recommend to be your successor in the Labour Party in 2010?” asked Humphreys.
“Anyone BUT him!” said Blair pointing a manicured finger with painted nails with a red rose on each one in the direction of Corbyn.
“Correct!” said Humphreys to howls of protest from his Left Wing.
“The Momentum is really with you now Tony!”
“Who do you think will lead the party to victory in the 2023 General Election?” asked Humphreys.
“Someone in my own non-spitting image- a fellow barrister- someone with a Christian Name of a famous Labour politician to sound like a convincing socialist but in actual fact is further on the right wing of the party than Charles Lindbergh!” continued the Blair Rich Project.
“As a politician are you going to give me a straight answer or what?” asked Humphreys.
“Keir Starmer!” announced Blair.
“Correct….at least he can eat a non-antisemitic bacon sandwich correctly!” replied Humphreys.
“What is the difference between WKD and WMD?” continued Humphreys.
“They found WKD in a bar in Iraq- but no WMD?” replied the Blair faced bliar.
“Correct!”- said the presenter.
“Phew….!” replied Blair with a noticeable single bead of sweat added by the BBC make-up department to give the impression he was under pressure.
“What is the difference between Bosnian Serbian leader Dragomir Milosevic, Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goring and Tony Blair?”
“Pass!” said Blair as quickly as possible.
“Who was responsible for securing the Belfast Agreement ‘Good Friday Peace Process in Northern Ireland?” asked Humphreys.
“It was me- I should have got a ‘Tony Award’ for it!” Blair said modestly- nose enlarging slowly.
“Fake news!” came a shout from the dark- but not from the USA Orange State but from Corbyn instead.
“It was ME that met with Sinn Fein over a couple of McGuinnesses!” protested the Allotment King.
“John Hume would be turning in his grave if he heard THAT!” replied Blair.
“Conveniently- you would have to EX-HUME him to validate that- and that would take some special SPIN DOCTOR to boot!” said Corbyn.
“I Trimble at the very thought!” replied Blair.
“Correct!” said Humphreys much to the bemusement of Corbyn.
“It would appear for a man who believes in unilateral disarmament, you have a strong militant tendency -any more interruptions Mr Corbyn and I will have you removed from the studio and your gulags sent to the four corners of the former United Kingdom!” threatened Humphreys.
“I will have you know that Saint Blair of Edinburgh here has a history of receiving Peace Prizes- he won a Liberty Medal for his ‘commitment to conflict resolution’ in 2010.!” Said the BBC presenter.
“Which immigration barrister is set to defend the Shamina Begum appeal case?” asked Humphreys.
“My Cherie Amour!” sang Blair just like Stevie Wonder.
“Correct!”
The Claxon sounded and the presenter announced.
“At the end of that round Mr Blair, you have scored five and passed on one-what is the difference between Bosnian Serbian leader Dragomir Milosevic, Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goring and Tony Blair?”
“The answer to that is you were all born under the star sign Taurus and capable of talking a lot of bull!”.
“I can think of a different one!” shouted Corbyn- as he was dragged away with his arms restrained by two burly undercover policemen wearing Rachel Riley tee-shirts marked ‘Taking the Countdown!’
“And to think you Guys are part of the same Labour Movement!” chortled Humphreys.
“Of course- we are!” smiled the Grinch that stole a Party.
“Next up we have Prime Minister Johnson!” announced Humphreys.
Boris was slumped in his chair, lolling like he was Jacob Rees-Mogg, lying across the front benches of Parliament.
At the sound of his name, Boris put on a smirk across his face that Stephen King Horror Clown character IT would have been proud.
As Bozo the Buffoon, slid his way towards the chair Humphreys’ manner seemed to change somewhat.
“Please would you fasten your seatbelt Mr Johnson- it is a conditional requirement by the BBC Director General in your case!” ordered the wily Welshman.
“Bloody EU Health & Safety!” mumbled Johnson under his alcohol enhanced breath.
Boris did as he was told.
No sooner than the seatbelt was clicked shut- Humphreys ducked down behind the desk just like the bar tender in the custard pie throwing scene of Bugsy Malone.
And in his place appeared BBC News Presenter Andrew Neil.
“Crikey….I have walked into a giant elephant trap!” Boris spluttered.
“Good afternoon Boris….it seems like you won’t get away from me after all!” said Neil.
“Yikes- why do I get the feeling I am about to be scoured by a Brillo and his I-Pad?” gulped the PM.
“So, please state your full name for the audience and chosen specialist subject!” asked Neil.
“Boris Johnson….sex. lies and the odd videotape!” said the blonde former Etonian whose hair made him look as if he had been dragged through a hedge fund backwards.
“Incorrect!” said Andrew Neil.
“It’s Alexander Boris De Pfeffel Johnson!” came the reply.
“I say old boy that’s a bit below the belt!” mumbled the man of the people.
“So why did you give the home address of a journalist from the News of the World to your friend Darius Guppy in 1993?” asked Neil.
“Uhhh….I thought he wanted to send him a ‘Get Well Card’…!” stuttered Boris.
“But he wasn’t unwell at the time- now was he?” countered Neil.
“Well he was about to be- I was just a little ahead of time on that one!” said the PM.
“So- an easy one next- How many biological children have you spawned so far?” asked Neil.
“Pass!” said Johnson.
“When you were Mayor of London you made more U-Turns than Dick Whittington but did you try to erect your own version of a ‘garden’ bridge whilst trying to ‘remain’ at the top of the poles?” interrogated Neil.
“Let’s just say it is not just Britain and America that has a special relationship!” replied Bojo.
“Unless you give me a straight answer… I can’t award you the point!” said Neil.
“Granted!” replied the PM.
“I’ll take that as a different kind of ‘pass’ then!” replied the interviewer.
“ Can’t I get Philip Schofield and Holly Willoughby instead?” asked Boris trapped in the hot seat like an inadequate stunt man in the movie Fifty Shades of Grey.
“Wrong channel!” replied Brillo off the top of his head.
“Nigel Farage keeps going on about that!” replied the Eton Mess trying like all politicians to witter on about nothing to run down the airtime.
“Tubby, what Planet are you on?- You can’t hide in a fridge this time!” replied the former Hard Times man.
“Zanuzzi?” mumbled the buffoon.
“So, why did you grant permission for Dominic Cullings suffering from the coronavirus to drive five hours to Durham at the height of a pandemic?” barked Neil.
“Or allow Pa Churchill to fly off to Greece when everyone else is stuck with quarantine?
Boris placed his fingers in his ears and started to make ‘la- la noises’ to override the tough questions.
“This isn’t PMQ’s!” shouted Andrew Neil as he administered a 15- volt electric shock direct to the PM.
Boris’ eyes widened for the first time and his blonde hair suddenly went like it had been combed and immaculately groomed- just like Max Headroom or the new Keir Starmer look.
“You can’t torture people…. this is England not Saudi Arabia!” protested Boris.
“Don’t you remember your 60 MP majority voted through to repeal the Human Rights Act when you left the European Union!” replied Andrew Neil evilly.
“I don’t remember that!” said the shocked laboratory monkey.
“It was just after Christopher Chope vetoed the up-kilting mobile phone ban in Scotland !” recalled Brillo.
“Is that the one that upset Nicola Sturgeon and made her a little Krankie?” asked Boris horrified.
“Here is a Presidential Order signed by Donald Trump that as part of the US/UK trade deal negotiated by Pork Baron Liz Truss that this studio is now controlled by the Walt Disney Corporation of Florida and thereby all Federal Laws of that Orange County State now apply in this Studio!” continued Neil.
“To include the electric chair and death penalty for failure!”
“So Boris, you REALLY are in the Hot Seat!”
“But answer me one last request before you push that button and fry my brain what did the UK get in return?” asked Boris.
“Silk stockings and chocolate!” came the reply.
“Nothing changes!”
Dai Commando looked just like any normal person.
Average height, average weight even average shoe size.
But underneath he was no ordinary G.I. Joe.
You would never hear it from Dai’s own lips, but the regulars in his local public house in Dowlais- the T.A.’s (The Tredegar Arms) would tell you- whilst he may have served in the Royal Marines – ‘He was Made in Merthyr’.
Mainly because he was conceived on top of a wheelie bin behind Wetherspoon’s in Post Office Lane.
Dai Commando turned his I-pad on ready for his 11.00am Zoom Meeting.
It was top secret and confidential stuff.
Punctually was Dai’s middle name and he hated people who were late even more than he hated foreigners- and that was saying something.
After inputting his own version of the Enigma Code into the Apple device, he promptly ate the piece of paper that contained the sequence.
Up on the split screen appeared three men, two of which most people would recognise from television and the other as anonymous as an alcoholic deed poll clerk.
“Good Morning Mr Perkins!” said the figure on the left of the screen.
Dai’s commando training noticed that the background behind this man was very bland indeed.
Magnolia walls and no discernible trace details of the location.
The middle man had a mop of unkempt blonde hair and appeared a little of out his comfort zone.
He was sitting on a green leather bench reminiscent of those that MP’S sit on in the House of Commons in Parliament and immediately sticking out from underneath him was a thick document marked ‘Russian Report’.
The third individual had bulging eyes and looked like a human version of a frog.
Behind the human Freddo was a huge bookcase with an array of books thereon with Mein Kampf, Der Fatherland, Uncle Tom’s Cabin and the Al Jolson Story clearly visible.
“For the purpose of this interview, please refer to us from left to Far Right as Philby, Boris & McLean!” continued the Oxbridge voice.
“So, Mr Perkins…. if that is indeed your real name…the big question is why do you want to register as a spy with MI5?”
Dai Commando had wanted to be a spy his entire life.
Now in one 30-minute interview, he had to justify exactly why that was to people far less qualified than himself.
None of these three had ever waterboarded a prisoner- none of these three had killed a man with his bare hands -nor spent an Arabian night sleeping inside the rotting carcass of a dead camel.
“My name is not important, I just want the opportunity to continue the excitement of foreign travel and the kind of freedom of movement that has been curtailed following the EU withdrawal bill and not to have a 14 day quarantine period just like Pa Churchill…. I want the ‘buzz’ of the chase- but more importantly I want to be licensed to kill like the Russians over Litvinenko or any member of the Saudi Consulate in Istanbul!” said Dai.
Boris interrupted.
“I get aroused by foxhunting too but may I suggest the DWP rather than MI5 if you really want a licence to kill a much greater number?”
“Austerity can only last for so long, before the general public rumble you-I want the adrenaline rush of defending these shores from Foreign influence and carry a knife in London without being stopped and searched every ten minutes!” replied Dai.
“Are you prepared to place a limpet mine on the bottom of a refugee boat in the middle of the English Channel?” asked McLean.
“What again?” replied Dai.
“Do you want me to beat the ‘Living Daylights’ out of George Galloway too?”
“Sounds like my kind of man…your hired… let’s all meet down the Saracen’s Head for a pint then!” said McLean.
“Not so fast…I have a few questions before you begin Putin Britain First!” said Philby with a Freudian slip.
“Why are you dressed as a Babushka woman from the Motherland ?” he continued.
“I am incognito!” replied Dai.
“Great- he can speak French too, pub it is then!” said McLean licking his frog-spawn like lips.
“Whoa, hold your chevaux-what experience had you had in such stealth matters?” asked Philby of the Babushka.
“I served in the Special Boat Service, did two tours of duty in Iraq- I am pictured on the internet- in disguise of course- helping the locals pull down the statue of an evil man with a rope - !” replied Dai.
“In Baghdad?” asked Boris.
“Bristol!” replied Dai.
“I served in Afghanistan too- where I had my leg blown off by an IED-!” said Dai lifting his long hippy skirt to reveal a metal leg and curved Oscar Pistorius scimitar foot and a fine pair of bollocks too.
Dai Commando alright.
The reaction on Boris’s face was priceless, as he recoiled in horror.
“Don’t let this little thing put you off hiring me- this is like a Swiss Army blade and contains a bag of killing tools that Villanelle in Killing Eve would die for!” said Dai Commando.
“See this sonic screwdriver attachment…I once killed a man with it on the Jeffrey Epstein’s ‘Lolita Express’ private jet and then used this handy Dyson attachment to ‘hoover’ up his remains before dropping them Mid-Atlantic into the sea!” boasted Dai Commando looking like a QVC salesperson.
“How did you get on that plane?” Asked Boris....I heard it was reserved for Royalty and had a 14 year old waiting list?”
“The Old Boy Network of course!” replied Dai.
“It was full of shady characters that you expect to see as Bond Villains in Spectre…there was definitely more than an Oddjob or two going on by the cabin crew- ‘bobbing for diamonds’ – after all they do say diamonds ARE forever!”
“I really miss the other Old Boy Network!” sighed Boris.
“But now I have a new born one- year old gargantuan baby and a puppy to support- handy for the election photographs but hard work for Nanny Carrie ever since!”
“Times are hard, with half the Country unemployed after the Pandemic and Brexit fiascos, I can’t even afford to re-join the Bullingdon Club and burn £50.00 notes in front of the homeless anymore on my ‘chickenfeed salary’…I wonder sometimes if it REALLY was worth avoiding the EU Tax Directive after all…I blame David Cameron for his pig’s breakfast and the entire Eton Mess!”
All the while the real Head of MI5- known professionally as Malcolm X- sat silent.
He knew he could kick up a fuss like Rosa Parks on a Cleveland Avenue bus but just like the work in progress on the Civil Service- his secret organisation would be disbanded by the real hand that rocked his cradle- Countryman and Comrade Dominic Cummings.
“Cummings?....is that the Guy who writes for the S*N newspaper on page 5 every week or am I thinking of a different Fifth Columnist? ’
“Out of curiosity… was that Fat Cabbage guy on there?” interrupted Boris nervously.
“Fat Cabbage?” asked Dai Commando perplexed.
“You know.... the one that produced the Bondage Films?” continued Bo Jo.
“ I think he means Cubby Broccoli!” said Philby deciphering another Bletchley Park code instantly.
“I think so….I will check this little black book I copied on my mobile camera-phone lifted from the Maxwell House….let me see in the A-listers we have Allen (Woody), Andrew also filed under H and even more Woody…Bill Clinton, Bill Cosby, Blair…sorry I can’t see any Broccoli….although it appears that some of them did have their five a day and some as many as eight!” replied Dai Commando squinting at the allocated lists of Octopussy.
“Can you turn that phone to the screen?” asked McLean.
Commando Dai being in an interview wanted to give his intended new employers what they wanted to both hear and see.
“I wonder what the phrase had a B.J. stands for?” asked McLean innocently.
“What time does that Pub of yours close?” said Boris trying to change the subject.
“ It’s not in Leicester is it?”
“The Saracen’s Head you mean?” asked McLean thoughts turning automatically to being given head.
“Can we get back to the task in hand Gentleman?” ordered Philby politely.
“So what makes you think you are the best man for the job over Idris Elba?” asked the MI5 Chief.
“This IS a secure link is it Sir?” asked Dai Commando.
“100% British telephone company from Tyneside- the Huawai the Lads network of 5G!” boasted McLean.
“Only our friends at the CIA, Microsoft, Apple, Google and Siri have access to this network- so it is unlikely to be shared anywhere- please be assured- it is as safe as Jennifer Lawrence’s I-Cloud!” said Philby.
“Well I possess a Polonium 210 tipped Umbrella, some Novichok cakes and a phial of Covid 19 that our lab techs created at Porton Down research place to f*** up the Chinese economy!” said Dai Commando.
“I also do the Thunderball lottery religiously every week!”
“Sounds good to me!” said Kermit McLean thin green legs dangling on the stairs.
“Pub anyone?” he continued looking at his Swiss watch and both his British Blue and Red EU passports.
Boris nodded enthusiastically.
“Do I get a certificate marked Cobra meeting for the haters?” he continued.
“One final question- Mr Perkins if I may?” asked Boris.
“How would YOU stop Russian infiltration of the Security Services producing fake election results in the UK?”
“Asking for a friend of course!”
“Read Peter Wright’s banned Spycatcher book- don’t employ people on your staff people who have worked in Russia for three years, don’t except donations from oligarchs for party funds, don’t play tennis against anyone wearing a sickle n hammer tee-shirt instead of a Fred Perry one and make sure the only Computer Haka you allow into the civil service is a Rugby- playing one!”.
“That way just like Jennifer Arcuri you will stay top of the polls and won’t suffer a ‘Skyfall’ replied Dai.
“Employ me because I am not easily shaken or stirred!”
“After all my word is my Bond!”
...
Robert Godber was the last Punk left in the South Wales Valleys.
It was nearly 43 years since the Sex Pistols had shocked the Rock N Roll Community with their slogans of Never Mind the Bollocks and God save the Queen.
How times had changed.
So had the slogans too.
Never Mind the Botox and God shave the Queen was more relevant to 2020.
However, strangely enough he was still Public Enemy No 1 in the little valley Town of Merthyr Tydfil, as despite the health warnings of Covid-19, the dirty bastard still insisted on spitting on the pavement everywhere he went.
All the colours of the rainbow- but mainly shades of yellow and green paint you could only find on a B & Q paint chart.
In fact, the streets around where Rob squatted on Brecon Road were so full of spittle, most visitors thought that Merthyr had seen an influx of Premiership Footballers.
At 56 years, Rob the Gob, as he was known locally, had become quite an accomplished shot with his mouth.
He put it down to a misspent youth and his upbringing in the 1970’s as a latchkey kid, developing his oral skills, by using his pea shooter and box of hard- boiled Leo peas to take out the bulbs on the top of the wooden lampposts.
His Norwegian music teacher in school, Mr Per Cushion, had noticed that Rob had both strong lungs and a powerful trachea and therefore had him marked his strong voice out in his class as a potential trumpeter, nicknaming him the ‘new Sachmo’.
Rob thought to himself ‘What a wonderful World he lived in’ back in his halcyon schooldays, when all he had to worry about was avoiding his drunken Father’s fists and how much ‘bingo’ money he could steal from his Mother’s coat pockets before she noticed.
Now being a rebel all his life, hadn’t helped him one iota.
He had no job, he lived in a squat house that was overdue demolition, with no means of heating or lighting or mains sanitation and worse still, his advanced hair-loss had meant his green and blue Mohican/Stegosaurus had gone the way of the dinosaurs too.
His foray into the World of Punk Rock, busking outside train and bus stations under the band name of ‘Dogs die in Hot Cars’ had ended prematurely, after his backing vocalist, Flob the Dog, had been bitten by karma and died in his former mate’s hot car.
Rob the Gob didn’t care for anyone anymore- human or animal, especially after another traumatic event in his sad existence.
He was nearly 30, when his 16 year old running mate, Rusty Pinn, had died at the Reading Festival in 1992 at the Carling ‘Monsters of Rock’ Festival, whilst watching Nirvana- drowning in the Mosh Pit in a sea of what smelled like Teen Spirit and he had a held a ‘grunge’ against the World ever since.
He was the only person to cheer at the TV, when he heard that Kurt Cobain had blown his own head off with a shotgun.
There wasn’t much Love lost.
Rob the Gob didn’t have many material possessions but he was quite a follower of fashion with his proudest possession being a pair of Vivienne Westwood trousers from the Punk era with 40 different zip fasteners sown into them.
Which was great when you are 17 years of age but not so good when have a dodgy prostate at 56 with a failing memory too.
To add to Rob’s woes, he had also had an unfortunate accident whilst off his head glue-sniffing in Aberfan Cemetery.
Whilst listening to the Punk Band ‘The Skids’, he had pogoed himself into an uncharted mine entry inadvertently going ‘into the Valley’ in a totally different way.
His dyslexic sniffing mate, Alf Abett, would have saved him but unfortunately, he was arrested for importuning after he was caught ‘sniffing aerosols’.
When the rescuers found him three days later, he had to have an emergency operation to remove three days build-up of mucus, which equated and weighed three Pounds in weight from his throat.
He was given an emergency tracheostomy and had a tube inserted into his windpipe.
He was only capable of communicating with hand gestures or by placing a kazoo next to his larynx, making him sound like an effeminate Darth Vader.
Strangely enough, it didn’t stop him spitting.
Perhaps it was because of his past addiction to Camel cigarettes, but he could still produce more Phlegmish works of kerbside art than Belgian painter Peter Paul Rubens.
But when life gives you lemons, I suppose you have to do something with them.
And in this life, when one door closes a new airway opens.
Rob’s tracheostomy was to hand him an unexpected lifeline.
After the local pub, the Catholic Arms had reopened its’ doors to a limited number of visitors due to the new social distancing provisions, by accident Rob had discovered a strange new talent.
Whilst sitting in the snug, a fellow drinker, Ystradgynlais’ own Rory Railtrack had complained to the barman about the smell of Rob’s breath and the barman decided to take matters into his own hands by placing a Glade Plugin Air Freshener in Rob’s throat-hole.
It worked for a short time, but Rob suddenly realised this was an infringement of his human rights.
In anger, he thrust down his diaphragm internally with mind control and pumped his lungs with all his might.
Aiming for the sweet-spot between the ‘Neath’anderthal’s complainant’s eyes- just below his unibrow- Rob let fly.
The Glade Plug-in shot out and smacked the caveman right between the eyes and just like the Biblical confrontation between David & Goliath, the giant man of orange apparel dropped like a stone to the floor.
This brought out a loud cheer from the rest of the room, as the dazed railway worker was led from the bar in the direction of the casualty department of the Queen Camilla Hospital.
Rob had never been so popular.
He had rid them of the pub version of Simpsons’ bully Nelson Muntz.
Pints were passed to the Down and Out in Brecon Road Hills and whilst he may have had the dishevelled look about him of Nick Nolte- he no longer felt like a Poor Man but a Rich Man too.
He was even more surprised to be offered a game of darts by one of the regular more sporting patrons, Len ‘The Bull’ Taurus.
Rob felt honoured but his attempts at hitting the board failed miserably despite being given a 200 point head-start by his fellow ‘dartiste’.
He bounced more times off the tyre than Brazilian racing driver Ayrton Senna.
And then Rob had an Epiphany.
By placing the flight in the hole in his throat, he then followed the same diaphragm and throat manoeuvre that he had with the Railway Bully and all of a sudden, he was hitting treble twenty with each ‘throw’.
Len the Bull was astonished.
“Hit double top!” came the request.
Rob concentrated and the repeated the procedure.
The dart struck it’s intended target.
Again and again repeated requests from the bar to hit a certain spot were met by Rob.
He was now more accurate than a US Drone strike over Iran.
The Pub Landlord, Alan Murray, was shocked to see that Rob could hit more doubles than even he could and he was suffering from ‘Publican’s disease’.
However, the entrepreneur realised this was the chance he had been waiting for.
Kismet had ‘thrown’ this golden opportunity his way and he was determined to seize his chance.
He had read in the Industry Newspaper that local businesses were being given a kickstart by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and despite the scientist promised second wave of Coronavirus not occurring, people had changed their habits and were no longer using pubs, inns and taverns with the frequency that they once were.
His Commercial Landlord based in the Tax Exile Cayman Islands, had come up with a series of promotions to encourage more punters to return in numbers by arranging for celebrities to visit their establishments.
But at the same time expected full rent for the three -month period the pub was unable to open.
Who could possibly resist missing a Karaoke Night with Jedward or a Mixed Martial Arts wrestle with Conor McGregor (before the real action happened at closing time) or visiting a newly refurbished Punch Tavern hosting Tyson Fury.
But the one that stood out to him was an evening of ‘Red Arrows’ with Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor, the Stoke-on Trent born, 16- time World Champion.
He was aware that the Olympic athlete was currently touring the UK and was prepared to take on all and sundry with a prize of £250,000.00 to any amateur pubgoer that could beat him over 3 legs.
Alan Murray pulled up the full rules on his mobile phone and began to read them.
If only he had taken this much time and scrutinized his pub tenancy agreement in the same way he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
His Tenancy Agreement with no Coronavirus provision meant he was still liable for full rent during the pandemic, and worse still he was obliged to buy his beer from the tied brewery at inflated prices, despite not having anyone to sell it to for over four months.
He now had more barrels than the Great White Shark in Jaws.
He scanned the rules in depth:
No Professional Players.
No discrimination- Male or Female players or combinations of both were eligible to enter the Contest.
B.A.M.E players to be given a discount off the entry fee.
DISABLED PLAYERS TO BE ENCOURAGED TO TAKE PART.
No re-throws allowed.
Only one entry per person allowed.
Referee’s decision to be final in all circumstances.
Free Goldfish to be given to all participants.
One phrase that jumped out at him was that of encouraging the disabled to take part.
Surely, Rob the Gob would fall into that category?
So what that he would have to spend thousands widening the doors, put in ramps and an mechanical lift near the dart board in the main bar- but IF an agreement could be reached with Rob and THEY won that prize then it would be the solution to their problems and they could BOTH breathe easier.
Not only that there would be a book in it and the spin-off film rights too.
Go ahead Punk and make my day!
Alan Murray the Pub Landlord was on his own self-induced Flight of Fantasy.
He decided the best course of action was to run an internal darts contest to test Rob’s new found ability.
The Evening of the Warm-up started well and despite a mere sixteen entrants turning up Rob had won the contest hands down.
So much hands down in fact, it was almost like the first ever live darts and ventriloquist act ever performed.
Come the final against Len the Bull, he was so confident of hitting his intended target that he had shouted the phrase ‘a gottle of gear’, as the dart made its way towards double top.
As Rob was crowned Catholic Arms Pub Champion much drunken celebration took place, with celebratory Covid-19 hugs all round.
Alan was now happy to submit the application form for entry online and provide a £500.00 bond.
The Bond was too ensure that the former World Champion would not turn up to an empty pub with few punters present to the embarrassment of Phil Taylor.
They didn’t want a Power Shortage or a Blackout like had previously happened at a Jim Davidson gig.
Due to the size of the bar, only 100 people were allowed as this was the maximum capacity for Health & Safety purposes.
In recent years, this had never been a problem but Alan had to take precautions and had charged £10.00 per punter entry fee to come in.
Rob was allowed one free ticket and had chosen to invite his fellow homeless friend, Pierce Head to the gathering.
He wanted Pierce to bear witness to his big payday by beating the Power in his own back yard.
Rob also had a grudge against the local electricity company, who had discovered his abstraction of electricity and shut the Power off at his squat.
His mate, Pierce Head, had already hit the jackpot by being temporarily rehoused in the 3star Castle Hotel for the period of the pandemic.
Very soon, he was being turfed out onto the street by Central Government immediately once the subsidy stopped.
In the meantime, Pierce was making merry lying on the floor in a pool of his own alcoholic vomit and piss.
Rob was getting nervous as the Competition was due to start at 7pm and it was nearly 6.15pm, as he stood outside the hotel trying to waken his friend who was busy doing an impression of the late Keith Moon of WHO fame.
Rob called up from Glebeland Street below for Pierce to hurry up.
He eventually came to the first- floor window, grey faced looking like all the blood in his body had been replaced by alcohol- which in truth it had.
“I am locked in – my religious parents are trying an intervention!” shouted back the living flagon.
“I have an idea!” shouted back Rob.
“Do you remember the Children’s story Rapunzel?”
The other grim brother from above replied “Yes!”
“Step away from the window now!” ordered Rob.
As Pierce did so, he sucked in his diaphragm and hocked a twelve- foot green ‘loogie’ skyward towards the hotel room window just like Marvel character Spiderman firing a web.
“Rapunzel, let down your hair!” shouted the drunken Pierce, as he slid down the impromptu builder’s chute funnel to safety below.
The pair raced their way to the Catholic Arms.
They made it with two minutes to spare.
Pierce was let in first but Rob was held back as Phil Taylor made his entrance from the lounge with dry ice to the song ‘I have the Power’ by Snap.
He looked the business in his flashy satin shirt with ‘The Power’ emblazoned on his back.
Rob hadn’t even chosen a song.
All he could think of was a Marc Bolan and T-Rex hit.
He asked the Landlord if he had ‘’I hock a loogie…jitterbug bogies- on the jukebox- which fortunately he did.
His Sports Direct tee-shirt had Rob ‘the Cuckoo’ Godber written in permanent black marker pen on the back.
As the pub crowd cheered their local hero, the pair went to warm up at the oche.
Rob was under orders from Landlord Alan not to show too much in the warm up, and threw the darts conventionally at the board with his right hand, scoring a composite total of 26 with his first three darts.
Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor rocked up with Shanghai just for openers- single twenty, triple twenty and double top.
The watching crowd went wild.
Rob started to get nervous.
He had never played darts in front of so many expectant people before, nor in a pressure tournament.
The sweat began to roll down from his forehead onto the rusty safety pins that he had inserted many years ago into his face.
He looked like the Mothercare version of Hellraiser.
The decision would go first would be decided by one dart closest to the centre of the dartboard bull.
Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor rocked up and hit the bull with ease.
Rob placed the dart in his neck aperture and fired.
It split the flight of the 14- time World Champion knocking it out of the board before striking the exact centre of the dartboard.
Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor looked at veteran Darts referee Tony Green who was equally stunned.
Neither of the pair had witnessed anything like it in their 40-year professional careers.
After a quick check of the PDA rulebook, Green allowed Rob to ‘throw up’ first.
As he inserted the flights into his neck, the gathered crowd could clearly see the name of the sponsors on display.
Strongbow.
Rob fired off his first three darts scoring a treble sixty with each one.
Tony Green announced over his microphone the now familiar ‘180’ to raise the excitement in the packed bar area.
People leaned on their friends, peered under armpits with some stood on tables and standing on the bar area.
All the while, Alan continued pouring pint after pint.
Irrespective of the outcome, he would at least achieve some great beer sales if nothing else.
Phil went up and replied with his first three arrows which brought the house down as another ‘180’ boomed around the room.
Rob then repeated the action.
360 points from 3 darts.
Anything Rob did- so did the Power.
A perfect twelve dart match so far.
Both players were three darts away from a nine- dart finish- the ‘heavyweight’ equivalent of a 147- maximum break at snooker.
Rob wasn’t very good at mathematics but fortunately Barman Alan was good at both doubles and trebles.
He also had to do a bit of ‘creative accountancy’ by using his awful handwriting to blur the figures over the years just to stay afloat, so he wrote the sequence required on the chalk board next to the bar for Rob.
Treble 20, Treble 19 and double 12.
Rob was never very good at following orders being an ‘anarchist and a trainee Anti-Christ’, but follow them he did, as he promptly completed an amazing 141 out sequence.
He turned around to the acclaim of the audience, arms raised aloft so proud at his achievement.
Holding a pint of Strongbow- supplied by his sponsors, he poured the golden liquid into a plastic funnel and let that slide down his tracheostomy.
Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor applauded the actions and skill of his opponent sportingly.
He knew he was in for a real challenge this time and would have to raise his game.
He did so by producing his own 9 darter to level the match at 1-1.
He did the 501 in a different sequence.
Treble 20 x 7, Treble 15 and Double 18 outshot.
The crowd gathered knew they were witnessing something special really special, especially as both players had started the final game with two rounds of treble twenties each.
Both players were on 141 out-shots, but crucially Rob the Gob had first chance.
As long as he held his nerve, he would beat the 14 times World Darts Champion at his own game.
But pressure does strange things to a man and more so to 56 -year old punks with a history of glue-sniffing.
And to Sports Direct Tee-Shirts too in a jungle environment.
The Cuckoo became the Suckoo.
Rob looked up at Pub Landlord Alan Murray, who was willing him on with ever sinew of his body.
The crowd too wanted to see the underdog turn the tables and finally win one for the underclass.
Rob was now sweating more than Liberal MP Cyril Smith in a Rochdale children’s play park.
He had developed a continuous cough and a really high temperature (103) and his throat felt like it was closing in on him.
Was it the pressure of the big occasion or the onset of Covid-19?
His body was all of a ‘quiver’ which normally was handy for someone dealing with arrows.
He looked across at the chalk board by the bar and saw the sequence written down for him.
Treble 20, Treble 19 and Double 12.
The Landlord gave him a cheery second wave.
Three darts in the correct places on the board and he would never have to work again- not that he had ever started in the first place.
He could hear the Mark Knopfler theme tune to the 1983 film ‘Local Hero’ playing in his head.
He knew his opponent was in Dire Straits.
First Dart from the Puff Daddy hit its target.
81 left.
Treble 19 next.
Rob the Gob set his ‘sights’ on the tiny patch of green separated by two thin metal wires.
Flob- and the missile sailed towards its destination.
He got it.
Only the double left.
He glanced at the chalkboard.
He sent the dart on it’s way and it hit the double.
Rob jumped in the air -the finest pogo he had performed since that Siouxsie & the Banshees concert in 1981.
“Bust!” shouted Tony Green, as he brought the Punk back down to Earth quicker than the NASA Space Shuttle Challenger.
“But I hit the double 13!” protested Rob.
He glanced up at the Landlord who had his head in his hands.
His shaky chalkboard writing looked from a distance just like double 12.
“Unlucky thirteen!” laughed Taylor, as he replaced the gutted Rob at the oche.
“Yet another ‘Choker’....141 eh…I can do that blindfolded!” boasted the Professional.
Pulling up his Coronavirus mask over his eyes, he proceeded to do just that.
Treble 20, Treble 15 and Double 18 out.
“Well normally Rob I would shake your hand but….!” Said the Power.
“Time for a ‘Merthyr Blackout’!” said the Punk.
Rob could take no more -his flights of fantasy was over in true Valleys way, he just lifted his fisted hand to land an uppercut on the fifth chin of his opponent.
Anarchy in the UK soon followed.
Animal Rights activist A.L.F. Egan lay completely still in the long grass, high above the Welsh Valley of Cwm Twp.
He motioned to his 15- year old accomplice, ‘Popeye’ Doyle, to lie still until the factory searchlight had passed overhead.
Once it had done so, the pair all dressed in black and camouflage gear used the wire cutters to snip the perimeter fence.
In the distance was a grey metallic building called Abbot’s Trois, owned according to Companies House by a French Company based in the Tax Haven of Jersey, called Vaches Mort R-US.
A.L.F. & Popeye didn’t call it Abbot’s Trois.
To them it was Cowschwitz.
A place where animals were taken to be slaughtered.
Both A.L.F. and ‘Popeye’ were committed vegetarians – A.L.F. more so than because he had been caught and imprisoned for his strong belief that ‘Meat was Murder’.
As a 3- year old child, he had continually shouted this phrase from his perch in the front of supermarket trolley, innocently mistaking Morrisons for the Smith’s Morrissey.
He was banned for life.
That was nearly 40 years ago now, and poor A.L.F. hadn’t had the more auspicious starts to life, as his Mother had given birth to him on the Greenham Common, whilst protesting at the US Airforce Base in Berkshire in the 1980’s.
His Mother only noticed when others around her pointed out that she had a baby swinging from between her legs by an umbilical cord, such was the cacophony of noise at the protests when the jets armed with nuclear missiles took off.
Having a fanny the size of Cheddar Gorge didn’t help his Mother Gaia either, but it certainly helped A.L.F. come into the World, as didn’t have a difficult birth in that F W Woolworth impromptu water birthing pool surrounded by New Age whale music.
Little A.L.F. never knew his Father, his Mother had always told him that just like Mary in the Bible it had been an immaculate conception.
He was named A.L.F. after the letters on the side of a truck that delivered food to the camp.
The young A.L.F. was raised on a diet of legumes, peas, beans and lentils- so when he was found to be listless and lethargic and taken to the Doctor by a concerned Social Worker visiting Tepee Valley in Carmarthenshire – he was diagnosed as having a high pulse rate.
His Mother was told to feed him red meat to raise the number of red blood cells in the youngster’s body.
The Doctor was told in no uncertain terms where he could put his cold stethoscope by the indoctrinated child.
A.L.F himself never considered the decision not to eat meat during his lifetime to be a missed steak.
He chose to ignore science when it was claimed that plants screamed when being ripped from the ground.
Nature provided a bounty of seasonal treats for the wayfarers of the Carmarthen Tent Village.
He always enjoyed a ‘Hippy Birthday’ with presents including blackberries freshly picked from the hedgerows of the West Walian Countryside.
Gathering nuts in May was always a favoured childhood memory, as was hunting in competition for truffles with his fellow Earth dwellers- the pigs in the dirt.
A.L.F loved the Spring, Summer and Autumn months but hated the cold Wintertime.
Most of the fellow travellers at the commune used to commit minor offences at that time to spend a little time in jail to obtain a warm cell and free hot food from the ‘Man’.
A.L.F. had always been told that the Capitalist system was like a vampire sucking the blood out of its victim- the working man.
That excuse for not working for over two decades, was now framed and on display for all to see in the Carmarthen Job Centre.
A.L.F. was very proud of it – even if he couldn’t read what it said.
He just liked to see the letters A.L.F. up on the wall, meaning that he had left his mark on the Universe, whilst signing the same three letters for his giro cheques.
Popeye on the other hand was much younger than A.L.F.
He should have still been in school if his Local Education Appeal Panel hadn’t barred him- due to his intense love of fire.
It was not like pyromania was a crime now was it?
Born and raised around a campfire, it always transfixed him.
Just like a modern- day Prometheus, Popeye believed that fire was there to be stolen from the Gods and used against ‘The Man’ himself.
It cleansed.
If there was one thing ‘Popeye’ loved it was burning a holiday home in West Wales.
He had always assumed he was called ‘Popeye’ because of his love of spinach, but in reality, it was because he had bulging eyes like US actor Steve Buscemi, due to an overactive thyroid gland.
He had never broken into a meat processing plant before so it would be a real ‘eye-opener’ for him.
‘Popeye’ was so excited- as the Adult World opening up to him was completely new and unexplored.
He trusted A.L.F. like the Father he too had never known.
Once through the wire, A.L.F. had timed it so that the pair had two minutes to cross the rear compound courtyard.
There were obviously no guard dogs on patrol- despite the sign stating otherwise.
What guard dog could work all day next to the tantalising smell of meat without attempting to run off with a string of intestinal cow sausages?
There was also a warning sign for CCT cameras, but A.L.F. was an expert in dealing with those.
After all, he had spray painted more ‘Honky’ speed cameras black than the Black Lives Matters protestors.
Honky -not because of the racist term for white people- but honky after the actions of fellow drivers that sounded their horn and flashed their pale headlights to warn other road users of their location.
The silent pair of animal rights ninjas reached the side of the illuminated building.
A.L.F. looked at his wristwatch-his only concession to the 21 st Century- and waited patiently for the big hand to meet the little hand- he knew this to be 12 O’Clock.
Very soon, both he and his pyromaniac friend would be ‘burning the midnight oil’ together.
He had carried out reconnaissance over two nights and had noted that at precisely that time the lone security guard left the near side fire exit and walked around the left- hand side of the building to have a sly cigarette.
Obviously, working in a meat factory he could not contaminate the carcasses with tobacco smoke, otherwise he would be for the ‘chop’ too.
The pair would have to be quick but they would ‘nip in’, set the fire and leave the way they had entered.
With balaclava masks over their faces- no-one would be any wiser on their identities- besides given the coronavirus pandemic there were too many masked people around to pin-point them.
In -out, no trace left behind- just like their biological Father’s had done all those years ago.
The Vegan apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Seen but not ‘herd’ if you like.
Security Guard Peta Plump had eaten his remaining tuna, egg and pickle sandwiches and it was now time for his first fag break of the evening.
He would save his remaining bacon sandwiches for 3.00am when he got more peckish.
He had been warned not to smoke or fart inside the factory because it was both a fire risk and a health hazard to the workforce.
Imagine being told that the smell of your arse was more pungent than dead cattle?
He ambled around the side of the building taking long pulls on his cigarette as if in a state of nicotine ecstasy.
But it was not just the putrid stink of cigarettes that was present.
That other smell of death hung around the place and could not be removed from clothing.
It permeated everything.
His uniform, his vest and his hat too.
It was so bad that he was banned from visiting his elderly Mother at the local Nursing Home, the Gran-Yr-Afon- in case he started a riot.
God his job was boring.
Staring at screens all night and doing word-searches in the low lighting for 8 hours.
Surrounded by fridges containing animal carcasses.
He was awful worried having watched the film Poltergeist a few days ago, if such a thing as an animal ghost existed.
He had heard of the Scottish horse water-spirit called the Kelpie but hoped there was no cow equivalent.
As he looked up into the clear black valley sky above Cwm Twp, he wondered how many thousands of cattle had died at the Plant and figured that with the law of averages that it was only a matter of time before an ‘Ermintrude spectre called’ and put the shits up him.
He wasn’t normally the nervous type but he had his suspicions that something odd was going on in the last eight months he had worked the security.
He couldn’t figure what it was but things had changed just before the New Tory Government had come to power.
Inside the factory, A.L.F. and Popeye looked around them in the half-light.
They had the petrol cans with them a series of long shoe laces as a fuse and a lighter each.
Popeye became even more of a Popeye, as he stared at the topless former Page 3 Model ‘Bappy’ aged 21 on the Calendar in the Security Guard Office.
She was scantily dressed standing next to some livestock with a cattle prod looking suggestively.
“Cor… look at her she is ‘stunning’!” said Popeye.
“Obviously-all I can see is a Murderess!” replied A.L.F.
“I wonder if there is any more below?” said the young teenager hormones raging.
Popeye tried to leaf through the calendar but couldn’t unstick the pages for some strange reason.
It was a long night for Peta.
A.L.F. now entered the office area but was not distracted by the soft porn but more interested in the number of invoices sticking out of an order book on the desk of the Managing Director.
They all bore the heading Max Bygraves- ‘I want to sell you a Tory’.
A.L.F.’s interest was piqued.
He couldn’t read the words but something far out in the Universe was telling him this was important.
He had heard of journalists winning Pulitzer Prizes- although unsung hero Security Guard Peta probably deserved a different kind of one- and slipped the book into his camouflaged trouser pocket.
The sound of the security guard farting outside, shook the pair back to their original purpose.
The bastard must have been done to his last cigarette instead of the usual two, smoked alternately through both hands like an Argentinian Soccer Manager.
As Peta closed the Fire Exit Door loudly, the pair of trespassing burglars needed to find somewhere to hide and quickly too.
A.L.F. grabbed the security guard’ torch as an impromptu weapon.
Popeye, just grabbed a sandwich from the open lunch box and raced to the door.
Look around for somewhere to hide the pair had no option but to dive into the freezer section.
As he ushered Popeye inside, A.L.F. quickly placed the torch on the floor to hold the door slightly ajar.
He knew from experience. if they were to be locked inside such a sub-zero facility then it could be fatal.
Peta ambled back to his office with nicotine level partly restored.
He looked down at his desk and was surprised to notice that one of his sandwiches was missing.
Strange, he thought I don’t remember eating that.
There was no-one in the building at night, so it was a little bit of a mystery.
He looked under the desk for signs of crumbs in case a Herculean Mouse had managed to lift it from the lunch box, across the desk and onto the floor.
Peta was known locally for not being the sharpest tool in the box but now he was also a sandwich short of a picnic.
Perhaps he was losing on himself.
He looked around the rest of the desk to see if anything else was missing.
His torch had gone too.
Peta began to get nervous.
What if it was an animal Poltergeist?
His mind started to play tricks on him in the dark.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
He felt like a draught of cold air was coming from somewhere.
He looked across at his only companion for the night, the Page 3 model Calendar hanging on the wall- even Bappy looked more pert than normal.
On that evidence, there was definitely a nip in the air.
His mind told him to follow the cold air to its source.
Perhaps he had not closed the Fire Exit door properly behind him?
He walked to the door to check, keys jangling as he went.
Inside the freezer compartment, both A.L.F. and Popeye were starting to get cold.
The area had white walls and in the centre were four racks of carcasses hanging upside down on sharp metal meat hooks from the ceiling.
It was the ideal hiding place for a trespasser or two.
Popeye had never been in a walk-in fridge before.
He assumed Susan Boyle had one this size.
A.L.F. whispered to Popeye to stay down low.
It was so cold he could almost read those words on his mentor’s breath that was left behind.
Popeye had never really had the opportunity to learn to read books.
His late Brother ‘Bulger’ had been his Mother’s favourite- he always got the lion’s share of the Alphabetti Spaghetti, but not enough sadly to stop him falling through thin ice one day three Winter’s back.
The cold always reminded him of his brother.
As did the almost blue carcasses hanging in front of him.
He wondered what sort of animals they were at the cattle plant as he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, whilst eating the very tasty sandwich he had managed to rob.
“Psst… A.L.F. have a look at this will you?” asked Popeye.
A.L.F. moved a dead cow out of the way and joined his fellow burglar further back into the freezer compartment.
“Look at this one!” said Popeye.
“It looks human to me!” the scared youth continued.
“They all do!” said A.L.F.
“But this one has a mop of blonde hair!” stuttered Popeye.
On closer examination, A.L.F. discovered that his friend was correct.
It DID have blonde hair and more than a passing resemblance to Boris Johnson the previous Prime Minister of the former United Kingdom.
“Bloody Hell Popeye…..it does look like him….and he had a reputation for hiding in a fridge when things got tough!” said A.L.F. somewhat astonished at their discovery.
“Look there are more, here at the back too!” said Popeye moving along the line of fat lardy carcasses.
“I thought he was supposed to be as fit as a butcher’s dog what doing those press-ups when no-one told him that his inflatable woman had been stolen from under him!” said A.L.F.
As Popeye walked through the rows of cadavers, he was shocked to see hundreds of bodies which like ‘Boris’ were almost human.
A.L.F. noticed that none of the carcasses had any internal organs and definitely no heart.
“They look like Tory MP’s!” he said to himself.
Which is somewhat fitting as they have turned the Country into a ‘Right Shambles’.
He examined the cadaver next to ‘Boris’ and wondered what the Hell had gone on.
Had the Russian Mafia who had contributed to Tory Party funds caught up with the Right-Wing Junta, after finally being forced to release the Russian Report into the Autumn General Election?
Who had ordered this massacre and on such a ‘Grand’ scale not seen since the Brighton Conference in 1984.
Was it Dominic Cullings?
He looked at the tag and noted that different cadavers had different coloured tags and extra meat additions.
He checked the Order Book for the colour coding.
The blood coloured ones had ‘Red Wedge’ marked on them and seemed to be all marked for delivery to the North.
They had ‘best before election 2024’ dates marked on them.
The ones with green tags had ‘Washington, the Former Colonies, USA’ stamped on them.
Particularly the ones with four more ears.
A.L.F. saw the flags and pretty colours and figured they were part of a Trans-Atlantic Trade deal in exchange for chlorinated chicken.
Post-Brexit, it would appear that the British Establishment was back to its’ previous jingoistic 19 th Century Foreign policy of ‘Transporting’, so called ‘inferior’ humans to the New World- but this for time for Trump Rallies.
This was clear because the cadavers with the stars and stripes had a battery cavity in their ‘ass’ in the shape of a Democrat Donkey.
A.L.F looked at the opposite page and noted that an order had been placed by one Welsh Tory MP, Neil Hamilton for thirty ‘CHADS’ to be supplied to BBC studios in Greater Manchester for an audience.
It was marked under ‘Cash for Question Time’
A.L.F. had a revelation – he could now see the wood from the trees.
“That explains how the Conservative Party won the last election!” he said.
“ Manipulation of the Main Stream Media, Russian interference, Bots on Social Media, links with the Klan in the US of A and dead voters in the Northern Labour Heartlands….we are the only ones that know where the bodies are buried!” A.L.F. continued to the utter bemusement of his companion.
“This Client book is worth a fortune, almost as much as Epstein’s- it makes it clear that the proceeds of the whole dodgy deal are being funnelled offshore to the Tax Havens in the Channel Islands ……it is the French Connection all over again Popeye…..what legitimate Company has a Frog- faced Director on its headed paper called Sir Loin?” continued A.L.F enraged by the corruption that existed at the top of Central Government.
“Imagine using the Coronavirus Pandemic as a distraction to carry out their undercovid operation?”
“It all makes sense now- WHO would go near any meat processing plants with their reported high infection rates other than the ineffectual World Health Organisation?….they weren’t ramping up the testing but ramping up the exports of cadavers….that explains why the Nightingale Hospital in London and the Millennium Stadium was empty!” continued A.L.F. the ultimate conspiracy theorist.
Popeye was lost.
“But where did the brain cells for the zombies come from?” asked the youngster.
“You are too young to remember this politician but according to the book- they were donated to the Tory paper by one David ‘Two Brains’ Willetts-!” replied A.L.F looking at the photo on the inside cover of Patrons.
“So there never was a real Covid 19 Pandemic then?” asked Popeye.
“An invisible germ that came in from China- that killed only the elderly and the already ill only?” said A.L.F.
“What do you think?”
“I try not to….it hurts too much!” said the easily influenced teen.
Unfortunately, their whispering had been overheard from the Security Office.
Peta Plump wasn’t easily scared but that film Poltergeist had spooked him.
Reading up that child actress Heather O’Rourke had died at age of 12 in mysterious circumstances had frightened him even more.
He didn’t want to mess with the Spirit World.
He was concerned that he could hear mutterings coming from the Freezer Area.
This was one of the ‘Forbidden Zones’ in the factory.
He was warned not to go in there by the Management in case he got locked in and froze to death.
Peta Plump had the Paper Lace Song ‘Billy don’t be a hero’ playing inside his head.
But he was paid £7.50 an hour so he had to pretend he was one.
He listened again and thought he could hear strange whisperings coming from the area.
He peered out of his Office and could see a chink of light coming from the door and lo and behold there was his missing flashlight.
Summoning up all his courage, he walked towards the door, wheeling his office chair as back-up.
The sound had stopped.
He would place the chair in the freezer door and poke his nose in.
Nothing more then he would slam the door shut.
The hackles on the back of his neck were raised and he had goose-bumps but he wasn’t sure if it was caused by fear or just cold.
He was half-expecting something out of a Stephen King book to leap at him from the dark, as he treaded in baby steps towards his torch and the freezer door.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the door.
How stupid did he feel as a grown man afraid of his own shadow?
He lifted the torch from the gap with the intention of replacing it with the with the chair, whilst he had a quick look around from the safety of the door.
Curiosity had got the cat.
As he started to open the door wider and increase ‘the Shining’- he was stunned to see a frozen Blonde- Haired cadaver suddenly come sliding at him at speed.
Peta heard the words “Here’s Boris!” as he was bowled over onto the floor.
Ironic really, as just before he passed out the last thing he saw was the words hurtling at him from inside the locker room was :
‘Stay Alert’, “Control the Virus”, Protect the NHS!”
A.L.F. & Popeye then rushed passed the stricken guard in a state of semi-consciousness have being body checked by a frozen PM in ‘Tip Top’ Condition.
The Animal Rights Activists no longer wanted to burn down the factory as they had bigger fish to fry.
Popeye and A.L.F. owed it to the dead animals and composite humans to bring the French Connection to justice.
There was also the small matter of an investigative journalist ‘Paul Foot n Mouth’ Award to collect for their efforts and of course lots of people in high places to blackmail.
The queue from the main tent was six deep and stretched for nearly two miles back to the little Powys town of Hay-on-Wye.
The reason was the release of Howard Marks new book at the Hay Book festival.The former Oxford Graduate and Welsh mastermind of a European Cannabis Ring sat ‘smug’ly. Who said crime doesn’t pay. The best selling author had released his latest in a series of books with a view to helping his former fellow prisoners bide away their time in jail. Like the author himself, the release date had kept going forward, as the US backed Drugs Enforcement Agency had objected to his books and profiteering.“ Who shall I make the book out to sonny?” asked Marks ‘pen’ at the ready.“ And more importantly which one of my aliases would you like ‘Marked’ on it?” asked the globetrotter with more passports than the entire Newport Office.“ Mr Nice will do!”said the little boy rolling his autograph pen like it was a joint. Marks had over the last five decades seen more joints than most, some with but most without bars.His seven years in the Terre Haute Prison in America, had taken their toll on the face of the Welshman- his once ‘Film Star’ looks had been replaced by that of a roc kstar. Unfortunately, it was a combination of Bill Wyman and Keith Richards.
He was once on a ‘Rolling Stoned’ tour with his idols in Cardiff , where as part of his parole conditions he had to tell the schoolchildren at Cathays High School not to take drugs. One of the children raised his hand up and complained that there were none left in Cardiff as Keith Richards and Howard Marks had done them all already. The other non-criminal writers like Jeffrey Archer and Rupert Allison, at the Times Newspaper sponsored event, looked on jealously as the volumes produced by Marks and publishing stable-mate Boyd Clack were setting new festival sales records. Both Clacks’ book entitled ‘High Hopes’ and the Marks one called ‘Pot Black’ were outstripping demand.They seemed to have a hidden quality that their rival authors did not- besides being well-written that is.
“Howard ....did you ever in your wildest dreams think that this would be such a roaring success?” asked Melvyn Bragg nasally.“ Howard I know ?” said the former prison author, as he signed another book looking Northward, sat in the glorious sunshine on the raised grass platform in the Powys field . “ So you mean...you didn’t expect this kind of ‘South Bank Show’?”said Melvyn.“ I expected a good turnout....I’m not called ‘Mr Nice’ for nothing...but I don’t like to Bragg!” continued the ‘pot idol’ as he signed another volume using yet another alias...this time ‘Puff Daddy’. Boyed by the attention, his fellow writer Clack, a former hippy , was not only signing his books but adding a ‘smacker’ with his own lips to the front cover.“ Kisses are better than Wine!” he declared to the latest in along line of BBC Wales Comedy Fans.“ Howard....how do you think the book will be received around the World...do you have any regrets at all ....shamelessly cashing in on your notoriety as a criminal and convicted international drug smuggler?” asked the adenoid suffering arts presenter.“ None at all....this time I’m making legitimate money...this isn’t a front....even if it appears to be affront to the US....after all they are the ones to put the ‘dope’ into dope smuggling!” laughed Marks with a smile not seen since he was released on bail (appropriately to Hay- on- Wye) .
“ Do you think America will be interested in a book about Snooker entitled ‘Pot Black’.....why would the prison population want to buy (albeit in great demand) a book about the exploits of Welsh World Champions Terry Griffiths, Ray Reardon and Doug Mountjoy from the 1970’s.....I can understand the dynamic and flair of players like Mark Williams and Matthew Stevens.....and even that one that looks like Merthyr’s John Williams-Dominic Dale!” asked Bragg.
“ Have you read the book Mel?” asked Howard.“ Not yet....I have had a bit of a head cold recently....but I will get round to it soon!” said the smooth talker.“ If you are congested try rubbing the front cover on the end of your sinuses....the book has an almost medicinal quality, unsurpassed by other books of its kind!” suggested Clack eavesdropping on the conversation.“ And it tastes almost as nice as a piece of ‘battyberg’!” he said looking skyward to dad.“ These books aregood for ‘Hay Fever’!” said Marks smiling just like a Super Furry Animal.
Bragg began to smell a rat.He was surrounded by people who were the usual suspects at ‘Brecon Jazz’, those who slept in tents in a field, most were from the ‘flower power’generation and wore ‘Bob Marley’ and Jimi Hendrix tee-shirts.They weren’t buying the book to read it.Marks looked at him as the penny dropped.“ Guess how many kilos of books I have sold to the prisons in the USA?” asked Marks.“ Those prisoners have been described as of being of ‘ex-hemp-lary character’....it is after all helping to make the detention centres a much ‘karma’ place.“Personally, Melvyn I don’t think Ihave made a ‘hash’ of my career!...what do you think?” smirked Mr Nice.“ I think you're very clever Mr Marks indeed!” replied Bragg catching on to the three way conversation.“Anything that is manufactured in the UK and exported these days is fine ‘in my books’ too !” agreed Clack.“ We all have ‘High’ Hopes for success ...give this one to Federal Drugs Officer Craig Lovato with my compliments... next time you’re stateside...I’m afraid I can’t...I’m barred from the place!” said Marks.
“ What do you think of the wheels then?” asked Astra the professional car thief from the Gurnos.
“ Nice…!” nodded his hoodie friend Elvi$, as he climbed into the front seat of the mini-ambulance.
The vehicle sped away at breakneck speed on the Gurnos Ring Road heading towards Galon Uchaf.
“ Where did you get it?” asked Elvi$.
“ He stole it from outside the Gurnos Home for the elderly!” said a voice from the back of the vehicle.
Astra broke suddenly and a lady with whiter hair than Philip Schofield shot forward in her wheelchair to join the pair in the front.
“ Who the F*** are U?” asked Elvi$ as he came face to face with the Barbara Cartland lookalike.
“ I am the lady that was being transported to the Gurnos House before this chap here stole the van!” said the octogenarian.
“ My name is Mrs Ryder!” she said holding out a hand with a scented white glove for her abductors to kiss.
“ You have been watching 2 much ‘Downtown’ Abbey Duchess…I wouldn’t kiss my girlfriends ring - so I defo ain’t kissing URS!” said Elvi$.
“ Why Elvi$ ….surely the age of chivalry isn’t dead in Merthyr?” asked the pensioner.
“ How did you know he is called Elvi$?” asked Astra….
” Are you a coppers nark?”
“ It is written all over his face….!” Said Mrs Ryder.
It was really WAS written all over his face …. it was in fact tattooed on his forehead….at the tender age of 14 , to celebrate the birth of his second child, young Elvi$ (real name Wilfred) had got a mirror, some Indian ink and a compass from a set one kids geometry set and tattooed the name of his real father on his forehead.
His mother had copped off at the annual Elvis Weekend in Porthcawl and had her fair share of rock that weekend.
She had been so hammered with drink that she only knew that his biological father had worn blue suede shoes.
She had remembered that specifically, as Elvi$ was nearly one of twins- in the middle of ‘love me tender’ it had splattered all over the suede uppers.
On reflection, Elvi$ himself had regretted using that mirror to permanently mark his forehead, as was the ‘S’ like the boy himself was backward.
“ What do we do about HER?” asked Astra pointing at the old lady with the only thing that had ever worked in his house- his thumb.
“ Don’t tell her your name Astra and you might be okay!” said Elvi$.
“ Shall we kill her?” asked Astra.
“ Is there any point boys….I am half dead already!” interjected Mrs Ryder.
Interjected - as the two heroin addicts were busy shooting up in the front seat.
“ I reckon we take her on the Heads of the Valleys Road … let her brake off and push her out into traffic!” suggested Astra.
“ Yeah…would be fun watching this old dalek hitting traffic!” said the charming Elvi$.
“ Didn’t you have a grandmother once?” asked Mrs Ryder unconcerned with her own fate being more concerned that this lost generation of the workshy had no scruples or sense of decency.
This generation of children who had been ‘dragged’ up on a diet of video nasties and shoot ‘em up computer games.
To them there was no ‘community’ …no thought for others …as they were shunned by society as being lepers….fourth generation scum who had never had a working person living in their houses.
They thought ‘aspiration’ meant sweating in a prison gym.
“ Well gentlemen , I am not afraid to die anymore than I was afraid to be born- if anything, it will save my family the cost of sending me to a Swiss clinic so c’mn …let’s get this show on the road !” said Daphne.
The two scag-heads were thrown by this comment.
“ Come on what are you waiting for?…..like Tom Cruise in Top Gun ….I feel the need…the need for speed!” said Mrs Ryder.
“ Sorry love…we’ll all out of amphetamine…!” said Astra stunned by the reaction of the legless granny.
“ Should we decide not to kill you …Have you got any money Granny?” asked Elvi$ changing tack.
“ I’m a disabled pensioner from Essex way about to go into a Merthyr Care Home….what do you think?” replied Mrs Ryder.
“ I try not to think ….it hurts…!” said Astra …“ Nice wheels by the way!”
“ The metal in the wheelchair has to be worth SOMETHING up the scrappie!” said Elvi$.
“ Probably but you wouldn’t steal from the NHS would you?” asked Mrs Ryder.
“ He would steal from his own grandmother!” said Astra.
“ Do I know her?” asked Mrs Ryder trying a captor/hostage trick to find common ground with her abductors.
“ How old are you?” asked Astra.
“ It is not polite to ask a Lady her age…..but I am 88 this year!” said the Grannie proudly.
“ His grandmother is only 52…!” said Astra.
“ Shut up…!” ordered Elvi$....”….. Just keep driving will you!”
Outside the Gurnos Home for the elderly, the oldest delivery boy in town was scratching his head.
Former Policeman, Alan Flatfoot was puzzled.
He was sure he had parked the ambulance in the courtyard five minutes ago….and he couldn’t find Mrs Ryder the second of his two passengers.
He didn’t think it possible she would go anywhere not having any legs while he wheeled in her friend Daisy to the Centre.
He couldn’t remember if he had left the keys in the ignition or not.
He didn’t want to be charged with the offence of ‘Quitting’ by his former colleagues.
He was starting to worry that delivering all these old people with Alzheimers disease was becoming to rub off on him….like the randy old goat Edna in flat number three.
He decided to do one last lap of the building and car park before ringing his old boys in blue.
Imagine, the stick he would get if they found out.
“ Ever seen the film ‘The Fast & The Furious’ ? asked Astra.
“ Nope!” replied Mrs Ryder.
“ They are classic films about joy riding and breaking the law starring Vin Diesel!” said the driver pretending he was as macho as the Hollywood star.
“Vin Diesel….I have heard of him….said Mrs Ryder…!”
“ I often pretend to be like him!” said Astra.
“ You know he’s gay!” said Mrs Ryder.
“ No way…!” said Astra…slowing down to 60MPH in a 30MPH zone.
“ Diesel …doesn’t like unleaded green hose in his tank…!” said Mrs Ryder hitting the kid where it hurt- in his simple mind.
“ Ever heard of Gone in Sixty Seconds?” asked Elvi$.
“ No….!” gulped Mrs Ryder.
“ Because once we reach the brow of this hill…that is what you will be!” said Elvi$ cruelly.
“ Astra, keep the wheel straight I am going to slide between these seats and unbolt the back door to get rid of that old bitch!” he continued.
“ You have forgotten one thing Sonny…they have speed cameras on the Heads of the Valleys Road…you kick me out…you will be on ‘You-tube’ forever…as the Granny Wheelchair killer….that would go down well in Cardiff Prison!” laughed Mrs Ryder.
Elvi$ hated being outsmarted, even if it did happen a lot.
He had a naturally ‘suspicious mind’ …which he thought was just a by-product of the Indian Ink.
“ They don’t have them on the Glynneath bank…but that is a dual carriageway anyway…the A470 Expressway it is then “ said Elvi$ chucking evilly, like Chuckie the doll from Child’s Play.
Mrs Ryder knew she had about two miles as the crow flew to come up with a plan.
She reckoned that Astra was ‘all mouth and trousers’ but that Elvi$ was much more dark and psychotic.
She tried to remember her Wren training and catching people off guard.
She hatched a plan in her mind that she would grab her attacker with both hands and judo him off the back of the moving mini-bus.
As the bus made its way towards the Rhydycar roundabout and all those clerks sleeping at their desks in the Welsh Assembly Building, there was no chance of jettisoning the old lady and her wheelchair as the road was backed up from the Cyfarthfa Retail Park park roundabout to the Rhydycar Roundabout because of road works.
“ You do realise the bus is facing the wrong way for any delivery into oncoming traffic!” said Mrs Ryder.
“ Wrong ….my boy here has been practising his ‘do-nuts’ and ‘u-turns’ for years around the college and other car parks….all that late night squealing and burning rubber….that’s not just from the back of the Kirkhouse!” said Elvi$.
“ Very soon you… and that Oasis chair will be history!” he continued menacingly.
“ Oasis chair?” asked Mrs Ryder tying herself into the chair in anticipation with her shoelaces….belt strap and M&S Cardigan ….all with a granny knot.
“ You getta roll with it!” said Elvi$ laughing at his gallows humour.
The van screeched around the corner with Elvi$ holding his hand up to the driver as they flew across the road bridge above P & R Motors in Pentrebach.
“ Wait for it!” he said sliding past Mrs Ryder and unbolting the back doors.
“ Now !” he said.
Astra spun the steering wheel wildly.
As he uttered those immortal words….Mrs Ryder pushed at the top of the rubber wheels with all her might.
She crashed into the soft shins of her abductor and he teetered on the edge of the open doors, quiff flailing in the wind.
And then he was gone.
Elvi$ had left the building , falling over the flyover and was lying flat on his back on the bonnet of the tow-truck.
There was no hope for him even if he was in the ‘recovery position’.
He looked like a dying fly legs and arms flailing in the air spine completely shot.
Cars careered across the three lane highway in all directions as the van skidded to a halt and then restarted its acceleration back up the wrong sliproad.
Mrs Ryder rolled about more than an episode of ’Ironside’ in the van with the doors flapping.
Astra was petrified but like a charging bull he had the intelligence to neither stop or to slow down.
Forcing cars off the road, the insurance nightmare raced up the A470, sideswiping cars and barriers alike, as he headed towards Cardiff.
Mrs Ryder knew she had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, as Astra was as unpredictable as the out of date box of fireworks he was originally named after.
Centrifugal force was keeping her in the vehicle alone but she knew once he broke, she would be history.
She dragged herself along the metal wall inch by inch and grabbed the little scrote around the throat with all her might forcing the scumbag to choke on his own Adams Apple.
“ Here is a present from ‘Granny Smith’….!” she said strangling the car thief.
Astra was so dull even though he was slowly having the oxygen squeezed out of him , he pressed the brake gently on survival instinct instead of the accelerator.
“ If there is one thing I hate!” she said.
” It is someone sullying my good name…you didn’t even have the courtesy to ask it….I’m Joy Ryder and you are not a joy rider… you are a car THIEF !”” she said as Astra’s face went blue and the car trundled to a stop in the layby .
It was the best vigilante move since Michael Winner had finally had his own Death Wish.
Listening to banned police frequencies, Alan Flatfoot put his foot flat to the floor in his Hillman Avenger, as he gunned down the A470 Expressway in search of his stolen ambulance.
The former prop from the television programme, the ‘Professionals’ had a top speed of 40 mph and had air conditioning in the floor where the clutch pedal had once been.
Letting in the ‘choke’ he spotted his van ringed by police cars in a layby above Troedyrhiw, watching a different kind of choke taking place.
They had retrieved the body of Elvi$ from Pentrebach and had just found the hostage situation much to the annoyance of Traffic Cop Ade ‘Bucket’ Edmondson it was on his watch.
“ This is beyond the pail’ !” laughed Flatfoot as he pulled in to see his old police driving instructor.
“ What you got then?” asked Flatfoot.
“ The usual- an Old woman with no legs holding a junkie car thief by the throat threatening to snap his neck!” said Bucket.
“ Why are you trying to arrest her then?” asked Flatfoot.
“ We’re not….we are trying to give her a Community Action Trust Reward….keep the crime figures down …but she has gone all psycho on us when we are just trying to help her!” said the Traffic Officer.
“ I think I know why!” said Flatfoot.
“ I was transporting her from her stay in the Old Deanery Nursing Home in Braintree Essex!”
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?”
“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”
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.
He was in a right hole.
He had been given a wedgie on many occasions as Chairman of the Planning Sub-Committee but this was a first.
Buried up to his waist in an old Air-Shaft in Mountain Hare meant he couldn't move a muscle.
Below him a 30 foot drop and above him only sky.
His search for the 500 metre buffet zone at East Merthyr Land Reclamation scheme had proved fruitless.
He checked the Council Minutes.yes there supposed to be a buffet zone.
There was no such thing as a free lunch he moaned as he hung suspended in the air by his three spare tyres.
The human Michelin Man had for once been saved by his preference for cramming as many free helpings that his Council meetings permitted.
As the early Autumn sky changed to grey, he feared that he would be stuck here all night and his expenses ran out at 7.00pm.
His cries for help were only investigated by some curious Ffos-y-Fran ponies and the odd solitary ewe who had managed to evade the impounding truck.
Soon it would be dark he thought and he would miss his free lift home from Keith The Night Porter - the Mayors Chauffeur.
Why oh why did he bother wandering off from the Planning Sub-Committee - it wasnt even like it was his own Ward the proposed scheme affected.
In his opinion twenty years of open-casting dust and asthma was a small price for the electorate to pay for global warming.
A better climate for Wales was the ticket he had been elected on and besides the resulting hole would provide refuse tips for the next millennia and beyond.
No wonder he had earned the nickname Land-Phil by his beloved Cefn Coed electorate.
As he gently patted his money-belt and flab holding him above the Mine Shaft, he wondered if this was the first such occasion where a Local Councillor had been saved by some green for not being green.
Looking through his night vision specs , Zoltan the Environmental Protection Warden, could see lots of glowing red.
Carefully positioned in the gorse bushes on the moorland upwind of Trecatti Refuse Tip , he lay motionless in the coal dust in full khaki combat gear and on full alert.
In the distance he thought he could hear vehicles buzzing up and down the A4060 Slip Road and the gentle hum of traffic heading back up the Valley from their daily commute to the Welsh Capital.
What he could in fact hear was the buzzing of one million fly larvae hatching in Biblical proportions intent on plaguing the good chapel-going people of Dowlais together with the hum of waste from Trecatti Tip wafting back and fore in a visible brown haze above the lead and exhaust-fume layer rising 1000 feet above sea-level.
Zoltans infra-red glasses had tonight picked up more than the Nucleur glow of the Earth below Trecatti.
Zoltan could as see a blob -too large to be human near the old air-shafts of the Trebeddau-Brithdir Coal Seam , and it wasnt the trapped Councillor.
The eco-warden bore more face-paint than Teacher Bessie at its prime but boy did he love his job!!!
Catching and prosecuting Fly-Tippers was his life.
He had once caught more than thirty people in one week dumping their old white goods on Cwmbargoed Common during the Hoover scandal.
After handing in his collection of washing machines and tumble driers he had become the only person in Merthyr to get Free Flight from Hoover for bringing back the empties.
As the blob grew larger Zoltan was puzzled as the blob seemed to become airborne.
Tonight, the term Fly-Tipping was to take on a whole new meaning as the hatchling bluebottles, greenbottles and Crane Fly larvae began to create a swarm so vast that it would make the Mummy Returns look tame .
At Dowlais Rugby Club, the locals looked aghast.
For nearly a decade the Australian-Style Fly-strips suspended vertically from the ceiling had done their job.
The car park behind had developed its own eco-system as Venus Fly-traps had mysteriously sprung up in the grass verges and training area around the pitch.
Even the local dogs were adept at snapping flies out of the Blaen Dowlais air to supplement their sparce diet.
Tonight, however was different, the regulars of Elwyn , Big Dai and Chico sat amongst other bar-flies too numerous to mention.
As they flicked at the flies with their yellow Klondyke tickets they realized something was wrong.
Poor Ralph Twtchs bald pate had become the landing strip for a multitude of insects so much so from the Lounge Wayne Jones pushed in the glasses onto the bridge of his nose as he thought Ralphs hair had been restoredfirst Austin Healy he thought now Ralph Twtch.
How come there are no flies on you? Elwyn ask Chico licking his roll-up cigarette in true Clint Eastwood-style.
Its down to his Old Faithful lucky jacketmused Big Dai
Even local celebrity Maxi , who had been reputed to gobble anything in a fly couldnt cope.
The swarm of pests began to cover the bar ,the lounge and even disrupted the Friday Night darts match.
But still none landed on Chico.
The Polish- Scots darts team decided to abandon the game after three consecutive darts speared flying insects before hitting the dartboard .
Complaints by Wayne Jones that he had scored One Bugshead and eighty were ignored as the participants headed for the open air.
Up at meat factory , the Portuguese workforce looked to the skies as their Iberian intuition told them that something was wrong.
Panic spread as the Autumn sun turned black as the swarm of flies hit town.
Those with green cards hit out at the flying masses whilst those without used the closest thing available to hand to fend off the incoming insects.
Pig Trotters and Cow Bollocks became impromptu weapons to save the Tesco bound Products.
Every Little Helps was the battle cry as the work force fought to prevent Linda McCartney Sausages becoming full of Wings..
Alone in the dark , Councillor Phil Bent began to sweat.
What if there are wild animals up here at night-like the Monmouthshire Panther or worse still the living dead that frequent the Kirkhouse on a Thursday Night (Over 25s nite).
The snapping of twigs ten feet to his right made him start and for the first time that night he felt movement.
The first of his spare tyres gave way and he sunk one rung deeper into the mine shaft.
Gears roaring the L-Passo driving instruction car sped up the Twynyrodyn Hill, flying over the pink tank-traps that doubled as Dukes of Hazzard-Style ramps as the white Peugeot 106 flew to the sound of Roxettes Joyride as the Galon Uchaf duo put their latest acquisition through its paces.
Fitted with He-Man Dual Controls this car was a joy-riders dream, as the two teenagers took turns accelerating and braking in tandem.
As they completed their latest series of handbrake-turns and doughnuts on the Formula One racetrack known as the Goatmill Road the road surface bore more Michelin skid-marks than the underpants of a councilor trapped in a hole.
Having circled the magic roundabout fifteen times the Bogey Road exit was selected being the favoured option of the seasoned car-thief as it offered ample opportunity to dispose of the stolen goods without detection.
The eldest waster ElviS had stolen all kinds of vehicles in the past from BMWs to Mercedes even an ambulance once the time his Nana had nearly been taken in.
He had earned the nickname from his reputation that his car passengers Were all shook up after joy riding with him.
That and the fact he had tattooed the name Elvis on his forehead in Indian Ink with a mirror in Junior School.
The problem is the S was printed indelibly but backwards.
His sidekick Astra (named after his penchant for Vauxhalls and throwing fireworks in letterboxes) seemed kinda quiet tonight, probably because at 14 years old he was soon to leave school and learn the ways of the dark side on a full time basis.
Having relieved himself of the contents of the glove compartment , he non-chalently slung the Spandau Ballet Gold compact discs like frisbies at his Rock-a Billy partner who was fumbling for his lighter fluid.
Dont sniff too muchleave some for me!!! he roared as the car became engulfed in flames.
The red L Sign on top of the car was symbolic of the Hellish World these pair of devils lived in.
The destructive duo waded through the grassland common towards the twinkling lights of the Valley Capital.
The Gypsy family heard the explosion and their heads turned as one towards the sound high up on the common above Trecatti and then back to their inner circle.
They had arranged a bare-knuckle bout of boxing but their sport had been interrupted by the discovery of an intruder in their midst in their turf.
Looking out from his air-shaft prison Councillor Phil Bent could make several dirty faces and by the glow of the make-shift twig fire they looked like wild savages.
Hair all matted and lice-ridden, with clothes all torn and damaged they stared at him like a lion looks at a downed zebra.
They spoke in a Romany dialect which was not English but not quite Gurnos.
It was guttural and reminded him of the film 2001-a Space Odyssey.
The oldest Gippo- Magwar reached down and stole his pocket-watch from his waistcoat and began to tug at his gold tooth.
Be off with you shrieked the trapped Councillor as the circle of scavengers drew nearer .
Fearing the worst , he sucked in his diaphragm and let out a deep breath and this had the desired effect , like a squeeze-box contracting the air moved to nether regions and he emitted the latest fart ever heard by man or gipsy and his remaining spare tyres gave way and he disappeared into the void below.
Magwar actually believed (judging by the sound) that the Councillor had spontaneously combusted.
Landing with a squelch , less akimbo Councillor Bents undercarriage told him that he hadnt yet hit rock bottom.
His soft landing owed a lot to the hand of fate.
He had in fact crash landed on top of a fourth generation Brithdir Pit pony whose ancestors had been abandoned to die in the anthracite after the pit became uneconomic to work.
The pony was blinder and tougher than any Champions League referee and had pounded the narrow passageways and tunnels that riddled the mountainsides surviving on a diet of plant roots and other subterranean vegetation.
Making adjustment for the extra weight the pony continued its perpetual forward motion in the pit shaft pausing only to let the odd one go.
The Councillor knew he was moving , but in the pitch dark couldnt work out how - not that was until his steed backfired.
Too frightened to light a match in view of the circumstances he just went along with the ride until he realized that he had a laser pen he had bought in Harrods.
The novelty pen designed to commemorate the wedding of Peter Andre and Jordan gave him an idea.
As he pressed the top a cheesy grin from Andres teeth appeared lighting up the passage with an incandescent light.
He also discovered that if he unscrewed the top two beams of green light shot out of Katie Prices nipples.
Looking down in the half-light at his Steed, he couldnt help but compare the Pen bride to his current mount as the face beaming back at him had huge white teeth and shaggy hair the only difference was that his own Mysterious Girl smelled of horseshit.
As he bumped his way his way into the night he could help but think Im a local celebrity get me out of here!!!
Staring down from his perch high above the Trecatti Landfill site, a swarthy skinned Portuguese man watched the Slip Road uneasily.
Eduardo Torres-Gracia had only taken the job as Refuse Tip manager because of his bonuses.
His Lisbon-based Agency had lured him to the El Dorado of the Valleys cos they had told him the streets of Dowlais were paved with gold and the Terraces there were named after Portuguese Kings.
The reality of Alphonso Street Penywern was that due to the overcrowding from illegal aliens from Portugal and the Eastern Bloc countries and the number of stray dogs the pavements were covered in a different material.
Since coming to Merthyr he had lost everything he ever had treasured.
When he arrived he had a job in the Meat Factory , a wife, a house and his pride.
Those Solicitors he had engaged had cost him the lot.
His misfortune started when the sub-zero temperatures of the Meat Factory cost him the feeling in all his digits.
Soon his wife Angelica complained in the divorce papers that he was always cold towards her and complained of frost bite and hypothermia of the womb.
His claim for Vibration White Finger was refused on the basis that he was Portuguese and therefore could not possibly have white fingers.
His solicitors fees and his divorce had drained all his assets and he could not raise anything to fund an appeal.
So he had decided to get back at the Factory the only way he could .by freeing their workforce from their minimum wage prison.
He watched intently as the convoy of green trucks snaked their way up the slip road towards the Penygarnddu Slaughterhouse.
As the trucks slowed for the Blaen Dowlais bend , the tail-gates opened and the latest batch of illegal aliens rolled into the hard shoulder and headed up the grassed bank towards their saviour at the Tip HQ.
AS brief handshakes were exchanged between ex pat countrymen and Eduardo Torres Garcia the steady flow of colonists headed towards the Alphonso Street Ghetto amongst them was one individual in a turban who stuck out like a sore thumb.
******************************************************************
From Outer Space, just beyond the dark side of the moon, the spacecraft stopped dead.
The odour filling the spacecraft turned the heads of ZARG and Wazz the Venusian spacemen filling each of their three noses with noxious fumes.
A quick check on their scanners pinpointed the source of the universally offensive stench.
Looking down at the blue planet the creatures the could make out the Great Wall of China, the Himalayas and a strange gold/brown glow from an Island off Europe.
As the mother ship sped towards Earth she feared that one of her offspring was sending a distress beacon .
They had to be careful because the last time they spotted a glow it turned out to be a disaster at Chernobyl in Russia.
And as any self-respecting Russian in Y-Fronts will tell you have to be careful or Chernobyl fallout.
And have three Alien penises it was not a pretty site.
Trudging through the narrow back passages guided by the back passage of his Pit Pony , Phil Bent realized that if he was to get out of the Mine he should follow the pony towards freedom.
The smell was overpowering but he preferred it to the stench of rotting landfill that had grown stronger as he headed North.
He had put away his Pen (which incidentally doubled as a Compass-Jordans breasts being silicon pointed magnetically towards Venus) because he had encountered an ooze of green slime which seemed to glow with a luminousity of its own.
As the smell grew stronger the passageways became more congested as he passed the remains of Oil-covered sea-birds , barrels marked Sea Empress, dead cattle stamped BSE carefully disguised in Old MuckDonalds wrappings, and literally thousands of non-biodegradable Asda carrier-bags which appeared to be breeding.
As he reached a sorce of light he realized that he must be below the core of Trecatti Waste-tip.
Looking up through the Pepper pots he saw a flame burning bright blue burning off the methane and he sat down in a discarded wheelchair staring up surrounding by thousands of MuckDonalds, KFC and Pizza Hut boxes..
At that moment he felt like Tanni Grey Thompson holding the Olympic Torch surrounded by the same sponsors.
Wading through unsold Merthyr Rfc Premiership Programmes which had been printed too early in that failed promotion season, colonies of white socks, discarded Muller Rice prototype Cherry Bakewell containers and free Spandau Ballet Gold CDs he trudged West in the hope of finding an exit.
His cries for help went not heeded by the Portuguese Tip Manager as he assumed they were the cries of the resident flock of seagulls flying overhead.
Eddie Torres Garcia had never seen seagulls this far inland and he believed that they were hatchlings mutated from the multitude of KFC boxes and their legs coated in breadcrumbs seemed to testify to this fact.
The Portuguese connection in Alphonso Street were busy checking into their new rooms.
Only ten to a bedroom was permitted and any Polish or Slavic guests were allocated attic or cellar space only.
Jobbi Jabbah the turban wearing Muslim from Leeds was given the coal cwtch on accounts of his religious beliefs.
The mobile ring tone of Eddie Torres sounded the all clear confirming that their escape had not been noticed by the Truck drivers.
High up on the Common , Elvis and Astra the car thieves turned up the collars on their shiny shellsuits and pulled down their baseball hats against the chilly Autumn wind.
Tonight the prevailing wind took the scent of Trecatti towards Gypsy Castle and Rhymney and they were able to breathe comfortably.
Wild Mountain ponies fought and frolicked over the ever decreasing patches of grassland worth eating that had not been contaminated by leachates.
As they reached the brow of a disused red ash tip they spotted a courting couple at play in the dingle below.
The mans teeth glinted pearly white in the pale moonlight and as they crept closer in true Stan Collymore Dogger-style they were startled to see a man being intimate with and talking to one of the Wild Mountain ponies.
Ive seen him before on televisionhis face, teeth and arse are familiar! whispered Elvis.
The only words Astra could understand with all those teeth and the Salt Lake accent was Crazy Horses wah-wah!!1
The man was no less than Donny Osmond back in Merthyr to trace his family roots and see where his past generations had hailed from.
The 1970s singer suddenly realized he was being watched and dropped the rear legs in fear of an Horizon expose.
He rang off into the night with white flares dragging in the coal dust .
That experience has ruined the song Puppy Love for me!!! retched Elvis discharging his stomach contents in the gorse bushes.
The close encounter of the first kind unsettled the pair whilst the second involved a two-headed rabbit with masses of human hair growing out of its head.
The sight of a Mountain Hare with Mounting Hare at Mountain Hare startled the pair as they stood motionless like they were mesmerized by the headlights of a mountain bicycle which thundered down the grass slope straight out across the slip road and under a Green mobile Auschitzcattle truck heading for the shambles in Penygarnddu.
The pair could not believe the look on the face of the Portuguese site manager E T Garcia as his cycle seemed to fly momentarily like a scene from a well Spielburg films.
Amazingly, in the space of three minutes the poor man was run over by four vehicles including a shop keeper, a taxi driver , Donny Osmonds chauffeur and finally a man wearing a Bridgend Nursing Park logo badge who was looking for the Park hospital in Bridgend.
It was ironic that the Asylum seeker should be killed by a fellow Asylum seeker wearing a BNP badge.
The cause of the crash was the Close Encounter of the Third Kind as a giant green spinning spaceship hovered over the heads of the pair.
Landing in a clearing of Gorse bushes the ship came to a stop with a bump and two odd-shaped characters appeared at the top of a light-filled ramp .
Poor Zoltan the Eco-warden had been crushed in his rush to capture the big onethinking this delivery of Fly-tippers was from the Planet Zanussi he had misjudged their landing strip and ended up part of the living landscape.
Elvis and Astra looked at one another in awe and the same telepathic thought was sent from sub-human to sub-human.
Did they leave the keys in the ignition.
Dez Cockney could hardly believe his luckhe had sold his house in Dagenham and bought three for the same price in Merthyr at Old Forge Park Dowlais.
He had rented the other two houses to 200 Portuguese immigrants and was making a fortune off the DSS in Housing Benefit.
He was collecting the rent of his tenant Angelica Garcia the former wife of the Tip owner when he noticed he was under surveillance.
The Ice Cream van parked in Azalea Drive had refused to sell cigarettes to some 14 year old truant rugby players which raised his suspicion that it was a DSS plant.
The DSS were watching the home of Mrs Garcia at the behest of Mr Gracias Divorce Solicitors.
As he opened the door of his other house he realized that his elderly incontinent tenant Mrs Runny had been trapped overnight in the Stairlift and the carpet below was ruined.
His years of roller-shutter door repair was to finally pay off as he proceeded to clear the jammed mechanism.
Kneeling in effluent he held his breath long enough to force the stairlift to continue its descent to the floor.
As he raced for the patio doors, he inadvertently let in a swarm of flies which had been stuck to the exterior glass like a scene from Salems Lot.
As he gasped and wheezed for air in the garden, his sharp London Eye noticed a glint of metal in the vegetable patch.
Where the carrots should have been he found different carets eighteen to be precise in the shape of a nugget the size of an egg.
After pocketing the item he made his tenant a cuppa Rosie Lee after her ordeal on the apple & pears .
She told him to take what he wanted from her allotment patch.
Des, beamed a broad grin as the Pearly King had found another goldmine in Merthyr.
Deep beneath the ground, Phil Bent thought he had discovered the source of the Nileor Morlais Brook at the very least!!!!
He had come to the confluence of three passageways and by his calculations he wasnt far from Caeharris House in Dowlais High Street.
The tunnel he had followed had been filled with Green ooze and lead away from the Tip under the Dowlais RFC pitch he had figured the same because of the stud-marks in the turf above and the fact that unlike the Scarlets rugby posts topped with sospansMerthyr Council Leisure Services had buried the posts upside down and the dragon emblems were below ground.
Coming face to face with Mary Twtch and Gwyneth Hopkins in that tunnel had scared him to death.
Tunnel two was filled with two kinds of cocoa solids which appeared to eminate from a certain chocolate factory and a cesspit formerly known as Morlais Brook.
Tunnel two was filled with all kinds of iron ore and phosphates from the old foundry site upon which Old Forge Park was built.
At the meeting point of this crossroads the soil and ground glowed with a yellowish hue the like of which Bent had only seen on the fingers of the nightmarish gypsies
No wonder those miners from Dowlais had emigrated to Canada , he understood now why the area of Blaen Dowlais was known as Klondyke .
Shoveling as much gold into his pockets as he did at his post-committee buffet lunches the Councillor tried to figure out what had caused the sudden bout of alchemy.
It seems that the merger of chemicals from the tip had combined with the base metals from the foundry site had fused with the cocoa solids creating a product made of Oxides and potassium with the chemical formula of OP-OK.
Whatever had caused it meant rich pickings for Councillor Bent.
Bent decided his best way out was to tunnel up through the pitch.
As he climbed through the hole in the centre-circle of the pitch he realized too late that the Uncle Festa lookalike bearing down on him was in fact the legendary Mark Onky Palmer and the resulting tackle was to put the councillor in hospital for the evening.
As the paramedic Dai Sullivan closed the ambulance doors he made a careful note of the cause of the accident.
Onky.
The third one this month he mused as he drove off at high speed towards PCH.
Aliens Zarg and Wazz could not believe their three eyes.they had only parked the ship up for three minutes to check out the glowing they had seen from space.
Thinking it was a fellow Venusian craft with its hazards on they had realised that they had made the same Chernobyl mistake again.
It was a semi-nuclear refuse tip surrounded by Wind Turbines and worse still they had been space-jacked by two-spaced out punkswho had displayed their own glowing middle fingers to their intergalactic cousins before screeching away at 100 miles per second.
Des Lynam was in shock he had received a Solicitors letter from the Divorce Solicitors of the Tip manager Eddie Torres asking for the return of their Ex-Gracia payments.
They were claiming that as Tip owners they held the mineral rights to the land upon which his houses were built.
They were no flies on that lot he thought but Im not giving up easy Ill make a big stink about the tip claims he thought.
Elvis & Astra had mastered the controls of the Venusian craft easily.
Compared to an ambulance it was a doddle - even the red laser beams and light on top were working.
As the spaceship shot raced over Gellifaelog, Galon Uchaf and the Gurnos at 3 Gs they passed over the three Gs Community Centre.
Pressing a button on the dashboard Elvis managed to buzz Dai Sullivans ambulance but sound like a helicopter.
Speeding passed Penydre High School the two vehicles raced at breakneck speed .
Sully and Elvis telepathically sent each other a message that the winning post was the speed camera outside the Penyfan View Police Station.
As the Police officer in the station eagerly pressed the button to fine the joy riders the camera flashed missing both vehicles but catching an unlucky Caeharris Taxi driver Fred overtaking the ambulance.
The joy riders decided to get their own back on the police who regularly buzzed their homes in Chopper Drug raids.
Hovering above the Police Station flashing their lights and lasers it was like Thursday Night in the Kirkhouse and some of the regulars now living in Ty Gwaunfarren Nursing Home left their beds in hope of a Cocoon style regeneration.
Down below Female Inspector Dawn Raid look worried.
The plods were panicking big timesome even stopped beating their prisoners momentarily.
Landing the spaceship with precision on the roof of the Police Station they began to spray-paint the roof with the letters UFO before legging it across the remaining gardens of Penyfan View and Forsythia Close that hadnt been exhumed
Two weeks later Councillor Phil Bent had recovered fully from his injuries.
He had recovered from his Onky tackle within hours but Dai Sullivan had dropped him off the stretcher on the way into casualty breaking his wrist.
The Council Chamber was silent as the future of the East Merthyr Land Reclamation Scheme hung by a golden thread.
The vote was tied at 32-32 and Councillor Bent as chairman had the Open casting vote.
As a short adjournment was called .
A buff coloured envelope was pushed into the hands of Phil Bent.
Like Neil Hamilton and George Graham before him he had a difficult decision to make.
The envelope was returned to the solicitor with interest and all the celtic energy he could muster.
Thanks for the tip! but no thanks.its an ecological time bomb waiting to go offI vote No.
*********************************************************************
The cheer from the people of Dowlais and Twynyrodyn was heard at Trecatti Waste Tip.
Jobbi Jabbur the newly appointed Trecattis Site Manager sat dozing on an empty Cardiff furniture flat pack-backpack in place .
The Al Ikea sleeper was in place!!!!!!
THE END
‘The North wind did blow and Merthyr had snow and what did poor Farrah do next?” sang Dean ‘Belle’ End as he sat on the vandal proof metal bench alongside the Merthyr Railway Station.
The sound caused Farrah to turn around sharply, exposing his nether regions to the bleak March air.
His coat, made entirely of Bar towels ,acquired from the many pubs he had visited on his personal tour of the Rugby Six Nation Countries and beyond, offered little protection from the elements.
His roman sandals acquired from a trip to Rome in 2009 , were further evidence of his total disregard for Valleys weather- a historical reason why the Celts were never completely conquered by our Italian cousins and the ex- army man Major Farrah- Fawcett was living proof of our resilience .
Just before his toes turned blue, his four-legged companion ‘Buster’ the Staffordshire Bull Terrier, dashed over and instinctively became a canine foot-warmer.
His human companions stood ‘Rhymney Brewery Hobby Horse’ bottle at the ready, awaiting the arrival of the Valley Line Train from Cardiff.
“ Has Buster’s diarrhoea problem cleared up yet?” asked Dean laughing hysterically.
Farrah looked down at his toes, but refused to answer , discreetly trying to wipe his toes on a dock-leaf....as discreetly as a 20 stone man in sandals and a five-foot bar towel garb could do.
“I thought the Welsh Assembly were doubling the number of trains to Merthyr “ asked his companion Dean.
“They did start but the trains kept getting pinched!” answered his mate Jon Van Dole.
“ Rumour has it ...the Gurnos boys were stealing the wheels as they left the station......one train was found in the sidings up on bricks...apparently the scrap dealers pay well for the scrap metal.. that’s why there are no road signs left showing Merthyr Tydfil anymore !” he continued.
“ I thought Merthyr Tydfil closed when Hoovers shut down and they moved everyone to the coast like the Tories wanted to do in the 1960’s...!” offered Farrah.
“ The next train is due at 10.03am....” interrupted Garry ‘Windows’ Snary looking up from his lap-top computer.
“ Trust you Garry ...NERD....who else would bring a laptop computer to a Wales v England Six Nations match?” asked Jon Van Dole as the Arriva Valley Lines trains pulled into the station at exactly 10.03am.
“ Warren Gatland....Shaun Edwards......do I need to go on...!” offered Snary
“ But they are working...!” replied Jon limply.
“ We all rely on different ‘hard drives’....the Welsh Pack , me and of course you!” laughed Garry.
“There’s no need to mention my erectile dysfunction....I had a complete blood transfusion.... I had to....my blood count was lower than Dean’s IQ...!” countered Jon as he was about to board the train.
“Mind that gap between the platform and the train Jon !” threatened Dean in retaliation ...or I might just squeeze your Ox-Head in there!”
As they selected their seating on the train, Farrah sat next to Garry and whispered in his mobile ear piece...” That was a bit below the belt...about Jon’s difficulties in the trouser department....only his missus, Dean and I know about that ?”
“ Correction ...said Garry clicking his mouse....you, me , Dean & his missus and everybody who visits his ‘face-book page’ from today on....call it ‘revenge of the nerds’ if you want!”
Buster, bright as a button, sat at his masters feet awaiting the arrival of the train conductor.
As soon as he sensed the presence of the ticket collector, like most Merthyr people, he bounded off the train and re-entered in the carriage behind the conductor, who was too busy checking tickets.
As he crawled on his belly below the carriage seats, he waited for the conductor to check his Master’s ticket and step off the train to blow his whistle.
The plan usually worked , but today Buster had forgotten about his incontinence problem and a trail of shite led the conductor back to the poor unsuspecting dog.
As the train shuffled away from the station the conductor’s nose told him there was a problem.
“ Oi Fred Flintstone.... you in the (visible) beer overcoat....the one with the shit in his toe nails....you can’t bring that dog on here and let him shit everywhere!” bellowed the conductor.
“ It’s not my dog...and he didn’t shit on your train....!” bellowed Farrah indignantly.
“I saw Flintstone doing it ...announced Dean enjoying watching Farrah squirm...... he shat on your seat and it probably fell off !”
Farrah gave Dean a black look.
“ Thanks for the solidarity mate!” declared Farrah.
Buster sat on his hind legs....left paw pointing and trying to blame Jonny for the mess.
“ It’s my dog....!” said Garry rolling his head and eyes in Stevie Wonder fashion....he’s my guide dog!”
“ If he’s your guide dog...show me his ‘doggy id’ ?” asked the conductor.
“ Thought you’d never ask....!” replied Garry printing his fake doggy id badge from his internet site via his lap-top.
Garry thrust the paper towards the bent-over conductor punching him hard on the jaw.
“Sorry... I followed the sound of the voice!” replied Garry.
Rubbing his bruised mandible, the Conductor backed away muttering that he would keep an eye on him.
“ Take a lap-top to a game indeed!” laughed Garry with Buster triumphantly drooling, knowing they had both got one over on Jonny.
“ Look at him...!” announced Dean, also drooling from the corner of his mouth on his third bottle of Rhymney Brewery Bevan’s Bitter....’Buster - the great train slobber’
From Merthyr station until Pontypridd Station Garry didn’t lift his head up from his keyboard .
He then suddenly smiled and pressed the send key.
“ What are you so happy about...you got the same look on your face Buster has when he tries to shag the neighbours’ Chihuahua!” announced Farrah putting down the remains of a six pack- a one pack.
At the mere mention of the word Chihuahua , Buster became amorous and chose to demonstrate on Jon Van Dole’s leg.
As Jon tried shaking him off his new velvet corduroy trousers, Buster seemed to enjoy the experience all the more.
“Jon...he can keep it up longer than you!” teased Dean
Randomly, half-cut Dean , fatally mentioned that he had tried to mount his cat once but had to cello-tape its mouth to stop it exploding.
Farrah continued to press Garry as to why he was smiling like Dean’s Cheshire cat (Pre-cellotape).
“ I just sent a computer virus to H M Land Registry Wales Office called ‘the Weakest Link’....it works by way of their intended chain matrix system and as soon as the first solicitor tries to use it , a Red Dragon logo of Anne Robinson pops up wipes out any mortgages registered against the house and turns the owners name into Meibion Glyndwr!”
“ I knew you were into that Free Wales Army bit and lived in Sospan land , but didn’t realise how revolutionary you were.... surely they will trace you and catch you!”
“ Not really...I have linked it up to the face-book page of Jon Van Dole...they won’t have any difficulty getting it up......I’ve linked it into a web-page I’ve created called Dean ‘Belle’ End’s animal bestiality page ....with a bit of luck they should arrest him too !”
“ You ‘re a real good pal and user friendly!” laughed Farrah.
As the train reached Taff’s Well, the light seemed to change on the train ...the clouds that were overhead parted and a beam of sunlight directly from God appeared , as they emerged from the Taff Valley, feeling an overcoat warmer.
A corona of yellow seemed to draw the eyes of the Merthyr boys to a broken train seat .
“ Boys...it is the Holy Grail...!” announced Dean reverently ....”the ultimate Rugby relic...!” as he approached the damaged seat.
Looking down at the love heart drawn in fake orange leg tan on the back of the leather he whispered.
“ GH Loves CC”!!!!!
“ Do you know what that means?” declared Dean.
“ Wot are you banging on about ...some Rail seat with a punch-mark through the back !” said Garry petulantly.
“ Not just any punch-mark.....we are in the compartment wrecked by Gavin Henson and his muppet show earlier this year!” said Dean on his knees and kissing the badge on his Osprey shirt.
“ That’s the only bird he will kiss today!” laughed Farrah
As Dean videoed it on his mobile phone , Garry shook his head at the behaviour of his friend.
“ East is East and West ain’t Best and never the twain shall meet !” declared Garry going back to his lap-top.
As the train arrived in Cardiff Queen Street , the gang of four and their five legged canine friend left the train and started down the Victorian steps of the station.
“ Tickets please !” shouted the announcer, as the Rugby crowds began to surge towards the barrier.
Buster seeing his opportunity slid under the metal barrier like Joe Di Maggio sliding to his home run base....shooting straight out the train station door and into the back of the Big Issue sellers obligatory dog ... called ‘ Lady Scrounger’.
Scrounger taking on the characteristics of her own master , barked at Buster the equivalent of ‘What are you looking at ?” in street doggy language.
Once through the barrier, Garry made a beeline for the newspaper kiosk, buying a number of items of confectionary.
“ Six Mars Bars and three Cadbury Wispas....you work , rest and play hard.... !” laughed the new slim-line Jon Van Dole , fresh from another blood transfusion .
As Dean passed the entrance he noticed the street dog had transformed back into cute dog Lady, and the spaniel was standing on her hind-legs begging for money.
Dean always had time for animals...but her owner was to make a fatal mistake.
In the noise of the traffic, the words “ Big Issue!” and the resulting meth’s spittle landing on his Swansea/ Ospreys shirt, was interpreted as an act of war.
The drunken Dean merely replied ‘ Bless you” and punched the Street Vendor clean over two lanes of cheering stationary traffic.
The cheers turned to boos, as Dean then dropped-kicked the dog over the two sets of traffic lights... clapping his hands and shouting there’s only One Gavin Henson......
His companions were horrified but not as much as that of Warren, a Paul’s Savoury Products driver, whose Van windscreen killed the dog outright.
Looking round, he suddenly recovered and slung it in the back for a Vietnamese Restaurant owner he knew in Canton.
“ I need me a drink to calm me down...take me to the Queens Vaults ....besides I thought that tramp had Mexican Swine flu....I could smell the chilli on his breath!” said Dean trying to justify his behaviour, as he headed up Queen Street.
The Four looked quite a sight , as they ambled towards the Pub.
Farrah clad in his multi-coloured Beer mat dress, Dean in his spittle covered Ospreys shirt, Jon Van Dole in his orange Holland football shirt and Garry Snary, two pockets full of mars bars and a lap-top computer covering his head from the sudden rain shower.
By the time they reached the pub door , Farrah’s coat had absorbed two pints of water making him weigh more than 9 stone.
Buster skipped along merrily sniffing anything that moved... and so did Dean.
“ My round lads” announced Farrah reaching the bar through a throng of Rugby fans.
The ‘ Beer- Cave-Man’ attire worked a charm, as the bar maids rushed to serve him ahead of others already waiting patiently.
“ Oi...I was before you...!” protested an English Rugby fan wearing a Fez.
“ You ...Tommy Cooper head!” shouted Dean....”one question ...wot Country is Cardiff in?”
“ Wales of course...you peasant!” relied the Saracen fan.
“ Well, we live here in the wet climate and subsidise your water bills....now be quiet now like a good boy or I will shove your Chariot up your arse!” snarled Dean returning to a different ‘Big Issue-mode’.
“ There’s no place for racism in sport!” announced a ‘number 10’ size Englishman next to the Fez wearer downing his pint in one.
“ Never been to an Wales V England before then mate? “ asked Jon Van Dole.
“ No...you speak the Queen’s English ....sorry I thought you were Dutch..... !” answered the surprised Danny Cipriani..
“ If you haven’t been to the Millenium Stadium and Wales V England in any sport, at any level, you haven’t seen racism in sport.....!” laughed Jon Van Dole.
“ Shit...thanks for reminding me ...I’ve been out clubbing all night and I’m playing in two hours!” said Cipriani, grabbing his England Track suit top and diving between the legs of a ‘scrum’ of ‘five’ people entering the main door as only a Fly-half can.
“ See....pontificated Dean to the Fez-wearing Saracen Cockney , Hamed Sackey O’Toole....you English ....aren’t real English at all....your all French....!”
“ How do you work that out .....?” snarled O’Toole , at the mere prospect of being linked to the continent.
“ We Welsh are the real English....us Celts see ....were driven back by your Italian Romans to Wales and Ireland.... and you lot are just descendants of the Normans see...French barons who came here....William the Conqueror....you lot are just a mongrel breed of Vikings, Saxons and FRENCH!” slurred Dean enjoying the rant.
“ .....and with a name like yours you can add Sand-Nigger, Coon and Gippo to the Micks....mix get it !”
As the last insult hit him , even though the Saracen knew he was outnumbered 50-1 , he took aim and caught Dean flush on the snout.
A small trickle of blood appeared below his nose.
It didn’t help that Garry had just taken up the microphone and began to sing his version of Garry-oke.
He enlisted the support of the a handsome young man with black caterpillar eye-brows.
Garry sang to the mixed bar of supporters, his version of the song ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain’.
“ I would rather wear a turban than a rose....I would rather wear a turban than a rose... I would rather wear a turban....rather wear a turban ...rather wear a turban than a rose ....English bast....”
Just as he was finishing the song, he was punched full force by the leader of the Leicester Tigers supporters ‘who had finally got his hair off’ .
Garry ‘ sailed across the bar and landed in a heap near the ladies toilets, becoming a ‘Prop Idol’ in more ways than one.
Austin Healey stood up to his full height of 5 feet 6 , a fair match for Stereo-phonics front man Kelly Jones, who grabbed the karaoke mike and swing it at the head of the ‘Leicester Lip’.
The impact sent Austin Healey’s hair implants flying down the Queens Vaults main bar , scattering glasses as it finally stopping in an inch of dust and a disused ashtray.
“ Look Dusty Hare....!” laughed Dean picking up the wig and wiping his bloody trickle.
Kelly Jones swung the microphone up by the lead and caught it , in true Hollywood /Cwmaman style and continued to sing....” As long as we beat the English ...we don’t care.!”
Dean turned up his collar in Malcolm Price fashion ...as he flatterned O’Toole and began to slug his way across the bar, packed with celebrity showbiz friends of Stuart Cable.
Anything that didn’t have the three feathers or a Welsh rugby shirt was fair game.
One minute Robbie Williams was discussing a possible come-back concert with his old pop band at the Cardiff International Arena... the next he was on the floor nursing some bruises.
“ Take That!” declared Dean mid rampage.
As Robbie slid down the wall of the pub next to Garry, he was in fact seeing ‘Angels’ instead.
“ It’s My...llenium (Stadium )...!” roared Dean- like King Kong - beating his chest.
As the rest of Take That leapt on Dean....he was cheered on by Robbie Williams....
“Hit Barlow first!” he declared.....then Liam Gallagher!”
In the melee that followed , Dean was forcefully ejected by a combination of the heavyweight bouncers and Ruth ‘Nessa’ Jones who was trying to find out ‘what’s occurring’.
“ Not you again......you were fighting with Mike Phillips & Andy Powell last time!” they shouted as Dean , Garry , his laptop and the others including the Stereophonics were thrown into the street to the delight of the waiting Buster.
“It’s your fault Farrah !” declared Dean....”it’s that bloody coat of yours, it attracts trouble....!” declared Dean still holding Healey’s hair.
“ Got a quarantine licence for that?” replied Farrah.
“ Well done Dean where can I go now...the other pubs are packed and I need to down- load some old data files.....?” announced Garry nervously.
“ Wot?” asked Jon .
“ I need a dump.... a kak....!” he replied.
“ That’s another reason why I wear this coat... said Farrah...getting up from the window-cill of the Italian restaurant leaving a steaming turd behind....and why I like Caroline Street so much !” he said scooping up a handful of discarded chip papers and removing the clinkers.
“ Are you using that hair?” he asked Dean.
Wiping out more klingons than the new Star Trek film he slung the hairpiece contemptibly at the bouncers.
Looking back at the window-sill, Jon declared I thought ‘only dogs did that!’
Buster shot him a look of disgust.
“ Well the only place I can think of, that will be quiet at this time of day ....is the toilet behind the Hayes Buttie Bar, near St Davids Hall...besides we can go to the last pub in Cardiff Dean isn’t barred from –Walkabout in St Mary Street.!” ....offered Jon .
“ What... that’s bandit Country!” laughed Dean in an effeminate voice....” I’ll come with you to hold your hand....
As the three friends texted Farrah the details of their detour, he agreed to meet them at ‘Walkabout Creek’ –which co-incidentally was the venue the Stereophonics planned to visit .
Heading down the Victorian steps and passed the railings to the subterranean toilet they all had a sense of unease , as they began to point Percy at the Porcelain.
“ Do you get the feeling...we are being watched?” asked Jon nervously.
“ I am always being watched .....boasted Dean. doing Grouch Marx impressions whilst siphoning his python, before bending over.....most people think I should be in a circus...Monty Python’s flying circus, (he said charming his one eyed- trouser snake) , besides you are safe, I can’t see anyone here with a magnifying glass....!”
“ I’ve told you ....after a blood transfusion ....it takes time to get up a stream!” proffered John.
“ This pineapple chunk I found in the urinal is blinding...I’ll meet you at the buttie bar upstairs...but I’m only waiting 15 minutes! ” laughed Dean
Garry sat in the cubicle and had double locked the door.... he wasn’t that homophobic he just had other more important things on his mind.
Lowering his trousers and underpants , the ex-prop remembered his routine.
Pause... Touch... Engage.
As he sat on the throne with a sense of unease , he waited for nature to take its course.
The cubicle walls all around were wiped clean, apart from a recent addition of an Neanderthal cave-painting in haemorrhoid brown.
Normally, he enjoyed reading the graffiti on the toilet walls...but this crap-trap was largely free except for writing at the cubicle top and just above a narrow hole in the partition wall at waist height.
The hole had been partially filled by the remainder of the toilet paper.
Garry checked his watch and realised it was now of never.
Like all rugby men, he inspected his latest ‘drop out’ and noted that it stood out of the water like the Statue of Liberty..
He took a photo-shot on his mobile camera phone and sent the beauty by e-mail to Jon Van Dole’s facebook page under ‘New blog’,
As usual some evil sod had left a single sheet on the Council-issue sandpaper...would this be enough....he was a little worried by the lack of paper available but decided to go ‘commando’ anyway, as that was the real purpose of his mission.
As he set up his lap-top, he retrieved the internet page on how to make home-made bombs from plastic explosives and household chemicals.
He began whittling away at the inside of the chocolate bars and inserting the plastic explosives in the Mars and Wispas.
Just as he finished the last one , he dropped the chocolate bar which slid on the tiled floor , underneath the metal toilet roll holder.
As he bent over, butt naked, he failed to notice that the toilet paper plug had been removed and a famous face with a leather hat and goatee beard took advantage of Garry’s precarious predicament.
“ Talk about a Careless Wispa!” announced a George Michael look-a-like rubbing his hands in the adjacent cubicle, as the comeback of Wham was complete as he he stuck his phallus through the toilet wall.
Garry wished he had read the graffiti warnings at the top of the cubicle ‘watch out for queers’ and further down ‘told you so’.
Oblivious to the impending assault , Jon stood innocently trying to think of ice cold waterfalls to get him started.
“ Garry are you still logging on in there?....if there’s no paper left in the stall...I can change two fivers for a tenner”
Garry jumped at the sudden intrusion of flesh , eyes widening alarmingly .
In response, he rammed a fuse down the jap’s eye of his assailant.
‘George’ recoiled limply and sang sadly ....” Last Christmas, I gave you my arse, but the very next day you gave it away” sitting down on the toilet seat dejectedly.
********************************************************************
Dean stood eating his bacon egg and tomato roll at the top of the steps as a 17 year old youth passed him in a Cardiff City base-ball cap and ‘Diesel’ top.
Dean was suspicious too of his two sidekicks aged 9 and 15 who were joking laughing and acting like a pair of gangsters keeping a lookout.
He rubbed the remains of the greasy bacon and tomato roll on his trousers in anticipation of trouble.
Jon stood to attention at the sound of footsteps approaching.
He was very conscious of the fact he had spent over ten minutes waiting for his engine to start.
Jon was intimidated when the youth broke the old age male convention , standing immediately next to him at the empty urinal.
He tried to look away and whistle politely, but could not help but look down at his ‘old boy’ to see if the stream had started.
“ What do you know...finally !” sighed Jon as he startled with a trickle which led to a bladder emptying full Niagara discharge.
“ Give us all your money...or your slug gets it!” declared the Ely youth Robin Hoodie.
It was only then that Jon realised the touch of the cold steel pen-knife blade had started his down pour.
Jon nervously handed over his wallet...dropping it in the urinal tray in fright.
Dripping with urine , snot, pubic hair and attached by chewing gum to the only pineapple chunk that Dean had missed, the youth bent over in disgust, carefully watching the petrified Jon all the while.
Getting his own back on someone else bending over, Garry emerged from the cubicle door with lap-top raised and smacked the youth over the head rendering him unconscious.
“ Talk about a hard-drive capability!” laughed Garry....” Can you see why I take a lap-top to the game now!”
Jon had to admit defeat on that one.
As the two friends climbed the stairs together, they were spotted by the two other gang members.
Dean stepped in , as the two scumbags realising their punk friend was in trouble,drew their illegal blades reclaimed from a knife amnesty bin in Roath Park.
Dean lifted the ‘Waterstones’ book shop sign, smote the pair , sending them tumbling down the steps passed Jon and Garry....” Now that’s what you call a good hardback!” laughed Dean triumphantly.
As they trio headed towards Walkabout, they discussed the antics of the juvenile gang.
“ I overheard those wasters talking about their ‘nob racket’.... give us all your money or I’ll cut it off.....!” said Dean angrily.
“ What man wouldn’t hand over their wallet!” agreed Garry.
“ The big one reckoned he had made nearly two grand ....whilst the 15 year old ...I heard his street name of Shiv Shover....nearly £1,500.00!” continued Dean.
“ What about the little one- the 9 year-old ...what about him... how much did he make ?” asked Jon .
“ About £10.00 ...apparently....but he did have two pockets full of cocks!” laughed Dean.
Jon ashen-faced , just gulped and thanked his lucky stars it had been the older boy.
That George Michael look-a-like will put them to good use...thought Garry.
Garry had visions of the pop star trapped in the toilet trying to convince the gang that he hadn’t let ‘the son go down on me’.
********************************************************************
Farrah , however, was stood at ‘a different corner’ - that of the Australian theme bar ‘Walkabout’ in St Mary Street.
His coat of many beer towels in multi-colours, was a benefit not just for being spotted on the BBC Cameras, but also when waiting to be served at a crowded match-day bar.
He was also a babe magnet in this garb, as the woman wanted to check to see if his ‘bod’ was as good as his Boddingtons.
A walking beer sponsor’s dream , the man’s outfit was made out of three parts Strongbow, two parts Boddingtons, Allbright, Worthington Best together with many foreign beers from his tours with the British Lions to South Africa, Australia and New Zealand.
Around his collar , he bore the emblem of Cigarette manufacturer Rothmans.
It was no surprise that the man’s body was also ‘King-size’.
Henry the Eighth to be precise , carefully crafted and sculpted after years of weightlifting pint glasses to his lips.
Oh and after wiping the froth of the beers he had ‘Green-sleeves too!”
As he looked at the selection of beer pumps, he announced loudly in a ‘Convict Oz accent’ “ Fosters - the Amber Nectar- ‘Oztralia’s favourite beer brewed in ....Scotland” announced Farrah, to anyone that would listen...including the young barman waiting to serve him.
Standing next to the bar, he used his favourite trick to gain free beer.
As Stereophonic front man Kelly Jones, ordered and paid for a round for every able person in Cwmaman, Farrah took advantage of the procession of pints being passed over the heads of the queue of people , waiting for beer and an autograph.
Farrah , empty pint glass in hand, merely waited for Jones to look away, before dipping his sleeve in the recently poured pint glasses and sopping up the beer .
He then squeezed his sleeve out into his own glass.
Kelly Jones assumed it was just short measures and muttered something about ‘a bartender and a thief’.
When Kelly was presented with the bill for £387.30 for 150 pints Farrah, being the son of a mathematics teacher, he interrupted Kelly and told him he was being overcharged by some £87.30.
The bar-tender was not amused and told Farrah to mind his own business.
Farrah told Kelly he was ‘Just looking’ and the UWIC student-barman became so flustered with the reworking of the computerised till, that he broke off the pump handle on the Worthy Best, sending a jet of cream-flow into the air.
Mysteriously, all the beer towels had disappeared from the bar, leaving a ‘free reign’ (or free rain) for Farrah to mop up the spillage at the bar.
“ See...working behind the bar ...it’s all about ‘Performance and Cocktails...’ continued Farrah.....and I can tell you a few !”.
“ Performances?” asked Kelly.
“ Cock tales!” replied Farrah.
Kelly smiled ....caterpillar eyebrows on rest-mode... he was used to freeloaders but this guy seemed to have ‘more life than a Tramps Vest’ and looked a real card.
Weighing 2 stone heavier, dripping with Worthington, he followed Kelly back to his table and joined in with the rest of the band , as if he had known them all his life.
In the hope of a REAL pint, he spoke to Stuart Cable, mentioning that his father once drove through Cwmaman and that they were practically related .
Buster too , took a real shine to Stuart Cable , humping his leg with Cable too frightened to tell him off.
“ Is it true that your mother is called Mabel Cable?....asked Farrah not believing it.
“ Yes!” came the reply.
“ and your father was called Clark....you ride in a Cable car and watch Cable TV!...in fact my tour mates are busy laying some cable as we speak!” continued Farrah.
“ Not my sister I hope ....but otherwise all true..!”.said Stuart, playing along, tapping the table like a real drummer.
“And Kelly ...your old man was called Duster...and my dog is called Buster...although Stuart ...I see you’ve already made his acquaintance....your dad was a singer in the clubs around Merthyr!” said Farrah
Farrah looked at the pint count which kept going up every-time he mentioned somebody from Cwmaman.
“ Well boys ...my name’s Richard ...and I’m an alcoholic...!” he announced raising his beer glass to toast the success of the band
“ Here’s to Cwmaman....’you gotta go there to come back’ laughed Farrah enjoying the attention.
As Farrah knocked back his eighth free pint...he decided he better go.
“ Your round Richard...!”asked the quiet unassuming member of the trio Richard Jones
“ Yes ...I think my shape is down to the beer I drink .... oh MY round ...’Maybe tomorrow’.....he sung ...as he waved to his regular mates as he spotted Dean pushing his way violently through the crowd.
“ Is this table taken... boys...?” he asked a group of heavyweight people clad in fake Welsh Rugby shirts from Rheola market.
“ Do you mind ....we’re Aberdare Ladies Rugby team....!” came the reply
“ Well sod off then ....it will take your herd.... two hours to waddle through this crowd and get to the match !” snarled Dean.
The ladies drank their Stella down...gave Dean a black look...but they knew what he said was true....they left cracking the pavement stones in St Mary Street as they went.
“ Dean ....I see you haven’t lost your touch with the ladies.!” chuckled Garry placing his lap-top on the table.
“ Nor you Farrah...!” said Jon nodding at the young Aborigine woman making her way towards the table.
“ Derek....Derek Brockway...is that really you?” asked the girl.
Farrah tried to hide behind his collection of cloudy pints...created from squeezing out his beer towel coat.
“ He’s not Derek...he’s Richard... luv!” offered Jon.
The girl continued to greet Farrah in an Aborigine love- dance ritual to the delight of the crowd in Walkabout.
As the girl reached him and kissed him passionately, he and his friends denied vehemently that he was not called Derek but that it must be a case of mistaken identity.
“ You are Derek....we met on the Lions Tour of Australia in Melbourne ...you had a Welsh Kilt on with a Paul Hogan hat....you told me you were Cockodile Dundee...!” continued the antipodean stranger....its me ..... your Sheila ....Sheila Sweales!”.
“ I’m not Derek ....!” protested Farrah , as the girl slid down his soaking beer-coat and under the table frightening the life out of Buster the dog.
“ Its dream time again!” declared the young Aborigine disappearing under the table.
“ Honestly....he’s NOT Derek Brockway....!” laughed Garry.
With the girl under his table and her head close the Worthington Best bit, Farrah changed his tune.
“ Shut –up....!” said Farrah....hoping that his Worthy best might become cream flow.
At this point, the arrival of the girl was spotted by Dean and he was delighted when he felt a strange movement in his general crotch area.
Unknown to Dean, it was Buster the dog licking the remainder of the Bacon & Tomato sandwich from his jeans.
“ I remember you were big down under ....but... ....what’s this about Cardiff City losing 6-0 to Preston North End and missing out on promotion to the Premiership.!” moaned the stranger.
“ How did you know about that ?” Farrah asked somewhat surprised that it was being brought up at that particular moment.
“ Oh I read it on the South Wales Echo chip paper stuck to your back pages!” came the reply.
“ At least City are not going down this year...concentrate on the South End !” ...hinted Farrah trying to change the subject.
“ DEREK BROCKWAY!!!” interrupted Garry... “Couldn’t you have picked a more manly false Rugby Tour name?”
Buster, sensing that there was meat and two vegemite below the surface of the fabric, bit down hard on Dean’s jeans.
In anger and severe pain, the incredible bulk, grabbed the table edge with both hands.
The sight of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier jaw clamped to his Lee Cooper’s, gave Dean a shock.
“ Now that’s what I call a High Tackle!” remarked local comic genius Boyd Clack to new boy Rhod Gilbert sat on the adjoining table, who was lost for words without his script.
“ That’s the end of his ‘High Hopes!” replied Gilbert five minutes later.
“ I thought it was you....!” said Dean to the girl , who hurriedly dropped what she was doing as Dean turned the table over in rage.
“ Hi Skippy....see you still have that animal fetish.....that poor Kangaroo in Melbourne hasn’t hopped the same since....!” said the young aborigine.
“ How low can you Dean ... for a jump?” asked Jon twitching his nose and holding his hand to this chest aping a roo.
“ A Koala! “ said Garry holding his lap-top defensively waited for Dean’s red mist to descend.
“ If its warm , furry and can move...it’s fair game in my book!” declared Dean unashamedly.
“ Hey Eucalyptus breath ....have you seen my koala possum!” said Garry legging it out of the door like Tre-forrest Gump.
As Sheila headed towards the ‘Sheila’s dunny’ to powder her ‘wombat’, the two remaining ‘Bruces’ legged it towards the door, Farrah snatching a pint off the Cwmaman table , drinking it down in one and singing ‘Have a nice Day!”
As Farrah turned the corner of West-Gate Street just in the nick of time, a boomerang flew passed his beer-coat...two seconds sooner and things wouldn’t have been ‘Allbright!”
***************************************************************
“ Getting into the old Arms Park ground never used to be this difficult!” moaned Jon who was busting for another slash .
“ Go in the bloke in front’s other parka- jacket pocket....I just did!” said Dean.
“ Don’t tell me it was warm, furry and moving.....!” said Farrah....” I am getting a pattern emerging here...!” he continued.
Suddenly the crowd standing around Farrah parted and the Millennium concourse had a giant wet circle shadow on the ground.
“ Told you ...I too was getting a pattern!” he murmered.
Buster looked around anxiously through the legs of the Rugby Crowd and decided he was not going to get through these turnstiles today.
Spotting the English Mascot John Bull, resplendent in his top hat and patriotic waistcoat, the Staffordshire Bull Terrier, jaw freshly unclamped , walked in harmony behind him through the open gates and in with the English Rugby Team.
“ Look at Buster....bloody turncoat!” shouted Jon.
Jon thought his imagination had got the better of him , when the dog lifted his tail and showed him that he could not possibly have worms.
“ This security has gone all hi-tech ! “ moaned Jon holding onto a full bladder for 10 full minutes.
“ Yes ...announced Dean .......my company , Bigger Telephones- did all the work...it is top of the range, I even did all the Wi Fi and Electrical Information systems in the stands myself....that’s why it is called the BT Stand!” he boasted.
“ That’s why you are called Dean BT ...I thought BT was short for Bacon & Tomato .....or Bitten Testicles..... .or ....Buggerer of Tabby cats... !” came the suggested offerings from his friends.
“ Or Big Tosser !” said Austin Healey standing next to Dean.
“ Didn’t see you down there !” said Dean , as he launched the Leicester lip off the approach-way and into the Cardiff Blues Car-Park with his hair landing in a heap in Westgate Street.
“ They even got Iris recognition on the turnstiles now !” offered Garry .
“ How do you know that ? “ asked Dean suspiciously.
“ Any potential terrorist could download plans of the Millenium Stadium from the internet to his lap-top !” laughed Garry nervously.
“ Nice one....Osama bin Lloyden!” chuckled Jon.
“ I thought security made less fuss when they let the half-cast Welsh singer, Iris Williams through the gate....!”
“ That’s cos she was ....’So beautiful’ joked Farrah.
As they entered the booth...unbeknown to the crowd ,....security were secretly flashed messages about the person entering....a red light with the security clearance flashed up in the control room.
As Jon , Garry, Farrah and Dean filed in....the red light flashed up the following security messages.....No threat....definitely no concealed weapon....Fat Bastard likes Mars Bars.... Harmless Welsh Rugby Nutter.... and Cat-shagger.
As the four amigos headed for their place in the old North Stand, they drank in the rich atmosphere of their surroundings.
For the first time ever in Rugby , following reports of disturbances with the English Rugby fans earlier that day ...the WRU had decided to segregate the Saesneg from the Cymru.
Having refused to climb the six flights of stairs with his friends to ‘his Llanelli RFC prime seat’ , Garry was disappointed at his ticket. He knew their status with the WRU was declining...they only beat the All Blacks once and that was years ago....but having to climb up the North face of the Eiger, was a little ‘over the top’ . No wonder they are called Scarlets, he thought looking at the stadium position as the undigested Mars Bars and digested Mars Bars started to take their toll.
Even though he was breathing easier from getting through the Security, he was worried about his task in hand.
As he was a child of the sixties, he was born with rebel blood and wanted revenge for his Countrymen’s years of exploitation by the English Ironmasters in Merthyr Tydfil and their ‘Truck shop’ policies.
Seeing the Flag of St George displayed so openly at the Stadium, he remembered his vow to the people of Wales, in his oath when he joined the Free Wales Army.
He lit the fuses on the Mars Bars and during the cacophony of noise following the singing of the English National Anthem of ‘God Save our Gracious Queen’ he threw them at the English End,placing his fingers in his years waiting for the explosion.
The game kicked off and the first collision between Ryan Jones and Martin Corry could be heard loudly like a massive explosion.
When he reopened his eyes Garry , was horrified to find Buster the dog sitting at his feet with the plastic explosive mars bars intact , covered in slobber but still lit, blissfully wagging his tail in the game of fetch..
The second explosion ripped out the heart of the stadium.
Austin Healey had seen Tom Cruise ‘ War of the Worlds but didn’t expect that kind of ‘Mars Attacks’ as the blast for the third time that day separated his short Cruise-like body from his re-grown hair.
As the North Stand collapsed in a cloud of dust , it blocked out the sun sending parts of Tiger Bay into complete darkness.
The staff at the Brains brewery, who had mistakenly booked a hospitality box in the Cardiff Arms Park for the Six Nations game, suddenly cheered loudly, as they now had an uninterrupted view of the Millennium pitch.
The cheer was matched only from the WRU elite box, as they saw the stand that had been the subject of so much acrimony, between the Cardiff Rugby club and the WRU, suddenly disappear.
The cheer was short lived though and the subsequent aftershock of the stand collapsing sent a tremor through the unstable grass pallets causing a Mexican wave on the pitch never seen before.
Forward thinking Merthyr boys, Adam Jones and Robert Sidoli couldn’t work it out and tackled the rising grass pallets assuming that the English props were ‘boring in’ as usual.
The retractable roof mechanism kept buzzing and whirring as the computer controlled device , didn’t know if the roof should be covered or uncovered.
As Dwayne Pype ‘Brains employee of the month’ stood up in his hospitality box, he announced in a broad Cardiff accent...” Talk about painting it DARRRK , in Cardiff Arms PARRRK with a MARRS BARR!”
“ Actually, the correct saying is Brains DARRRRK in Cardiff Arms Parrrk!” claimed Pip O’Thalimus, Brains advertising executive, tasting a copyright infringement.
In the former North Stand, Jon Van Dole and Dean , both black-faced and hair sticking up at all angles , looked round for their missing pals.
“ It’s Garry’s round and he’s disappeared !” moaned Jon.
Stereophonic Richard Jones looked at his front man and laughed.
There were advantages to be out of the spotlight.
“ I bet your glad I got this celebrity debenture box now!”
Kelly Jones sat in shock minus he eyebrows burned off in the back-draft.
Shaking his head he turned to Tom Jones and said “ Mama told me not to come!....did you drop one of your sex-bombs?”
“ Look at you Kel... said Tom ....you look different somehow...like you v’e been on tour with Dowlais RFC! ”
Stuart Cable had also been affected by the blast as he had a dog collar in his normal nest of curly hair.
“ Have we changed labels...asked Richard Jones...from V2 VVR to ‘Buster’ Records?”
******************************************************************
No sooner had the smoke cleared, than the O’Sullivan Security Guards (Pant Division) were on them handcuffing Jon and Dean and dragging them away.
“ You wouldn’t do this if I was black!” shouted Dean.
Jon looked at the charcoal complexion on his friend and just laughed.
They had been through some hair-raising experiences but this was the biggest blast they had ever had.
As they were led to the Black Maria, they noticed the England Team Coach still ablaze..
“ Look ....a Chariot on Fire !” said Dean taking a slug from a Police baton for his trouble.
As they opened the door of the Police van, they could see that there was a ferocious Police Alsatian licking his lips, awaiting their arrival.
“ Do not put him in there with the dog....its not safe!” ordered Sergeant Grunt pointing at Dean.
“ For him or the dog!” laughed Jon in-between truncheon blows.
The Police also were bringing a handcuffed bald Austin Healey.
“ I bet you are behind this somehow!” snarled Healey at Dean.
“ What were you arrested for?” asked Jon.
“When the explosion happened my implants flew towards the Royal Box... landing on Prince William’s lap....talk about Hair to the throne....I am being charged with ‘un-common assault ‘ and attempted ‘Hair’ ssasination!”
“ That friend of your’s ...he was a sleeper!” declared Healey.
“ No wonder he never stayed awake for the last round!” said Jon struggling to stand up under the level of baton abuse.
High above the Millennium Stadium, Garry sat at the bottom of a series of white steps just above the clouds.
Buster sat (minus his collar) on his feet with him.
“ Are you going to get off my shoes or what?” asked Garry to the dog.
“ Yes...as soon as you say sorry for blowing us up!” replied the dog in perfect English.
“ Buster .......you can talk...!” said Garry somewhat surprised.
“ Talk....I have a higher IQ than all of you ....but on the Earthly Realm dogs
are n’t allowed to talk.
“ What Realm are we in now then?” asked Garry
“ We’ll judging by the piped music by Led Zeppelin....I think it is safe to assume we are on the Stairway to Heaven!” he replied.
“ We better get moving because there is a ‘Hell’ of a queue going down those red stairs” continued Garry.
As they approached the Pearly gates, Garry was worried about his chances of getting passed St Peter.
He had already turned away Charlton ‘Moses’ Heston and James Earl Jones.
“ Big Issue Sir...asked the Heavenly Street seller, until recently sat outside the Queen Street Train Station.
“ No change mate !“reply Garry which was for once true.
“ Don’t I know you?” asked the salesman.
“ No , No...No !” said Garry thrice hearing a cock crow in the background.
Watching Jade Goodie leaving the white path and heading South he didn’t think he stood a cat’s chance.
“ I thought she was a certainty according to the media....but she has been voted out already!” moaned a worried looking Garry.
“ Buster Farrah - Evans....you say......declared St Peter...we’ve been expecting you...Disney’s Lady from Lady & the Tramp has some spaghetti waiting for you!”
“ See ...boasted Buster ...”told you ‘All dogs go to Heaven’ as he cocked his leg at the entrance.
“ Next!” shouted St Peter looking down at a tiny list in white and a massive list in red.
“ Garry Snary!”
After a few minutes checking St Peter announced he wasn’t on either list.
“ I better check with the Boss!”
Pressing the holy intercom...he summoned God in person.
“ Gotta Garry Snary here ...not on either list...any suggestions?” asked St Paul.
The black female voice of God could be heard checking with Mohammed, Allah and Eric Cantona before a booming voice decreed “ Have you tried under Suicide Bombers?”
“ Ah yes...thank you...you have been allocated to Virgin HQ!” said St Peter.
“ Which way....?” asked Garry feeling lost without Buster.
“ Follow the cloud layer, passed Purgatory over there and it will be sign-posted ‘Forum’ from there.
As Garry shuffled off his mortal coil , he headed towards the sign post.
“ Virgin HQ ...sounds promising...technically I am a suicide bomber ...the first Martyr of the Free Wales Army...!” he mused.
As he reached the white Vesta, at the Forum, he was on arrival offered Red Bull and Angel cake, to build up his strength for the eternity ahead.
He was shown into the Honeymoon suite by a little golden cherub.
The cherub insisted that it was a condition of the Heaven and Virgin flights, that he be tied to the white four poster water bed in case of ‘turbulence’.
He lay all four-limbs attached lightly by a silken scarf to each of the white marble String-fellow-esque bed-posts.
As he awaited , he wondered what Vestal Virgins would be sent to him.
A Pre- Vegas Britney Spears or perhaps a Disney nymphet like Smiley ‘Miley’ Cyrus, sweet sixteen and barely legal.
As each of the Vestal Virgins lowered their veils, Garry recoiled in horror.
Anne Widdicombe.... Susan Boyle from Britain’s Got Talent...Jo Brand and finally a bearded Richard Branson lookalike in drag.
“ Now that’s Virgin on the ridiculous!” screamed Garry as he was forcefully disrobed.
“ What did I do to be so punished...?” he asked God below.
“They are the ones being punished!” boomed Jah.
As Garry disappeared in a sea of white whales in search of Moby Dick , he suddenly realised he had joined a different Free Whales Army.
“ Hot Dog Sir?” asked the pimply faced burger vendor.
Council official Job Swurth didn’t look happy...but then again he never did.
“ What the Hell are you doing?” he moaned at the bemused van owner, Rann Cydd.
“ Selling burgers from a lay-by...everyone does it in Wales!” he laughed merrily.
“ But this is the Galon Uchaf acceleration lane to get on the A465 (T) Heads of the Valleys Road!” barked Job shaking his head.
“ That’s what’s clever about my pitch....everyone has to stop!” said Rann.
“ It’s all about location...location...location!” he said boastfully.
“ What about highway safety?” asked Job astounded by the ignorance of the offender.
“ What on the Heads of the Valley....your having a laugh!” countered the Cydd.
Feeling he had lost that argument Job pursued another line of questioning.
“ So where’s your hawker’s licence?” asked the Environmental Health Officer.
“ Don’t sell hawks....only fresh meat....do you a nice Hedgehog sandwich...fresh too!” said Rann pointing to a red spot on the road surface.
“ You not telling me you sell road kill to passing tourists too?” said Job feeling he would be outwitted on flawed logic on each argument.
“ Have to be quick mind ....they soon sell out....but not as quick as my assistant ‘Frogger’ over there!” said Rann.
Job looked across the road to see a fourteen year old school kid standing on the centre white line as two huge HGV lorries thundered passed him in opposite directions.
The child seized his opportunity and sprinted through the traffic back to the van.
“ Got him!” he said holding up by the tail the remains of someone’s pet cat.
“ You can’t sell that?” ordered Job.
“ Why not...your Environmental Health Department keeps encouraging me to recycle...I’m just putting it back in the food chain!” Rann exclaimed.
“ Besides you’d only fine me if my black bin lid was open a fraction!” he continued moaning back at the official.
“ The Welsh Assembly always complain about the amount of ‘Fast Food’ served in Merthyr....I only serve ‘slow food’ Rann ranted.
“ I want to speak to you about that too...we’ve had a complaint from A.L.F that your home address in First Avenue Galon Uchaf is being used as a PO BOX for business!” said Job.
“ Apparently, you are advertising as Rann Cydd’s Swiss Pet Rescue Sanctuary on your web page!” said Job.
“ So...that’s where I get all my ideas on the interweb...what’s wrong with that?” asked Rann indignantly.
“ Your telling people that you run a Swiss style euthanasia clinic for pets...please send your pet in a sealed box with no holes and a £100.00 and you can save time and money on vet’s bills!” said the Health Inspector.
“ And your point is?” asked the last remaining roadside Little Chef frying some meat in onions.
“ Don’t tell me...you cook them too?” asked the inspector.
“ I’m beginning to smell a rat!”
“ No....interrupted Frogger....that is definitely a field mouse...when you’ve worked these roads for as long as I have you get to know the difference!”
“ Rats....tend to make it to the centre line while your mice only get as far as the hard shoulder!” he said expertly.
As he did so, a local bus driver, threw his £1.00 at Rann , grabbed his bun and pulled out in front of an oncoming Lorry.
The lorry driver stood on his metal on metal brakes and narrowly avoided another crash.
The European Driver from Riga, after 24 hours driving non-stop in his truck with no tachograph, stopped hard.
Not to miss the bus...he didn’t want to miss the burger van.
“ Alsatian burger?” Rann said to the Non- English speaker.
The driver shook his head pointing at the sesame bun instead.
“ He must be DOG tired...he said taking his £2.50 and throwing him a bun with the back legs of a field mouse sticking out.
The Council Inspector was astonished in the space of ten minutes the van had taken £50.00 in cash....all destined for the black market economy.
“ You’re on to a good thing here!” said the Inspector raging .
Parked next to the van on the embankment was a 2011 black four by four Land Cruiser.
“ Is that yours too?” asked Job.
“ Yeah...I’ve got three like it at home...of course I don’t drive to sign on in THAT...I use my little X reg corsa for that!” said Rann.
“ Don’t you think fleecing the Country is immoral?” asked Job expecting some sign of remorse.
“ F*** Off.... I take all the wool off the sheep...besides do you think the MP’s care....who paid for Prince William’s wedding...well it wasn’t me....anyway those German bastards found a lower tender for the Wedding Catering from Poland....!” replied Rann.
“ Don’t you have any ethics?” continued the Council worker.
“ Your out of luck... I sold the last one this morning...some people will sell any old body part to stay in this Country!” said Rann.
“ I wouldn’t eat any of your produce anyway...you don’t know where its been!”
“ Middle –of- the Road mate....same as your Politics....!” countered the Dog Vendor continuing his good ‘Korea’ choice by selling three ‘hot dogs’ to a local takeaway owner.
“ I must be mad...!” said Job.
“ How much are you on an hour......£50.00...£100.00”?...
“ And I’m on £20.00 per hour as an Environmental Health Officer with a science degree and £20Kworth of student debt....face death and kebab shop owners with skewers every day....and the Government wants me to take a cut in my pension and work till I’m 67...I must be mad to be the only legitimate worker in Merthyr paying tax on my day job!”
“ Shove over!” said Job instantly climbing the ladder.
“ You can ‘burger’ off when you like!” squeaked Frogger.... you start at the bottom pal......go and get me some ‘Health-y food’ ...its my way or the highway!”
The cars engine spluttered and coughed for the last time as he parked his ‘Popemobile’ outside the house of one of his parishioners in Crabapple Close Gurnos Merthyr Tydfil.
He hoped that the first time this call was genuine.
He really wanted to do battle with the Devil face to face .
He looked up at the bedroom window and could see a luminous eerie glow inside.
His bumper sticker ‘Honk if you love the Lord’ was the only sign that he was a
Man of God ….that and the small silver image of a fish attached to the back.
Silverfishes were common in that part of the world.
This was the only Church courtesy car available to him -as the previous two in the trinity had been stolen by joy-riders - when he was coincidentally also on house calls.
This was one of the reasons why no longer anyone had a Wedding Reception in the Gurnos – the other was they would know you were away from home for the day.
Father Afield was a Catholic Priest and new to the area but he had learned the hard way that the Ten Commandments were broken daily in the Gurnos.
The Holy Man was also a Quaker as tonight he had received a call from his boss – one Bishop Hedley- that as locum priest for the neighbour parish of Penydarren that he was needed to conduct his first exorcism.
Whilst he had complete Faith in God, he wasn’t sure he ready to take on his opposite number.
After locking his car, putting on the steering wheel lock , car alarm and four’ Denver Boots’ he picked up his bible and crucifix and made his way up the small path to the front door.
He looked nervously at the eaves of the house which bore gargoyles, water spouts and a series of horseshoe pendants on the front door.
Some-one was clearly trying to keep evil away or trap it inside the house.
He genuflected and blessed himself before he knocked on the door.
His knees were knocking louder than the engine of the Proton ‘Trinity’ Car that he had arrived in.
The door creaked open and the Priest was relieved to see that he was met by a Court Bailiff known local as Swifty.
“ She’s upstairs…..she’s in some kind of trance….I am frightened to go near her…if you hadn’t come….I’d have had to put the eviction off till next month!” said the Bailiff – full name- Jonathon Swift.
Inside the house, Afield could see all the deadly signs of connection with the Occult.
Hanging from the ceiling were several Red Indian dream catchers, tarot cards were strewn everywhere and a Ouija Board was set in the middle of ‘living room’.
The Bailiff not a man to be easily frightened was ashen-faced and had aged in the time he had been left alone in the house.
The house stank of cat faeces and sour milk.
The Father said another prayer before he took his first step towards the bedroom.
The bailiff followed behind him as close as he could without touching the Priest.
He was frightened that the woman was a witch and that her mere presence had turned the milk sour .
The higher they got the colder the house became and once they reached the landing their breath was visible in the dark passageway.
The Priest tried to rationalise events- perhaps the electricity had been cut off because of the recent price hikes by the greedy foreign energy companies that monopolised the utility suppliers.
There was no light save as to an eerie glow from under the main bedroom door and of course that coming through the obligatory Gurnos punch-mark in the bedroom door.
The Priest tried the round door handle but as he touched it burned his hand.
He recoiled in horror as did the bailiff who was less than an altar boy’s distance from the priest.
“ Please be careful in there Father…it’s dangerous…some of the local kids are too frightened to even vandalise the house because they say she is going to give birth to the Anti-Christ!” whispered Swifty.
Taking off his hat, he put it over the burning door handle and turned the knob.
It came off in his hand.
It was the Story of the eternal bachelor’s life.
Reading from his Guttenberg bible, the door suddenly swung open without being physically touched- this really impressed Swifty.
“If you ever leave God’s Service….there’s always a job with us if you want it!” said the bailiff.
“ Never underestimate the power of prayer!” said the Priest feeling more confident by the remark but inside knowing he had stood on some dodgy floorboards.
Peering around the door frame, the Priest and the Bailiff stared at the scene that greeted them.
The room was lit only by a series of ‘lava’ lamps but they could make out that the woman tenant Rosemary Bede was naked on the bed.
As Father Afield plucked up the courage to enter the room, he could see that she was white as a sheet, perspiring and had a huge distended belly….she looked drugged out of her mind.
Bailiff Swifty re-assured him that this was how Gurnos women normally looked and not to be afraid.
Raising his crucifix in his right hand he stepped into the room.
The woman without opening her eyes somehow sensed the arrival of the Priest.
Like Jeremy Irons in the film ‘The Mission’ Crucifix held high in the air - covering his face- he walked towards the woman.
All of a sudden sharp metallic objects began propelling themselves through the air at the priest impacting on the magnetic cross.
The priest could see they were being fired from a ‘lady part’ that he didn’t even know existed.
It was the first time he had encountered a ‘Twat-apult’.
Tarot cards swirled in the air like caught in Superstorm Sandy and one card ‘ the fool’ landed on the open page of the Book of Revelation.
Right foot in the air, hovering above the centre of a Pentagram or Seal of Solomon Father Afield felt like he was in the middle of a hurricane, as an invisible force, like a fan on full force blew his hat off.
As he stepped on the centre of the Pentagram, he fell head first through the ceiling, landing noisily in the kitchen below.
Bailiff Swifty rushed back down the stairs to tend to the injured.
“ That was the work of the devil incarnate!” said the shaken priest still clutching the bible and crucifix.
“ No… that was Merthyr Valley Homes carpenters….they forgot to put some floorboards in …I’ve done that before myself!” said Swifty.
Dusting himself down Father Afield looked at the crucifix…it was covered in gold rings, bracelets , gold and silver earrings… all potential stingers from the golden honey pot.
They had somehow or other become attracted to the Holy Relic.
Father Afield often felt a ‘little cross’ that poor people seemed to throw their meagre possessions at the richest religious organisation in the World….but after all business was business.
He climbed the stairs a little more confidently now.
The Demon had won round one but now he was angry.
As he reached the bedroom door it slammed in his face again.
As if unseen hands or black cotton strings were working it.
This time it was personal.
He booted the door open and eye-balled Rosemary Bede which was quite difficult as her head was spinning on its axis like it was a plate on a stick.
The Priest read from his Bible a list of demon names
“ Come out Azaiel….. Beelzebub…… Mephistocles….Wormwuse…. Zool…. as he trotted through from the grimoire …until finally he arrived at the right name…
On the mention of ‘Nandos’ – a jet of projectile vomit shot through the air passing over the top of the cross splattering all over his face and hair.
“ Why couldn’t I have been a born a Buddhist….he said questioning his faith…at least a statue of the ‘enlightened one’ would have stopped me being enlightened!” he said black tunic dripping with yellow sick.
Bailiff Swifty had witnessed the whole thing but had missed the pea-souper.
“ There is another 57 varieties to come yet!” he said reassuringly “ try and get to the witch to ‘scratch’ her- as long as your draw her blood on your cross…she will lose her power!” said Swifty from a safe distance.
The rainbow torrent of putrid stomach bile continued to pour out in the direction of the Priest who took it all on the chin.
Diced carrots trapped themselves in his Mo-Vember beard.
Almost magically, on the bed Rosemary’s Baby started to disappear…but then she started to let out the most disgusting sulphur farts…which started to lift her body as if on air jets above the surface of the bed.
“ Look she is transcending…!” said the frightened Bailiff.
The Priest could see she had used several pairs of counterfeit jeans to raise herself up- to give the illusion of ‘levi’-tation.
The woman opened her red eyes and lifted both her arms which contained both a witch ‘poppet’ and a nail .
She proceeded to stab the doll of the bailiff right in his little Mascot Coat.
Clutching his heart- if he had one- he fled in terror into the night.
Only to be sent home by the Casualty Department at the Queen Camilla Hospital as a result.
No sooner than the bailiff had left the room seemed mysteriously to come back to normal.
The Priest felt something was not right – the creature was a little devil all right- but not the real deal.
Rosemary Bede winked at the Priest and wiped away the drool from her mouth.
“ Not the Anti-Christ…I ate a chicken intended for my cats….it was soaked in
Anti-FREEZE… it made my stomach swell….great for getting rid of that Bailiff mind…!”
“I can’t go back to the Court again….I owe nearly £6,000.00 in back rent as you…he was threatening me with a Warrant of Execution…. Luckily we wear our wealth in the Gurnos Hood…I had to find a place for my stash….that reminds me…!”
She reached down to the golden crucifix and pulled a lot of old Ratners off that had attached itself to the Relic.
Picking up the Holy Book she asked the astonished Priest.
“ Is there anything in the Ten Commandments that says ‘Thou shalt pay thy Rent?’”
“ No….but I think you had better be careful dabbling with the Black Arts…or you could end up getting properly Re-Possessed!” warned the Churchman.
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 21st 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 14th 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.
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..
“ The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful...let it snow, let it snow let it snow!...Nos Da!” declared camp weatherman, Derek Brockway live to the nation from the BBC studios in Cardiff.
“ Since when have you been interested in the weather Charlie?” asked Tommy ‘Hilfiger’ Silverback to the leader member of the Lavender Road Mob.
“ Duh!....since I learned that the boss man Mr Bigg gets coded messages over the BBC about his delivery times for his drug shipments!” laughed Charlie Kong.
“ Mr Bigg...who’s dat den?” asked Alan ‘Tit-che’ Guevara.
“ He is the man who got our leader sent to clink and I need to hit back at him to show our power ....make him an offer he can’t refuse....!” declared the New Gurnos Godfather.
By virtue of the fact he had a CSE from Penydre School in woodwork, he was the leader by natural selection of the ‘Gurnos posse’ following the incarceration of Urko Fosse, the previous Urban Guerilla leader.
Looking at his watch, he felt the familiar buzz of a light helicopter overhead flying towards Cefn Coed Y Cwmmer.
The three wise monkeys, stood on the Gurnos ‘Ring’ Road roundabout, in amongst the embers of their bonfire, lazily lobbing the remainder of their stones at the back of the Lakeside Gardens Houses and Heads of the Valleys Road.
It was reminiscent of a scene from the Arthur C Clarke film ‘2001’, except that it was in fact 2009 , and the only ‘hal’ in sight was the halitosis on the breath of their leader , visible in the night air , as he strained the follow the helicopter towards its pre-arranged rendezvous point on Cilsanws Mountain.
As it passed overhead , Tit-che was dazzled by the red lights.
“ Was that a UFO then or wot?” he asked his fellow crew members.
“ Well me homie, me tinks dat ET is in da hood!” declared Tommy in his red and white tracksuit and Peruvian Indian style hat.
“ Speak in English not Ghetto pimp ...you are not from the Bronx but from Lupin Close man...I’ve told you before, you stand out as a drug dealer dressed like an extra from N-DUBZ ...you need to dress casual like me ...smart ‘French Connection’ brand man from Q9 (lads & ladette’s) clothing.....see this jumper...it has some ‘snow’ sown into the inside material...I call it my ‘Polar neck’..... so there’s no obvious link to my dealing”
“ Anyway, I want to get one of you soldiers on sentry duty up there before the next ‘Bigg’ Drop.!”
As Tit-che whispered to Tommy out of earshot of the boss...” I just thought he had ‘Buy Polar disorder!”
Mechanic Alf ‘Keanu Reeves’ Feta-mean, stood in the pit changing the oil sump on the battered Ford Orion that had just returned from France.
His garage, ‘Brake Lines’ was recognised by everyone from Marseille to Amsterdam as being a recognised international specialised dealer.
He had himself been in the import and export business since his shareholding in the Pentrebach ski-slope went downhill.
Now he had decided to diversify into a different snow business .
As he removed the sump, he would normally be covered in black oil...this time he did not have to worry about dermatitis, a bubble wrap package covered in coffee beans fell out into the pit.
He smiled as was his ‘custom- ary practice’.
*******************************************************************
Carwyn McMuffin looked nervously into the rear-view mirror, checking to see if he was still being tailed .
At 17 years old , he had passed his driving test first time, but had regretted telling his Lupin Close neighbour , Tommy ‘Hilfiger’ Silverback he had a clean licence.
Forced into collecting a car from Marseille in the South of France, he had caught the Ferris Coach bus service straight to Cannes and hitch-hiked the rest of the way.
Nobody at the Merthyr Driving Test Centre told him on his test, that they drove on the right on the continent.
He had found out the hard way by putting his new found driving skills to the test , squeezing between two oncoming Petrol Tankers and the central reservation barrier with all the skills of Colin McRae.
He had proved his mother wrong ...the hours spent on his Playstation 3 , had been of use to him.
In-continent, he felt as his underpants bore more skid-marks than Brands Hatch.
His mother was also a concern , he had been gone three weeks and he knew he should have told her where he was going, because he had seen his face on the back of a Paris milk carton.
He hoped that his Pen-y-dre Headmaster , would believe the handwritten note from his mother, that he had run off to join the circus but would be back in time to re-sit his woodwork GCSE.
Carwyn was very worried in deed, because he could smell a sickly sweet perfume aroma burning from his vehicle and was being followed by a motorcycle cop.
He had been warned by his employer ‘Keanu Reeves’ not to go over 70 KMH , as the car had a ‘maximum speed’ and that the car was likely to explode...but his school education hadn’t explained MPH and KMH conversion rates.
He looked nervously at le Motorway sign and noted he was only 10 KM from Calais.
The motorcycle cop was being engulfed in the grey smoke coming from beneath his car.
The cop signalled him with a hairy garlic hand to pull over.
His weak joke that it was a Q9 ‘Polar neck’ sweater , not a pullover was lost in translation.
As he pulled into the layby , the traffic cop dismounted and approached the car in a Gaullic swagger.
“ Gendarme ...can I help you ?” asked Carwyn nervously handing over his child passport , worried that his mother would see his faced splashed all over the news by Interpol as McMuffin the Drugs mule.
“ Sir...I forget why I az to stopper u... (looking at the passport)...McMuffin ....do you have any thing to eat as I seem to have what you Eengleesh call ze munchies...non?”
“ I have a hairy wine gum stuck to the bottom of the front seat...I was saving it till Calais...but hey any port in a storm !” Carwyn replied handing over the sticky mess.
As he drove away, Carwyn was pleased to see that his Cannabis stashed in the Oil sump had finally stopped burning.
******************************************************************
Tommy sat completely inconspicuous in a bright red tracksuit and Black and White Peruvian Indian hat, high up on the Cilsanws Common overlooking the golf course and the ‘posh’ part of Cefn Coed.
He could see in the distance the Morlais Castle ‘ set to the backdrop of a million stars in the early November evening.
He was freezing , he wished he had a Q9 ‘Polar neck’, as he waited vainly with only his stolen mobile phone for company with one bar left on his battery.
He thought about how he had got caught up in the clutches of the Lavender Road Mob.
He had been shit on all his life...he reckoned that he had the reverse of the Midas touch....everything he touched turned to bling....a kind of ‘fecal attraction’.
Latchkey kid since he was three , his mother was in the Matchstick Man pub smoking and drinking away his inheritance.
Like Romulus and Remus the founders of Rome , he had been brought up suckling the milk from the multitude of teenage mothers on his estate...brought up by the Mob.
Tommy was proud of the fact he was part of the underclass.
His warped logic meant that he was responsible for keeping the only people in Merthyr with jobs employed.
His ‘one man crime wave’ ‘supported’ a lot of jobs in Merthyr...if it wasn’t for him there would be less policemen, firemen, prison staff, DSS staff, court staff and shop security employees.
Unlike New Labour...New Gurnos was head of ‘job creation’ in the economy.
It had not been Tommy’s fault.
The Penydre Careers Teacher had computed his skills and come up with promising careers in burglary, car theft or rap music for Tommy.
Burglary ...that reminded him, his mate was getting married on Thursday, at the Castle House Marriage Registry Office and his house and his future-in laws house-would be empty all day.
The sudden ring-tone awoke Tommy from his hyperthermia based slumber.
“ E-s are good...E’s are good...Ebeneezer Goode!” by the Shamen rang out on the silent common....as his mobile phone lit up like a Christmas Tree in the darkness.
“ Derek Brockway just said that Cilsanws Common would be full of ‘Galanthus’ this evening..... !” announced Charlie.
“ What about Mr Bigg’s cocaine delivery?” asked Tommy
“ Galanthus is a flower....snow drop...it’s code...!” shouted Charlie
....” I know it’s cold .....but is it still on for tonight...because I’m freezing and my gonads are so wizened they look like Paul Daniels forehead!” moaned Tommy.
“ Its CODE not Cold....what about the chopper ?” asked Charlie
“ My choppers fine ...me nan knitted me a Peruvian willie-warmer....its my balls that are wrinkled.!” replied Tommy as his reply was drowned out by a noise from the sky.
“ Look at that Twat in the red tracksuit holding that phone...announced Helicopter pilot Bob Boner to his passenger ........... .I think he is a foot soldier for the Lavender Road Mob.... if I swoop down low do you think you can get him!”
Tommy could hear the sound of the ‘Flight of the Valkeries’ but didn’t realise it was ‘Apocalypse Now’ as the helicopter ‘gun ship’ hovered above him red light flashing.
Tommy still thought this was a UFO and stood transfixed waiting for the music to change over and start to communicate with him by short blasts of ‘beat box’.
Tommy’s red tracksuit turned to brown as he was suddenly deluged in a downpour of shite.
As the contents of a former ‘Winchfawr’ septic tank were poured over the sentry, he had ‘close encounters of the turd kind’ as Tommy’s star trek ended with a Captain’s Log .
Dripping in sewage, Tommy admitted defeat , as he turned tail and fled home to the sound of much laughter from the helicopter crew.
As the chopper dropped off its load from the air –a strange delivery of stuffed Llamas , Alpacas and Donkeys were hastily packed into a horsebox trailer and whisked away by the waiting shadowmen.
As he squelched his way back to Lupin Close, Tommy tried to make up a good excuse for his failure to intercept the ‘snow’ for his posse.
“ What the Hell happened to you?” asked Charlie as he slid through the front door.
“ It was those Aliens they tried to abduct me... you gotta believe me....there were farm animals flying everywhere on that common....da horse...da donkey...da llama...!” bleated Tommy.
“ Da pigs?” asked Tit-Che.
“ No police there man !” he replied removing a ‘ baby stool’ from his earhole.
“ Mr Bigg...he is out of order....!” snapped Charlie slamming his fist hard down on a stolen blue ray DVD player with a Heolgerrig Postcode.
“ Tit-che I want his house in Cefn staked out ...I want to pay him a little visit!” said Charlie ominously.
A different kind of smell was on the mind of Carwyn McMuffin, how could he get his car and its illicit contents past French & English Customs - smelling the way it did.
He began to shake rattle and bang his aging catalytic converter, until it began to stink to high heaven.
He also remembered a trick that the IRA had invented at H Block, in the Maze prison, opening a packet of maltesers, he placed a few of the chocolate balls in the bottom of his cotton shorts , smearing some on the top of his legs .
The customers official motioned for him to wind down his window , and stuck his head close to the car.
“ Anything to declare Sir?” he asked .
The combination of the smell of a sweaty Penydre- pupil who hadn’t washed for three days, in a car without sunroof and air conditioning, together with the stench of the dodgy catalytic converter and the sight of the brown balls rolling from his stained shorts, meant he moved through customs quicker than Kevin Spacey at gate 7 of American airlines.
Carwyn smiled to himself , as he was waved through without challenge, sniffer dogs falling like flies as he went past onto the ferry.
Next stop ...’Brake Lines’ garage he thought.
Rhys Wonka couldn’t believe his eyes...one minute he was scrambling ‘Walkers & Wilding style’ across Pontycapel Road - the next he had slid off into a secret glen of stuffed donkeys and other animals hidden at the back of a massive mansion underneath the Cefn Viaduct.
‘Perfect’ he purred like his finely tuned engine...’we need a guy for the bonfire tonight....’ selecting one of the stuffed animals ...he declared that this ‘ass was toast’.
Taking off his helmet, the ‘easy rider’ put it on his stuffed pillion passenger and headed for the bonfire site at ‘the black patch’ Cefn Rugby field.
“ I know where Mr Bigg lives!” cried Tit-che in triumph.
“ Where?” asked Charlie.
“ Underneath the arches .....down Pontycapel Road!” the street boy sang like the recently departed Danny La Rue.
“ How did you find out....from your homies?” asked Charlie suspiciously.
“ I heard in the Gurnos Club , that his daughter’s marrying someone on Thursday and the house will be empty all day.....we can pay him a little visit then!” laughed Tit-che.
“ Roll on Thursday!” roared Charlie ...”I can’t wait!”
******************************************************************
“ I found him...I get first hit of donkey ‘Hote’!” shouted Wonka as the rugby boys hoisted the stuffed animal up the old oak tree.
“ Piñata ... Piñata... Piñata” the boys squealed as one , as Rhys Wonka swung his stick at the stuffed creature hanging like he was from Bridgend, high up in a tree.
As he struck its hide, huge clouds of white dust covered the schoolchildren.
“ Hey !” said Blue-bottle....”that powder gives me a real buzz!”
“ Careful...it could be ASS- bestos!” warned Zebulon the Prop.
“ I think its sherbet” second-rower Monsters Inc.
“ I thought it was washing powder...if I could be so Bold ...that was my automatic reaction !” laughed Dodger the scrum half.
“ I think it’s Cocaine.... dabbing it on his finger....I think that is ‘Columbian Marching Powder’” declared Polish boy JOW.... ‘and it’s a bad omen!”
“ We should get rid of it!” declared Bluebottle.
“ Let’s burn it ...like that witch Joan of Arc!” said Monsters Inc.
“Don’t be daft...half of Cefn Coed will be high...they will all think their on the stairway to Cefn !” said JOW.
******************************************************************
Thursday morning came and the Lavender Road Mob watched as the Silver Mercedes left its drive, dressed up to the nines in full wedding regalia , electric gates closing slowly behind it.
“ Now we move!” said Charlie to the rest of the mob as Mr Bigg’s vehicle disappeared down the narrow lanes towards Cefn High Street.
The three hoodies made their way expertly over the wall gaining entry to Bigg Mansion with the flick of a stolen credit card on the ‘yale’ lock.
Once inside the house, each of the Lavender Road mob knew their ‘modus operandi’ like a ‘crack’ team from Oceans 11.
Charlie removed the tapes from the security cameras.
Tommy located the loot – which was hidden as usual in used notes in the mattress of the King-Size main bed..
Tit-che planted the stolen knickers.
Placing the mattress against the external wall, they then got to work on the garden.
Carwyn McMuffin , the drugs mule was easing his way up the A470 happy in the knowledge that he was on the home strait.
Oblivious to his surroundings , cameras flashing meant little to him...it wasn’t his car.
His check of the vehicle at a service station had revealed Cannabis , Cocaine and Amphetamine with a street value of 2 Million pounds.
Pulling into the ‘Brake Lines’ garage he was met by the smiling owner Alf Fetamean.
The smile changed to a frown as an unmarked Police car pulled in behind him.
“ It’s a fair cop guv....!” he said in a TV ‘Bill’ style confession...(which happens all the time in the real world.... ) ...”but how did you know there were drugs in the car?” asked Alf & Carwyn simultaneously.
“ Speed Cameras!” came the reply....” that and the fact you phoney sump was marking a different kind of ‘white lines’ in the centre of the road!...the trail led us here to you!”
Knock Knock....came the sound.
Charlie looked at Tit-che nervously.
It was the sound of a schoolboy knocking the front door of Bigg Mansion.
“ Penny for the Guy Mister?” asked the angelic two foot Dodger.
“ Guy...? “ said Tommy...that’s not a guy it’s a donkey...!” snatching out of the hand of Dodger.
“ How did you get in here anyway...this gaff has electric gates!” asked Tommy.
“Threw Donkey Hote over the top and limbo-ed under them!” replied Dodger.
“ How come you can afford a place like this then ...are you a drug dealer or a gangster rappa ....anyway can I have my donkey back now?” he asked politely
The boot up the arse was the only reply.
“ I’ll get him back somehow!” ...pledged Dodger belying his size and picking up the mattress carrying it Masai- style on his head towards his rugby mates massed up at the entrance.
“ Penny for the Guy ...or Five Pounds a sniff!” declared Rhys Wonka to each of the boys as they passed into the Cefn Rugby Club.
He had only been sat outside for half-an hour, but he had made over £500.00 thanks to the generosity and stupidity of the older boys.
Prop Milo O’Shea- Bray, the only rugby boy with a single uni-brow placed evenly on his face, handed over a crisp £5.00 note.
Sniffing deeply, the tail end Charlie, he raced towards the rest of his mates who were heading towards Cefn Viaduct to see the impromptu ‘U2 concert’ of local man ‘Dai’ Van Halen’ had set up his amp.
Head full of ass and nose full of Charlie, he tore off his shirt and dived headlong at his friends who lifted him up and over their heads until he reached the front.
The prop was mad and lived life in the fast lane.
He had once tried to give himself ‘liposuction’ with a Dyson vacuum cleaner and a pen knife resulting in a lop sided gut – but Dirty Sanchez just sent the tape back unused.
The Dirty Sanchez effect was one thing , but the ‘Jackass’ effect was ten times worse.
This left Milo totally ‘West-life’ as he was caught up in the music he ‘went ahead and ‘Jumped’ over the side of the bridge.
‘Flying without wings’ the Prop went into survival mode stretching his flab skin like a flying fox squirrel.
Full of ‘the real thing’ he felt in his own mind like a shaman joining in with the Condor spirit soaring high on the thermals below the bridge and landing triumphantly on the Swansea Road side of the bridge.
“ Those ‘Nasca’ lines were brilliant!” he dribbled picking himself out of the gorse bush .
“ That’s a nice touch !” laughed ‘Don’ Charlie ‘Kilo’ Kong noting that Tommy had placed the head of the donkey in the bed in true Godfather style.
“ I am going to make him an ‘Eeyore’ he can’t refuse!” he quipped Don ‘Ki’ Kong.
The finishing touch was the calling card bearing their Christian names in the areas of the garden that they had worked.
“ Where’s that mattress gone?” asked Tit-che suddenly.
The bonfire was in full swing .
Gone were the days of old tyres billowing out black smoke.
The rugby boys ‘ donkey pyre’ had caught fire instantly and a huge pall of grey and white smoke drifted into the night sky...like they were electing Pope Don –key ‘Hote the First.
Fire ‘egg- spurt’ Frank Heavens, sat eating his sandwiches in the ‘Green goddess’ provided by the Fire Authority in his Don Estelle shorts and Jesus sandals looking like a pyromaniac staring intensely at the hypnotic flames .
“ I bet you a tenner... that pine tree will be a goner by 9.00pm !” he said to his Station Commander George O’Dowd.
“I haven’t had any overtime since those mysterious grass fires started in my garden last year!...lucky I found my own well to pump the water!” continued Frank.
The blaze continued well as the mattress and ‘Donkey Guy’ erupted.
“ Boy George ...can you smell money ....?” asked Frank sniffing the air.
“ Okay .....two hours tops and try not to burn the hose pipe again.!” replied O’Dowd.
“ And shut that bloody tender door....you might wear sandals in the Autumn ...but I don’t want another back-draft.!”
The helicopter buzzed back and forth over the usual Cilsanws common drop off point , but there was no sign of life.
Finally, a small flicker of a cigarette lighter was moved back and fore ... by and like a rocker with an afro in a Van Halen concert and the donkey derby was on again.
The ‘Mule Train’ was sent down the quite lanes from Cilsanws passing the aptly named ‘Drovers Arms’ and onto the viaduct before being tipped over the edge into the soft landing area in the garden of Mr Bigg’s mansion.
“ Jesus...!” said Tit-Che as another donkey narrowly missed him landing with a squelch, in the marshy area around the stable in the garden, he was working in.
“ Tell them there is no room at the inn!” laughed Charlie watching Tit-che dodging the incoming Ass-steroids.
“ I’ve heard of frogs and locusts but you don’t want a kick of one of them things!” said Tit-Che.
“ Hurry up with those signs Tommy ....I gotta feeling the ‘heat’ ain’t far behind!”
With that there was a giant explosion from the Common high above Cefn .
Mr Bigg stood on his door-step and just as he put his key in the lock...the explosion ripped through the air.
“ Good fireworks this year in Cyfarthfa Park!” he exclaimed...” There goes the tarmac budget again!”
As both he and his wife climbed the stairs, loosening his Colombian neck-tie, he noticed that his bedroom door was open and that his ‘Peruvian’ mattress was gone...and in its place was a donkey’s head and some stolen used ‘Evans outsize’ knickers were in its place.
“ What have you been doing while I was out....Muffin the Mule is one thing , but muffin the mule in garters is a criminal offence.!” said his wife.
“ Criminal offence...that’s music to my ears announced Drug Tzar Nicholas Shepherd!” appearing on the landing behind the pair.
“ Take some photos lads...!” he announced waving a search warrant.
“ What evidence have you got!” asked Mr Bigg rising up to his full height of 4 foot 10 realising that the mattress and all the donkeys had gone from the house.
As the pair walked out through the patio doors , Mr Bigg’s jaw dropped when he spotted his garden had undergone a transformation , while had been in the wedding.
In the centre, there was a giant igloo surrounded on all sides by a bumper crop of cannabis, coca plants and magic mushrooms.
Thinking on his feet, Mr Bigg said ...cannabis plants have grown wild in this country before 1957 ...and besides it is for my own personal use....the magic mushrooms ...too are primitive LSD but are natural products.....
“ Okay ....Mr Bigg explain why you have an six foot igloo and a door so small only you could fit in made entirely of crack cocaine..... !”
“ I’m an Eskimo...!” was all he could stutter by way of reply.
“ Well you are ‘Inuit’ up to your neck!.....besides..... who did your garden...?”
As he read the graffiti sprayed signs......Charlie, Tommy and Tit-che (Marsh)
“ Ground Force?”
******************************************************************
High up on the Cilsanws common, the explosion was the result of another ‘Ground Force ‘ battling with an ‘Air Force’.
The non-nonsense Drugs Tzar Nicholas Shepherd had a zero tolerance attitude when it came to drugs. He wanted to ‘can’ it completely...and put the perpetrators in the ‘can’.
‘Coke Zero’ was the mission code-name , after he had ordered the helicopter to be shot down by a surface to air missile imported from the Afghanistan Taliban.
Noting that the helicopter was registered to a local Doctor in Cefn they decided to take it down.
Dr U. G. Baron was clearly a pseudonym of Mr Bigg.
As soon as the crosshairs on the missile launcher caught the track of the helicopter, the pilot and his remaining cargo was toast.
In the face of adversity, there was no way in the world that Bob Boner could keep his chopper up and the huge explosion glowed red like a Merthyr Blast Furnace in the night sky.
“ And we have a special message from the boys in blue from Tregaron!” .. announced Derek Brockway live on BBC ‘weatherman talking’ .....” apparently Julie has had an Operation which has been a great success ...and wish her a ‘speedy recovery’....
“Finally, before I tell you about that Fete & Gala in the Woodwork Department of Penydre Comprehensive school, this Friday with loads of fairy cakes ...I love fairies don’t you.... there is a special message sent in by e-mail from Nicholas of South Wales....Red Sky at night...Shepherd’s delight.....Drug Dealers chopper on fire...Nos Da!”
"The North wind did blow and Merthyr had snow and what did poor Farrah do next?” sang Dean ‘Belle’ End as he sat on the vandal proof metal bench alongside the Merthyr Railway Station.
The sound caused Farrah to turn around sharply, exposing his nether regions to the bleak March air.
His coat, made entirely of Bar towels ,acquired from the many pubs he had visited on his personal tour of the Rugby Six Nation Countries and beyond, offered little protection from the elements.
His roman sandals acquired from a trip to Rome in 2009 , were further evidence of his total disregard for Valleys weather- a historical reason why the Celts were never completely conquered by our Italian cousins and the ex- army man Major Farrah- Fawcett was living proof of our resilience .
Just before his toes turned blue, his four-legged companion ‘Buster’ the Staffordshire Bull Terrier, dashed over and instinctively became a canine foot-warmer.
His human companions stood ‘Rhymney Brewery Hobby Horse’ bottle at the ready, awaiting the arrival of the Valley Line Train from Cardiff.
“ Has Buster’s diarrhoea problem cleared up yet?” asked Dean laughing hysterically.
Farrah looked down at his toes, but refused to answer , discreetly trying to wipe his toes on a dock-leaf....as discreetly as a 20 stone man in sandals and a five-foot bar towel garb could be.
“I thought the Welsh Assembly were doubling the number of trains to Merthyr “ asked his companion Dean.
“They did start but the trains kept getting pinched!” answered his mate Jon Van Dole.
“ Rumour has it ...the Gurnos boys were stealing the wheels as they left the station......one train was found in the sidings up on bricks...apparently the scrap dealers pay well for the scrap metal.. that’s why there are no road signs left showing Merthyr Tydfil anymore !” he continued.
“ I thought Merthyr Tydfil closed when Hoovers shut down and they moved everyone to the coast like the Tories wanted to do in the 1960’s...!” offered Farrah.
“ The next train is due at 10.03am....” interrupted Garry ‘Windows’ Snary looking up from his lap-top computer.
“ Trust you Garry ...NERD....who else would bring a laptop computer to a Wales v England Six Nations match?” asked Jon Van Dole as the Arriva Valley Lines trains pulled into the station at exactly 10.03am.
“ Warren Gatland....Shaun Edwards......do I need to go on...!” offered Snary
“ But they are working...!” replied Jon limply.
“ We all rely on different ‘hard drives’....the Welsh Pack , me and of course you!” laughed Garry.
“There’s no need to mention my erectile dysfunction....I had a complete blood transfusion.... I had to....my blood count was lower than Dean’s IQ...!” countered Jon as he was about to board the train.
“Mind that gap between the platform and the train Jon !” threatened Dean in retaliation ...or I might just squeeze your Ox-Head in there!”
As they selected their seating on the train, Farrah sat next to Garry and whispered in his mobile ear piece...” That was a bit below the belt...about Jon’s difficulties in the trouser department....only his missus, Dean and I know about that ?”
“ Correction ...said Garry clicking his mouse....you, me , Dean & his missus and everybody who visits his ‘face-book page’ from today on....call it ‘revenge of the nerds’ if you want!”
Buster, bright as a button, sat at his masters feet awaiting the arrival of the train conductor.
As soon as he sensed the presence of the ticket collector, like most Merthyr people, he bounded off the train and re-entered in the carriage behind the conductor, who was too busy checking tickets.
As he crawled on his belly below the carriage seats, he waited for the conductor to check his Master’s ticket and step off the train to blow his whistle.
The plan usually worked , but today Buster had forgotten about his incontinence problem and a trail of shite led the conductor back to the poor unsuspecting dog.
As the train shuffled away from the station the conductor’s nose told him there was a problem.
“ Oi Fred Flintstone.... you in the (visible) beer overcoat....the one with the shit in his toe nails....you can’t bring that dog on here and let him shit everywhere!” bellowed the conductor.
“ It’s not my dog...and he didn’t shit on your train....!” bellowed Farrah indignantly.
“I saw Flintstone doing it ...announced Dean enjoying watching Farrah squirm...... he shat on your seat and it probably fell off !”
Farrah gave Dean a black look.
“ Thanks for the solidarity mate!” declared Farrah.
Buster sat on his hind legs....left paw pointing and trying to blame Jonny for the mess.
“ It’s my dog....!” said Garry rolling his head and eyes in Stevie Wonder fashion....he’s my guide dog!”
“ If he’s your guide dog...show me his ‘doggy id’ ?” asked the conductor.
“ Thought you’d never ask....!” replied Garry printing his fake doggy id badge from his internet site via his lap-top.
Garry thrust the paper towards the bent-over conductor punching him hard on the jaw.
“Sorry... I followed the sound of the voice!” replied Garry.
Rubbing his bruised mandible, the Conductor backed away muttering that he would keep an eye on him.
“ Take a lap-top to a game indeed!” laughed Garry with Buster triumphantly drooling, knowing they had both got one over on Jonny.
“ Look at him...!” announced Dean, also drooling from the corner of his mouth on his third bottle of Rhymney Brewery Bevan’s Bitter....’Buster - the great train slobber’
From Merthyr station until Pontypridd Station Garry didn’t lift his head up from his keyboard .
He then suddenly smiled and pressed the send key.
“ What are you so happy about...you got the same look on your face Buster has when he tries to shag the neighbours’ Chihuahua!” announced Farrah putting down the remains of a six pack- a one pack.
At the mere mention of the word Chihuahua , Buster became amorous and chose to demonstrate on Jon Van Dole’s leg.
As Jon tried shaking him off his new velvet corduroy trousers, Buster seemed to enjoy the experience all the more.
“Jon...he can keep it up longer than you!” teased Dean
Randomly, half-cut Dean , fatally mentioned that he had tried to mount his cat once but had to cello-tape its mouth to stop it exploding.
Farrah continued to press Garry as to why he was smiling like Dean’s Cheshire cat (Pre-cellotape).
“ I just sent a computer virus to H M Land Registry Wales Office called ‘the Weakest Link’....it works by way of their intended chain matrix system and as soon as the first solicitor tries to use it , a Red Dragon logo of Anne Robinson pops up wipes out any mortgages registered against the house and turns the owners name into Meibion Glyndwr!”
“ I knew you were into that Free Wales Army bit and lived in Sospan land , but didn’t realise how revolutionary you were.... surely they will trace you and catch you!”
“ Not really...I have linked it up to the face-book page of Jon Van Dole...they won’t have any difficulty getting it up......I’ve linked it into a web-page I’ve created called Dean ‘Belle’ End’s animal bestiality page ....with a bit of luck they should arrest him too !”
“ You ‘re a real good pal and user friendly!” laughed Farrah.
As the train reached Taff’s Well, the light seemed to change on the train ...the clouds that were overhead parted and a beam of sunlight directly from God appeared , as they emerged from the Taff Valley, feeling an overcoat warmer.
A corona of yellow seemed to draw the eyes of the Merthyr boys to a broken train seat .
“ Boys...it is the Holy Grail...!” announced Dean reverently ....”the ultimate Rugby relic...!” as he approached the damaged seat.
Looking down at the love heart drawn in fake orange leg tan on the back of the leather he whispered.
“ GH Loves CC”!!!!!
“ Do you know what that means?” declared Dean.
“ Wot are you banging on about ...some Rail seat with a punch-mark through the back !” said Garry petulantly.
“ Not just any punch-mark.....we are in the compartment wrecked by Gavin Henson and his muppet show earlier this year!” said Dean on his knees and kissing the badge on his Osprey shirt.
“ That’s the only bird he will kiss today!” laughed Farrah
As Dean videoed it on his mobile phone , Garry shook his head at the behaviour of his friend.
“ East is East and West ain’t Best and never the twain shall meet !” declared Garry going back to his lap-top.
As the train arrived in Cardiff Queen Street , the gang of four and their five legged canine friend left the train and started down the Victorian steps of the station.
“ Tickets please !” shouted the announcer, as the Rugby crowds began to surge towards the barrier.
Buster seeing his opportunity slid under the metal barrier like Joe Di Maggio sliding to his home run base....shooting straight out the train station door and into the back of the Big Issue sellers obligatory dog ... called ‘ Lady Scrounger’.
Scrounger taking on the characteristics of her own master , barked at Buster the equivalent of ‘What are you looking at ?” in street doggy language.
Once through the barrier, Garry made a beeline for the newspaper kiosk, buying a number of items of confectionary.
“ Six Mars Bars and three Cadbury Wispas....you work , rest and play hard.... !” laughed the new slim-line Jon Van Dole , fresh from another blood transfusion .
As Dean passed the entrance he noticed the street dog had transformed back into cute dog Lady, and the spaniel was standing on her hind-legs begging for money.
Dean always had time for animals...but her owner was to make a fatal mistake.
In the noise of the traffic, the words “ Big Issue!” and the resulting meth’s spittle landing on his Swansea/ Ospreys shirt, was interpreted as an act of war.
The drunken Dean merely replied ‘ Bless you” and punched the Street Vendor clean over two lanes of cheering stationary traffic.
The cheers turned to boos, as Dean then dropped-kicked the dog over the two sets of traffic lights... clapping his hands and shouting there’s only One Gavin Henson......
His companions were horrified but not as much as that of Warren, a Paul’s Savoury Products driver, whose Van windscreen killed the dog outright.
Looking round, he suddenly recovered and slung it in the back for a Vietnamese Restaurant owner he knew in Canton.
“ I need me a drink to calm me down...take me to the Queens Vaults ....besides I thought that tramp had Mexican Swine flu....I could smell the chilli on his breath!” said Dean trying to justify his behaviour, as he headed up Queen Street.
The Four looked quite a sight , as they ambled towards the Pub.
Farrah clad in his multi-coloured Beer mat dress, Dean in his spittle covered Ospreys shirt, Jon Van Dole in his orange Holland football shirt and Garry Snary, two pockets full of mars bars and a lap-top computer covering his head from the sudden rain shower.
By the time they reached the pub door , Farrah’s coat had absorbed two pints of water making him weigh more than 9 stone.
Buster skipped along merrily sniffing anything that moved... and so did Dean.
“ My round lads” announced Farrah reaching the bar through a throng of Rugby fans.
The ‘ Beer- Cave-Man’ attire worked a charm, as the bar maids rushed to serve him ahead of others already waiting patiently.
“ Oi...I was before you...!” protested an English Rugby fan wearing a Fez.
“ You ...Tommy Cooper head!” shouted Dean....”one question ...wot Country is Cardiff in?”
“ Wales of course...you peasant!” relied the Saracen fan.
“ Well, we live here in the wet climate and subsidise your water bills....now be quiet now like a good boy or I will shove your Chariot up your arse!” snarled Dean returning to a different ‘Big Issue-mode’.
“ There’s no place for racism in sport!” announced a ‘number 10’ size Englishman next to the Fez wearer downing his pint in one.
“ Never been to an Wales V England before then mate? “ asked Jon Van Dole.
“ No...you speak the Queen’s English ....sorry I thought you were Dutch..... !” answered the surprised Danny Cipriani..
“ If you haven’t been to the Millenium Stadium and Wales V England in any sport, at any level, you haven’t seen racism in sport.....!” laughed Jon Van Dole.
“ Shit...thanks for reminding me ...I’ve been out clubbing all night and I’m playing in two hours!” said Cipriani, grabbing his England Track suit top and diving between the legs of a ‘scrum’ of ‘five’ people entering the main door as only a Fly-half can.
“ See....pontificated Dean to the Fez-wearing Saracen Cockney , Hamed Sackey O’Toole....you English ....aren’t real English at all....your all French....!”
“ How do you work that out .....?” snarled O’Toole , at the mere prospect of being linked to the continent.
“ We Welsh are the real English....us Celts see ....were driven back by your Italian Romans to Wales and Ireland.... and you lot are just descendants of the Normans see...French barons who came here....William the Conqueror....you lot are just a mongrel breed of Vikings, Saxons and FRENCH!” slurred Dean enjoying the rant.
“ .....and with a name like yours you can add Sand-Nigger, Coon and Gippo to the Micks....mix get it !”
As the last insult hit him , even though the Saracen knew he was outnumbered 50-1 , he took aim and caught Dean flush on the snout.
A small trickle of blood appeared below his nose.
It didn’t help that Garry had just taken up the microphone and began to sing his version of Garry-oke.
He enlisted the support of the a handsome young man with black caterpillar eye-brows.
Garry sang to the mixed bar of supporters, his version of the song ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain’.
“ I would rather wear a turban than a rose....I would rather wear a turban than a rose... I would rather wear a turban....rather wear a turban ...rather wear a turban than a rose ....English bast....”
Just as he was finishing the song, he was punched full force by the leader of the Leicester Tigers supporters ‘who had finally got his hair off’ .
Garry ‘ sailed across the bar and landed in a heap near the ladies toilets, becoming a ‘Prop Idol’ in more ways than one.
Austin Healey stood up to his full height of 5 feet 6 , a fair match for Stereo-phonics front man Kelly Jones, who grabbed the karaoke mike and swing it at the head of the ‘Leicester Lip’.
The impact sent Austin Healey’s hair implants flying down the Queens Vaults main bar , scattering glasses as it finally stopping in an inch of dust and a disused ashtray.
“ Look Dusty Hare....!” laughed Dean picking up the wig and wiping his bloody trickle.
Kelly Jones swung the microphone up by the lead and caught it , in true Hollywood /Cwmaman style and continued to sing....” As long as we beat the English ...we don’t care.!”
Dean turned up his collar in Malcolm Price fashion ...as he flatterned O’Toole and began to slug his way across the bar, packed with celebrity showbiz friends of Stuart Cable.
Anything that didn’t have the three feathers or a Welsh rugby shirt was fair game.
One minute Robbie Williams was discussing a possible come-back concert with his old pop band at the Cardiff International Arena... the next he was on the floor nursing some bruises.
“ Take That!” declared Dean mid rampage.
As Robbie slid down the wall of the pub next to Garry, he was in fact seeing ‘Angels’ instead.
“ It’s My...llenium (Stadium )...!” roared Dean- like King Kong - beating his chest.
As the rest of Take That leapt on Dean....he was cheered on by Robbie Williams....
“Hit Barlow first!” he declared.....then Liam Gallagher!”
In the melee that followed , Dean was forcefully ejected by a combination of the heavyweight bouncers and Ruth ‘Nessa’ Jones who was trying to find out ‘what’s occurring’.
“ Not you again......you were fighting with Mike Phillips & Andy Powell last time!” they shouted as Dean , Garry , his laptop and the others including the Stereophonics were thrown into the street to the delight of the waiting Buster.
“It’s your fault Farrah !” declared Dean....”it’s that bloody coat of yours, it attracts trouble....!” declared Dean still holding Healey’s hair.
“ Got a quarantine licence for that?” replied Farrah.
“ Well done Dean where can I go now...the other pubs are packed and I need to down- load some old data files.....?” announced Garry nervously.
“ Wot?” asked Jon .
“ I need a dump.... a kak....!” he replied.
“ That’s another reason why I wear this coat... said Farrah...getting up from the window-cill of the Italian restaurant leaving a steaming turd behind....and why I like Caroline Street so much !” he said scooping up a handful of discarded chip papers and removing the clinkers.
“ Are you using that hair?” he asked Dean.
Wiping out more klingons than the new Star Trek film he slung the hairpiece contemptibly at the bouncers.
Looking back at the window-sill, Jon declared I thought ‘only dogs did that!’
Buster shot him a look of disgust.
“ Well the only place I can think of, that will be quiet at this time of day ....is the toilet behind the Hayes Buttie Bar, near St Davids Hall...besides we can go to the last pub in Cardiff Dean isn’t barred from –Walkabout in St Mary Street.!” ....offered Jon .
“ What... that’s bandit Country!” laughed Dean in an effeminate voice....” I’ll come with you to hold your hand....
As the three friends texted Farrah the details of their detour, he agreed to meet them at ‘Walkabout Creek’ –which co-incidentally was the venue the Stereophonics planned to visit .
Heading down the Victorian steps and passed the railings to the subterranean toilet they all had a sense of unease , as they began to point Percy at the Porcelain.
“ Do you get the feeling...we are being watched?” asked Jon nervously.
“ I am always being watched .....boasted Dean. doing Grouch Marx impressions whilst siphoning his python, before bending over.....most people think I should be in a circus...Monty Python’s flying circus, (he said charming his one eyed- trouser snake) , besides you are safe, I can’t see anyone here with a magnifying glass....!”
“ I’ve told you ....after a blood transfusion ....it takes time to get up a stream!” proffered John.
“ This pineapple chunk I found in the urinal is blinding...I’ll meet you at the buttie bar upstairs...but I’m only waiting 15 minutes! ” laughed Dean
Garry sat in the cubicle and had double locked the door.... he wasn’t that homophobic he just had other more important things on his mind.
Lowering his trousers and underpants , the ex-prop remembered his routine.
Pause... Touch... Engage.
As he sat on the throne with a sense of unease , he waited for nature to take its course.
The cubicle walls all around were wiped clean, apart from a recent addition of an Neanderthal cave-painting in haemorrhoid brown.
Normally, he enjoyed reading the graffiti on the toilet walls...but this crap-trap was largely free except for writing at the cubicle top and just above a narrow hole in the partition wall at waist height.
The hole had been partially filled by the remainder of the toilet paper.
Garry checked his watch and realised it was now of never.
Like all rugby men, he inspected his latest ‘drop out’ and noted that it stood out of the water like the Statue of Liberty..
He took a photo-shot on his mobile camera phone and sent the beauty by e-mail to Jon Van Dole’s facebook page under ‘New blog’,
As usual some evil sod had left a single sheet on the Council-issue sandpaper...would this be enough....he was a little worried by the lack of paper available but decided to go ‘commando’ anyway, as that was the real purpose of his mission.
As he set up his lap-top, he retrieved the internet page on how to make home-made bombs from plastic explosives and household chemicals.
He began whittling away at the inside of the chocolate bars and inserting the plastic explosives in the Mars and Wispas.
Just as he finished the last one , he dropped the chocolate bar which slid on the tiled floor , underneath the metal toilet roll holder.
As he bent over, butt naked, he failed to notice that the toilet paper plug had been removed and a famous face with a leather hat and goatee beard took advantage of Garry’s precarious predicament.
“ Talk about a Careless Wispa!” announced a George Michael look-a-like rubbing his hands in the adjacent cubicle, as the comeback of Wham was complete as he he stuck his phallus through the toilet wall.
Garry wished he had read the graffiti warnings at the top of the cubicle ‘watch out for queers’ and further down ‘told you so’.
Oblivious to the impending assault , Jon stood innocently trying to think of ice cold waterfalls to get him started.
“ Garry are you still logging on in there?....if there’s no paper left in the stall...I can change two fivers for a tenner”
Garry jumped at the sudden intrusion of flesh , eyes widening alarmingly .
In response, he rammed a fuse down the jap’s eye of his assailant.
‘George’ recoiled limply and sang sadly ....” Last Christmas, I gave you my arse, but the very next day you gave it away” sitting down on the toilet seat dejectedly.
********************************************************************
Dean stood eating his bacon egg and tomato roll at the top of the steps as a 17 year old youth passed him in a Cardiff City base-ball cap and ‘Diesel’ top.
Dean was suspicious too of his two sidekicks aged 9 and 15 who were joking laughing and acting like a pair of gangsters keeping a lookout.
He rubbed the remains of the greasy bacon and tomato roll on his trousers in anticipation of trouble.
Jon stood to attention at the sound of footsteps approaching.
He was very conscious of the fact he had spent over ten minutes waiting for his engine to start.
Jon was intimidated when the youth broke the old age male convention , standing immediately next to him at the empty urinal.
He tried to look away and whistle politely, but could not help but look down at his ‘old boy’ to see if the stream had started.
“ What do you know...finally !” sighed Jon as he startled with a trickle which led to a bladder emptying full Niagara discharge.
“ Give us all your money...or your slug gets it!” declared the Ely youth Robin Hoodie.
It was only then that Jon realised the touch of the cold steel pen-knife blade had started his down pour.
Jon nervously handed over his wallet...dropping it in the urinal tray in fright.
Dripping with urine , snot, pubic hair and attached by chewing gum to the only pineapple chunk that Dean had missed, the youth bent over in disgust, carefully watching the petrified Jon all the while.
Getting his own back on someone else bending over, Garry emerged from the cubicle door with lap-top raised and smacked the youth over the head rendering him unconscious.
“ Talk about a hard-drive capability!” laughed Garry....” Can you see why I take a lap-top to the game now!”
Jon had to admit defeat on that one.
As the two friends climbed the stairs together, they were spotted by the two other gang members.
Dean stepped in , as the two scumbags realising their punk friend was in trouble,drew their illegal blades reclaimed from a knife amnesty bin in Roath Park.
Dean lifted the ‘Waterstones’ book shop sign, smote the pair , sending them tumbling down the steps passed Jon and Garry....” Now that’s what you call a good hardback!” laughed Dean triumphantly.
As they trio headed towards Walkabout, they discussed the antics of the juvenile gang.
“ I overheard those wasters talking about their ‘nob racket’.... give us all your money or I’ll cut it off.....!” said Dean angrily.
“ What man wouldn’t hand over their wallet!” agreed Garry.
“ The big one reckoned he had made nearly two grand ....whilst the 15 year old ...I heard his street name of Shiv Shover....nearly £1,500.00!” continued Dean.
“ What about the little one- the 9 year-old ...what about him... how much did he make ?” asked Jon .
“ About £10.00 ...apparently....but he did have two pockets full of cocks!” laughed Dean.
Jon ashen-faced , just gulped and thanked his lucky stars it had been the older boy.
That George Michael look-a-like will put them to good use...thought Garry.
Garry had visions of the pop star trapped in the toilet trying to convince the gang that he hadn’t let ‘the son go down on me’.
********************************************************************
Farrah , however, was stood at ‘a different corner’ - that of the Australian theme bar ‘Walkabout’ in St Mary Street.
His coat of many beer towels in multi-colours, was a benefit not just for being spotted on the BBC Cameras, but also when waiting to be served at a crowded match-day bar.
He was also a babe magnet in this garb, as the woman wanted to check to see if his ‘bod’ was as good as his Boddingtons.
A walking beer sponsor’s dream , the man’s outfit was made out of three parts Strongbow, two parts Boddingtons, Allbright, Worthington Best together with many foreign beers from his tours with the British Lions to South Africa, Australia and New Zealand.
Around his collar , he bore the emblem of Cigarette manufacturer Rothmans.
It was no surprise that the man’s body was also ‘King-size’.
Henry the Eighth to be precise , carefully crafted and sculpted after years of weightlifting pint glasses to his lips.
Oh and after wiping the froth of the beers he had ‘Green-sleeves too!”
As he looked at the selection of beer pumps, he announced loudly in a ‘Convict Oz accent’ “ Fosters - the Amber Nectar- ‘Oztralia’s favourite beer brewed in ....Scotland” announced Farrah, to anyone that would listen...including the young barman waiting to serve him.
Standing next to the bar, he used his favourite trick to gain free beer.
As Stereophonic front man Kelly Jones, ordered and paid for a round for every able person in Cwmaman, Farrah took advantage of the procession of pints being passed over the heads of the queue of people , waiting for beer and an autograph.
Farrah , empty pint glass in hand, merely waited for Jones to look away, before dipping his sleeve in the recently poured pint glasses and sopping up the beer .
He then squeezed his sleeve out into his own glass.
Kelly Jones assumed it was just short measures and muttered something about ‘a bartender and a thief’.
When Kelly was presented with the bill for £387.30 for 150 pints Farrah, being the son of a mathematics teacher, he interrupted Kelly and told him he was being overcharged by some £87.30.
The bar-tender was not amused and told Farrah to mind his own business.
Farrah told Kelly he was ‘Just looking’ and the UWIC student-barman became so flustered with the reworking of the computerised till, that he broke off the pump handle on the Worthy Best, sending a jet of cream-flow into the air.
Mysteriously, all the beer towels had disappeared from the bar, leaving a ‘free reign’ (or free rain) for Farrah to mop up the spillage at the bar.
“ See...working behind the bar ...it’s all about ‘Performance and Cocktails...’ continued Farrah.....and I can tell you a few !”.
“ Performances?” asked Kelly.
“ Cock tales!” replied Farrah.
Kelly smiled ....caterpillar eyebrows on rest-mode... he was used to freeloaders but this guy seemed to have ‘more life than a Tramps Vest’ and looked a real card.
Weighing 2 stone heavier, dripping with Worthington, he followed Kelly back to his table and joined in with the rest of the band , as if he had known them all his life.
In the hope of a REAL pint, he spoke to Stuart Cable, mentioning that his father once drove through Cwmaman and that they were practically related .
Buster too , took a real shine to Stuart Cable , humping his leg with Cable too frightened to tell him off.
“ Is it true that your mother is called Mabel Cable?....asked Farrah not believing it.
“ Yes!” came the reply.
“ and your father was called Clark....you ride in a Cable car and watch Cable TV!...in fact my tour mates are busy laying some cable as we speak!” continued Farrah.
“ Not my sister I hope ....but otherwise all true..!”.said Stuart, playing along, tapping the table like a real drummer.
“And Kelly ...your old man was called Duster...and my dog is called Buster...although Stuart ...I see you’ve already made his acquaintance....your dad was a singer in the clubs around Merthyr!” said Farrah
Farrah looked at the pint count which kept going up every-time he mentioned somebody from Cwmaman.
“ Well boys ...my name’s Richard ...and I’m an alcoholic...!” he announced raising his beer glass to toast the success of the band
“ Here’s to Cwmaman....’you gotta go there to come back’ laughed Farrah enjoying the attention.
As Farrah knocked back his eighth free pint...he decided he better go.
“ Your round Richard...!”asked the quiet unassuming member of the trio Richard Jones
“ Yes ...I think my shape is down to the beer I drink .... oh MY round ...’Maybe tomorrow’.....he sung ...as he waved to his regular mates as he spotted Dean pushing his way violently through the crowd.
“ Is this table taken... boys...?” he asked a group of heavyweight people clad in fake Welsh Rugby shirts from Rheola market.
“ Do you mind ....we’re Aberdare Ladies Rugby team....!” came the reply
“ Well sod off then ....it will take your herd.... two hours to waddle through this crowd and get to the match !” snarled Dean.
The ladies drank their Stella down...gave Dean a black look...but they knew what he said was true....they left cracking the pavement stones in St Mary Street as they went.
“ Dean ....I see you haven’t lost your touch with the ladies.!” chuckled Garry placing his lap-top on the table.
“ Nor you Farrah...!” said Jon nodding at the young Aborigine woman making her way towards the table.
“ Derek....Derek Brockway...is that really you?” asked the girl.
Farrah tried to hide behind his collection of cloudy pints...created from squeezing out his beer towel coat.
“ He’s not Derek...he’s Richard... luv!” offered Jon.
The girl continued to greet Farrah in an Aborigine love- dance ritual to the delight of the crowd in Walkabout.
As the girl reached him and kissed him passionately, he and his friends denied vehemently that he was not called Derek but that it must be a case of mistaken identity.
“ You are Derek....we met on the Lions Tour of Australia in Melbourne ...you had a Welsh Kilt on with a Paul Hogan hat....you told me you were Cockodile Dundee...!” continued the antipodean stranger....its me ..... your Sheila ....Sheila Sweales!”.
“ I’m not Derek ....!” protested Farrah , as the girl slid down his soaking beer-coat and under the table frightening the life out of Buster the dog.
“ Its dream time again!” declared the young Aborigine disappearing under the table.
“ Honestly....he’s NOT Derek Brockway....!” laughed Garry.
With the girl under his table and her head close the Worthington Best bit, Farrah changed his tune.
“ Shut –up....!” said Farrah....hoping that his Worthy best might become cream flow.
At this point, the arrival of the girl was spotted by Dean and he was delighted when he felt a strange movement in his general crotch area.
Unknown to Dean, it was Buster the dog licking the remainder of the Bacon & Tomato sandwich from his jeans.
“ I remember you were big down under ....but... ....what’s this about Cardiff City losing 6-0 to Preston North End and missing out on promotion to the Premiership.!” moaned the stranger.
“ How did you know about that ?” Farrah asked somewhat surprised that it was being brought up at that particular moment.
“ Oh I read it on the South Wales Echo chip paper stuck to your back pages!” came the reply.
“ At least City are not going down this year...concentrate on the South End !” ...hinted Farrah trying to change the subject.
“ DEREK BROCKWAY!!!” interrupted Garry... “Couldn’t you have picked a more manly false Rugby Tour name?”
Buster, sensing that there was meat and two vegemite below the surface of the fabric, bit down hard on Dean’s jeans.
In anger and severe pain, the incredible bulk, grabbed the table edge with both hands.
The sight of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier jaw clamped to his Lee Cooper’s, gave Dean a shock.
“ Now that’s what I call a High Tackle!” remarked local comic genius Boyd Clack to new boy Rhod Gilbert sat on the adjoining table, who was lost for words without his script.
“ That’s the end of his ‘High Hopes!” replied Gilbert five minutes later.
“ I thought it was you....!” said Dean to the girl , who hurriedly dropped what she was doing as Dean turned the table over in rage.
“ Hi Skippy....see you still have that animal fetish.....that poor Kangaroo in Melbourne hasn’t hopped the same since....!” said the young aborigine.
“ How low can you Dean ... for a jump?” asked Jon twitching his nose and holding his hand to this chest aping a roo.
“ A Koala! “ said Garry holding his lap-top defensively waited for Dean’s red mist to descend.
“ If its warm , furry and can move...it’s fair game in my book!” declared Dean unashamedly.
“ Hey Eucalyptus breath ....have you seen my koala possum!” said Garry legging it out of the door like Tre-forrest Gump.
As Sheila headed towards the ‘Sheila’s dunny’ to powder her ‘wombat’, the two remaining ‘Bruces’ legged it towards the door, Farrah snatching a pint off the Cwmaman table , drinking it down in one and singing ‘Have a nice Day!”
As Farrah turned the corner of West-Gate Street just in the nick of time, a boomerang flew passed his beer-coat...two seconds sooner and things wouldn’t have been ‘Allbright!”
***************************************************************
“ Getting into the old Arms Park ground never used to be this difficult!” moaned Jon who was busting for another slash .
“ Go in the bloke in front’s other parka- jacket pocket....I just did!” said Dean.
“ Don’t tell me it was warm, furry and moving.....!” said Farrah....” I am getting a pattern emerging here...!” he continued.
Suddenly the crowd standing around Farrah parted and the Millennium concourse had a giant wet circle shadow on the ground.
“ Told you ...I too was getting a pattern!” he murmered.
Buster looked around anxiously through the legs of the Rugby Crowd and decided he was not going to get through these turnstiles today.
Spotting the English Mascot John Bull, resplendent in his top hat and patriotic waistcoat, the Staffordshire Bull Terrier, jaw freshly unclamped , walked in harmony behind him through the open gates and in with the English Rugby Team.
“ Look at Buster....bloody turncoat!” shouted Jon.
Jon thought his imagination had got the better of him , when the dog lifted his tail and showed him that he could not possibly have worms.
“ This security has gone all hi-tech ! “ moaned Jon holding onto a full bladder for 10 full minutes.
“ Yes ...announced Dean .......my company , Bigger Telephones- did all the work...it is top of the range, I even did all the Wi Fi and Electrical Information systems in the stands myself....that’s why it is called the BT Stand!” he boasted.
“ That’s why you are called Dean BT ...I thought BT was short for Bacon & Tomato .....or Bitten Testicles..... .or ....Buggerer of Tabby cats... !” came the suggested offerings from his friends.
“ Or Big Tosser !” said Austin Healey standing next to Dean.
“ Didn’t see you down there !” said Dean , as he launched the Leicester lip off the approach-way and into the Cardiff Blues Car-Park with his hair landing in a heap in Westgate Street.
“ They even got Iris recognition on the turnstiles now !” offered Garry .
“ How do you know that ? “ asked Dean suspiciously.
“ Any potential terrorist could download plans of the Millenium Stadium from the internet to his lap-top !” laughed Garry nervously.
“ Nice one....Osama bin Lloyden!” chuckled Jon.
“ I thought security made less fuss when they let the half-cast Welsh singer, Iris Williams through the gate....!”
“ That’s cos she was ....’So beautiful’ joked Farrah.
As they entered the booth...unbeknown to the crowd ,....security were secretly flashed messages about the person entering....a red light with the security clearance flashed up in the control room.
As Jon , Garry, Farrah and Dean filed in....the red light flashed up the following security messages.....No threat....definitely no concealed weapon....Fat Bastard likes Mars Bars.... Harmless Welsh Rugby Nutter.... and Cat-shagger.
As the four amigos headed for their place in the old North Stand, they drank in the rich atmosphere of their surroundings.
For the first time ever in Rugby , following reports of disturbances with the English Rugby fans earlier that day ...the WRU had decided to segregate the Saesneg from the Cymru.
Having refused to climb the six flights of stairs with his friends to ‘his Llanelli RFC prime seat’ , Garry was disappointed at his ticket. He knew their status with the WRU was declining...they only beat the All Blacks once and that was years ago....but having to climb up the North face of the Eiger, was a little ‘over the top’ . No wonder they are called Scarlets, he thought looking at the stadium position as the undigested Mars Bars and digested Mars Bars started to take their toll.
Even though he was breathing easier from getting through the Security, he was worried about his task in hand.
As he was a child of the sixties, he was born with rebel blood and wanted revenge for his Countrymen’s years of exploitation by the English Ironmasters in Merthyr Tydfil and their ‘Truck shop’ policies.
Seeing the Flag of St George displayed so openly at the Stadium, he remembered his vow to the people of Wales, in his oath when he joined the Free Wales Army.
He lit the fuses on the Mars Bars and during the cacophony of noise following the singing of the English National Anthem of ‘God Save our Gracious Queen’ he threw them at the English End,placing his fingers in his years waiting for the explosion.
The game kicked off and the first collision between Ryan Jones and Martin Corry could be heard loudly like a massive explosion.
When he reopened his eyes Garry , was horrified to find Buster the dog sitting at his feet with the plastic explosive mars bars intact , covered in slobber but still lit, blissfully wagging his tail in the game of fetch..
The second explosion ripped out the heart of the stadium.
Austin Healey had seen Tom Cruise ‘ War of the Worlds but didn’t expect that kind of ‘Mars Attacks’ as the blast for the third time that day separated his short Cruise-like body from his re-grown hair.
As the North Stand collapsed in a cloud of dust , it blocked out the sun sending parts of Tiger Bay into complete darkness.
The staff at the Brains brewery, who had mistakenly booked a hospitality box in the Cardiff Arms Park for the Six Nations game, suddenly cheered loudly, as they now had an uninterrupted view of the Millennium pitch.
The cheer was matched only from the WRU elite box, as they saw the stand that had been the subject of so much acrimony, between the Cardiff Rugby club and the WRU, suddenly disappear.
The cheer was short lived though and the subsequent aftershock of the stand collapsing sent a tremor through the unstable grass pallets causing a Mexican wave on the pitch never seen before.
Forward thinking Merthyr boys, Adam Jones and Robert Sidoli couldn’t work it out and tackled the rising grass pallets assuming that the English props were ‘boring in’ as usual.
The retractable roof mechanism kept buzzing and whirring as the computer controlled device , didn’t know if the roof should be covered or uncovered.
As Dwayne Pype ‘Brains employee of the month’ stood up in his hospitality box, he announced in a broad Cardiff accent...” Talk about painting it DARRRK , in Cardiff Arms PARRRK with a MARRS BARR!”
“ Actually, the correct saying is Brains DARRRRK in Cardiff Arms Parrrk!” claimed Pip O’Thalimus, Brains advertising executive, tasting a copyright infringement.
In the former North Stand, Jon Van Dole and Dean , both black-faced and hair sticking up at all angles , looked round for their missing pals.
“ It’s Garry’s round and he’s disappeared !” moaned Jon.
Stereophonic Richard Jones looked at his front man and laughed.
There were advantages to be out of the spotlight.
“ I bet your glad I got this celebrity debenture box now!”
Kelly Jones sat in shock minus he eyebrows burned off in the back-draft.
Shaking his head he turned to Tom Jones and said “ Mama told me not to come!....did you drop one of your sex-bombs?”
“ Look at you Kel... said Tom ....you look different somehow...like you v’e been on tour with Dowlais RFC! ”
Stuart Cable had also been affected by the blast as he had a dog collar in his normal nest of curly hair.
“ Have we changed labels...asked Richard Jones...from V2 VVR to ‘Buster’ Records?”
******************************************************************
No sooner had the smoke cleared, than the O’Sullivan Security Guards (Pant Division) were on them handcuffing Jon and Dean and dragging them away.
“ You wouldn’t do this if I was black!” shouted Dean.
Jon looked at the charcoal complexion on his friend and just laughed.
They had been through some hair-raising experiences but this was the biggest blast they had ever had.
As they were led to the Black Maria, they noticed the England Team Coach still ablaze..
“ Look ....a Chariot on Fire !” said Dean taking a slug from a Police baton for his trouble.
As they opened the door of the Police van, they could see that there was a ferocious Police Alsatian licking his lips, awaiting their arrival.
“ Do not put him in there with the dog....its not safe!” ordered Sergeant Grunt pointing at Dean.
“ For him or the dog!” laughed Jon in-between truncheon blows.
The Police also were bringing a handcuffed bald Austin Healey.
“ I bet you are behind this somehow!” snarled Healey at Dean.
“ What were you arrested for?” asked Jon.
“When the explosion happened my implants flew towards the Royal Box... landing on Prince William’s lap....talk about Hair to the throne....I am being charged with
‘un-common assault ‘ and attempted ‘Hair’ ssasination!”
“ That friend of your’s ...he was a sleeper!” declared Healey.
“ No wonder he never stayed awake for the last round!” said Jon struggling to stand up under the level of baton abuse.
High above the Millennium Stadium, Garry sat at the bottom of a series of white steps just above the clouds.
Buster sat (minus his collar) on his feet with him.
“ Are you going to get off my shoes or what?” asked Garry to the dog.
“ Yes...as soon as you say sorry for blowing us up!” replied the dog in perfect English.
“ Buster .......you can talk...!” said Garry somewhat surprised.
“ Talk....I have a higher IQ than all of you ....but on the Earthly Realm dogs
are n’t allowed to talk.
“ What Realm are we in now then?” asked Garry
“ We’ll judging by the piped music by Led Zeppelin....I think it is safe to assume we are on the Stairway to Heaven!” he replied.
“ We better get moving because there is a ‘Hell’ of a queue going down those red stairs” continued Garry.
As they approached the Pearly gates, Garry was worried about his chances of getting passed St Peter.
He had already turned away Charlton ‘Moses’ Heston and James Earl Jones.
“ Big Issue Sir...asked the Heavenly Street seller, until recently sat outside the Queen Street Train Station.
“ No change mate !“reply Garry which was for once true.
“ Don’t I know you?” asked the salesman.
“ No , No...No !” said Garry thrice hearing a cock crow in the background.
Watching Jade Goodie leaving the white path and heading South he didn’t think he stood a cat’s chance.
“ I thought she was a certainty according to the media....but she has been voted out already!” moaned a worried looking Garry.
“ Buster Farrah - Evans....you say......declared St Peter...we’ve been expecting you...Disney’s Lady from Lady & the Tramp has some spaghetti waiting for you!”
“ See ...boasted Buster ...”told you ‘All dogs go to Heaven’ as he cocked his leg at the entrance.
“ Next!” shouted St Peter looking down at a tiny list in white and a massive list in red.
“ Garry Snary!”
After a few minutes checking St Peter announced he wasn’t on either list.
“ I better check with the Boss!”
Pressing the holy intercom...he summoned God in person.
“ Gotta Garry Snary here ...not on either list...any suggestions?” asked St Paul.
The black female voice of God could be heard checking with Mohammed, Allah and Eric Cantona before a booming voice decreed “ Have you tried under Suicide Bombers?”
“ Ah yes...thank you...you have been allocated to Virgin HQ!” said St Peter.
“ Which way....?” asked Garry feeling lost without Buster.
“ Follow the cloud layer, passed Purgatory over there and it will be sign-posted ‘Forum’ from there.
As Garry shuffled off his mortal coil , he headed towards the sign post.
“ Virgin HQ ...sounds promising...technically I am a suicide bomber ...the first Martyr of the Free Wales Army...!” he mused.
As he reached the white Vesta, at the Forum, he was on arrival offered Red Bull and Angel cake, to build up his strength for the eternity ahead.
He was shown into the Honeymoon suite by a little golden cherub.
The cherub insisted that it was a condition of the Heaven and Virgin flights, that he be tied to the white four poster water bed in case of ‘turbulence’.
He lay all four-limbs attached lightly by a silken scarf to each of the white marble String-fellow-esque bed-posts.
As he awaited , he wondered what Vestal Virgins would be sent to him.
A Pre- Vegas Britney Spears or perhaps a Disney nymphet like Smiley ‘Miley’ Cyrus, sweet sixteen and barely legal.
As each of the Vestal Virgins lowered their veils, Garry recoiled in horror.
Anne Widdicombe.... Susan Boyle from Britain’s Got Talent...Jo Brand and finally a bearded Richard Branson lookalike in drag.
“ Now that’s Virgin on the ridiculous!” screamed Garry as he was forcefully disrobed.
“ What did I do to be so punished...?” he asked God below.
“They are the ones being punished!” boomed Jah.
As Garry disappeared in a sea of white whales in search of Moby Dick , he suddenly realised he had joined a different Free Whales Army.
“Good night and good luck!” said the Curator Derek Dunny as he locked the huge wooden front door of the Cyfarthfa Castle Museum.
The only Grade 1 Listed Structure in the whole of the Merthyr Tydfil Borough was imposing looking at the best of times, but on a dark wet Winter’s evening it was downright scary. Safer Merthyr employee Dicky Knight looked around nervously. It was his first night as a security guard and he didn’t feel very safe.
“Everything looks so much more scary in the dark!” he said to his shadow, who was his only companion for the night. Merthyr Council too had to comply with Central Government Budget cuts and were warned that they had to make savings, which is why they employed a youngster on the National Minimum wage to guard their museum, lit at night by solar powered lights.
This wouldn’t have been a problem anywhere else, but as most Merthyr people will confirm, we don’t get sunlight for six months of the year. Knight looked around him dimly, the old stuffed animal heads on the walls seemed to glower at him menacingly and the suits of armour looked ready to follow him as soon as he turned his back. His first ever night shift was going to be a long one. He sat down at the counter on a chair, with just a Pound shop flash light with a Polish battery in it for comfort. His senses were on high alert for every sound or movement as his imagination ran riot. The swirling high wind and driving rain outside didn’t help matters either .He had a mobile phone but he only had 20p of credit left on it – just enough to text HELP to his girlfriend – if he needed to.
In the half-light he carefully unwrapped his silver foil package peering in to see what sandwiches his mother had packed for him -hoping in anticipation for salmon. All he had was cheese- with bread so hard it could have been from Swansea Road. Bored silly after just ten minutes, he began to throw peanuts into the air and catch them in his mouth. He began to throw them higher and higher until one lodged in his left nasal chamber and he nearly choked to death. He sighed to himself as he checked his watch with the flash light 6.40pm....ten minutes gone only another 11 hours and 20 minutes to go. He knew he had to do something so he decided to pluck up enough courage to patrol the place.
After checking the entrance door was locked firmly, he made his way into the art gallery section filled with furniture not good enough for St Fagan’s Museum of Welsh Life. As he walked in, all the portraits on the walls seemed to looking at him. In his mind’s eye, Dicky could see the eyes moving behind the oak panel wall partitions and Frans Hals ‘Cavalier’ seemed to be laughing at him.
“I don’t know what you are laughing about....because the Roundheads kicked your arse pal!” he said aloud to the oil painting.
Dicky almost expected him to answer but no reply came. Dicky had heard wives’ tales for years of the Castle being haunted ...but apart from his teachers at the school, he never saw any monsters. Passing along the Crawshay dynasty, he refrained from spitting in the face of the Ironmasters who had abused the Town and its poor people. He looked around him at Lady Charlotte Guest, translating the Mabinogion into English and realised he was in a place of priceless historical importance to the people of Merthyr. Even so, he didn’t care...he just lit up his little roll-up fag and blew out a smoke ring onto the face of Richard Trevithick.
“Narrow Gauge ...he puffed closing his mouth... Broad Gauge!” he said opening the aperture.
As he grew more confident in his explorations, his stomach started to roll so he decided he would have a sniff around the cafeteria area known as ‘Crawshay’s Truck Shop’ and see if there were any freebies on offer. As he entered the dark underground area , he was disappointed to see that everything was shuttered down and locked up for the night. There was however, a single vending unit sponsored by Diet Coke, containing various chocolate bars , crisps and full sugar cans of coke to encourage healthy eating in the Borough. Dicky didn’t have any coins anyway , but he certainly wasn’t prepared to spend £1.00 for a Mars Bar in any event. He bent down, opened the metal flap and tried lifting his remaining hand up to flick the goods off their metal shelves. The machine was designed to stop this sort of petty pilfering. Bored further he decided to use the toilet. Sitting in peace he relaxed as he sent two beautiful ‘corn dogs’ down the River Taff. Dicky’s peace was shattered, when he looked across and realised that the Council cutbacks included toilet paper too. No velvet...like the brand his Mam and Dad had ‘pampered’ him with at home.
“Shit!” he cursed aloud . He suddenly had a thought. “What about those velvet drapes in the portrait room?” Walking with his trousers around his ankles, he shuffled along like a penguin until he reached the room with the soft curtains. careful to use the inside of the green and brown velvet, he noticed that they were beginning to stick to the wall near the window reveal.
“Shit happens!” he said as he raised his trousers and adjusted his clothing.
And then it hit him. Looking through the doorway, directly at him was a small Egyptian Death Mask of King Tutankhamen, in a small glass display case. It wasn’t the pharaoh that caught his eye but the rod of Osiris next to him. It was perfect to knock off a mars bar from the machine. He made his way to the cabinet and was dejected initially to find it locked.
“Now where would a Merthyr curator hide the key?” he said aloud.
Spying a plant pot, alongside the entrance door he went and checked and bingo there it was.
“Safer Merthyr....that’s training for you!” he said as he flicked the key high in the air, being careful not to throw it high enough to lodge in his nose. As he opened the cabinet, he grabbed the rod of Osiris and made his way back to the cafeteria. He returned minutes later with armfuls of chocolate, three bags of crisps and a can of coke, smiling inanely as he carried the magic rod in his teeth. Putting down his ill-gotten gains, he returned the rod to its place in the cabinet. As he did so, he noticed a cutting about the curse of King Tut and the mysterious death of museum benefactor Lord Caernarvon.
“I‘m not Brendan Fraser ...he said “ the only mummy I’m afraid of is my own!”
He placed the death mask on his face for a second and a few bits of wrist jewellery as a costume and ‘Walked like an Egyptian’ with the ‘bangles’ on. He then foolishly picked up the book entitled ‘Necropolis’ and began to decipher the hierographics. As his dad was a former postman , he had no difficulty in reading the writing out loud. As he finished the last sentence, he heard a dog howl in the distance. Like his father, he too had an innate fear of dogs and that sound was not unlike the sound Lord Caernarvon had heard seconds before his dog dropped dead at the exact time, when Howard Carter opened that tomb, in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt.
“Anubis...the Jackal Headed God!” said Dicky....”Guardian of the underworld!” he said reading the papyrus parchment scroll aloud, which crumbled to dust as he spoke.
“Where are those drapes again?”
As he made his way to the window overlooking the rear of the castle, two likely lads were digging in the woods behind the castle, looking for the money that a local drug dealer had allegedly buried there.The Gurnos pair of Mac Head and his brother ‘H’ were digging away, trying to find the buried loot. Sudden movement in the window above was noticed by the pair. The movement was the bare arse of Dicky , reflecting the moonlight , as he used the velvet curtains for a purpose not originally intended. Mac picked up a stone and launched it expertly at the aperture. It sailed through the gap in the sash window and landed on the table containing a priceless vase from the Ming Dynasty. It teetered on the table edge tantalisingly for a second, as Dicky lunged like Edwin Van Der Saar full stretch to catch it, in doing so knocking over a Bronze age cup –the only one left in existence- found by Tony Robinson and the Time Team in Swansea Road- as proof that civilised man HAD once lived in Gellideg.
The vase fell all the same and shattered into a thousand pieces.“ I want my mummy!” said Dicky sucking his thumb for a split second , until he realised it wasn’t just the drapes that were humming. When Dicky opened his eyes he was hoping it was all just a ‘nightmare’. But he could see the two teenage drug dealers making their way home with their ill gotten gains on the back of a black horse. More disconcerting to Dicky was that he could see a small bulldog looking at him slobbering away, with ectoplasm dripping from his mouth.
“What the Hell are you....Anubis?” stuttered Dicky.
Beyond the dog in the entrance hall Dicky could hear strange guttural noises – oh...um...chukka...oh um chukka....
Dicky backed away from the dog eventually circling the wall and running towards the strange sound. Dicky stopped ‘dead’ in his tracks, as he witnessed a strange bearded man step down off the canvas of Rolf Harris. He was all in white, like an outline of a person and was almost transparent.
“What are you...?” stuttered Dicky... as the trickle down the back of his leg began to fill his white socks too.
“Can’t you tell what it is yet?” asked the spectre .
Dicky stood white as a sheet (bar for his socks) shaking his head in terror.“ Are you a Rolftergeist?” he eventually stammered.
“I won’t harm you....different to him...he said nodding at the dog....he could put you in ‘Animal Hospital’ if I was to say the word!”
“What word?” asked Dicky.“
Churchill.....he’s my spirit guide...helping the recently bereaved to find their way in the afterlife....a ‘loss adjuster’ if you like ....oh and by the way .... that vase ....it wasn’t me....for insurance purposes....he nodded at the dog....I don’t want to lose my no claims bone-us....it was them out there....those ‘Two little boys’ on their ‘wooded horses’. said the ghost.
“Do you think I should go after them?” asked Dicky pretending he was brave.
“So let me AsBO’s go...son.....!” sung Rolf...singing to the tune of Tie me Kangaroo down sport .
“That’s the trouble in Merthyr ...said Dicky....I haven’t made the place any safer...I had my car wheel trims pinched from this very castle forecourt...and the GTI sport ones cost a fortune....thank God my father gets money in the mail regularly...!” said Dicky growing more confident.
“I know what you mean cobber....lot of ‘poor little blighters’ in the town...they’ll steal anything in Merthyr from scrap metal signs to shitty drapes ( Dicky blushed red at this point)...I even had to tie my kangaroo down sport to stop it being taken from the Park!!! So what are you doing here so late at night Sport?” asked the phantom.
“Having a little ‘Walkabout’ like you really!” said Dicky. “How come you live in that painting?” he asked not so scared now- safe in the knowledge that the dead wouldn’t hurt him.
“Every artist leaves a little bit of their soul behind in their work...you as a fellow arsetist chose to leave your impression on a different material- the drapes...for example!” said Rolf.
“But one thing I don’t understand....I know your career is dead...but I didn’t know you had gone to ‘Dreamstate’!” said Dicky.
“Neither did I until about ten minutes ago!”.......I was stood before the Queen ...she had previously given me the CBE & MBE honours....before she saw my 80th birthday painting of her....she said I was to be made Sir Rolf....for my services to animals and art and anoraks sales ...but then the flunky, told her that David Cameron had rung first, then Nick Clegg second and they had told her that the Royal Family were not immune to the public sector cuts.....then she went all ‘Helen Mirren’ on me.... and the next minute I’m ‘condem’ned to talking like Anne Boleyn.... !” said Rolf putting his head underneath his arm.“ Now I’m looking for a Stairway to Heaven!”
“Stairway to Cefn...I can help you with ...but not that one...you best follow Churchill.....!” said Dicky.
No sooner had Rolf uttered the ‘immortal’ line then the sun came up behind the shitty drapes. “Sun Arise!” wailed Rolf as he headed for the light. As he did so, the front door was opened by the returning curator.
“Enjoy your work experience?” he asked hopefully.
“I quit mate....once a Queen always a Queen...but once a Knight’s enough ....like Rolf Harris head....I’m off!” said Dicky tucking in his chocolate bars.
The curator looked at him somewhat bemused and shut the door behind him.
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.
The sound of explosions all around him sent him deeper down the steep sides of the bunker as he began to suck his thumb for comfort. He suddenly realised that he was not alone, as a ginger haired soldier dressed in a German Africa Korps uniform complete with Nazi swastika and black armed band dropped into his hidey hole.
"First Crusade Old Boy?" questioned the stranger. "My family has been at it since the Middle Ages! You get used to those dumb-shit Americans. I ran too...they cant read a map reference to save their lives, or ours come to think of it......it's only friendly fire, it wont harm you!" said the soldier trying to reassure the nervous Harry."
"Tell that to journalist Terry Lloyd!" replied Harry from his foetal position.
"Whats your name soldier?" said the Erwin Rommel lookalike.
"Harry Sir!" said the scared squaddie staring at the pips on the black tunic.
"What a spiffing coincidence, so am I ....although most of the boys call me Captain Wales!" said the stranger.
"What regiment are you with?" asked the Sandhurst-trained officer, as shrapnel flew over their heads.
"I am not in any regiment. I'm from the TA's. I signed up in a drunken stupor in my local pub on Friday Night, the Tredegar Arms in Dowlais, do you know it ?.... and got press ganged into coming here by accident. They shaved my beautiful hair off while I was drunk and that bloody military policeman from Brecon mistook me for someone else from Merthyr who was AWOL and shipped me out here under protest!" said Harry.
"Oiks.. so you could say you went from the TAS to the TAS and from Jarhead to Jarhead!" said the Captain.
"Rough deal, its like being born WITHOUT a silver spoon in your mouth!" he continued.
Shells exploded all around them as a Yank induced Sirocco wind blew about the pair.
"If it helps I was like you the first time. This desert and these sand dunes, its enough to drive ONE Barchan mad, still do you know what is under this sand and the REAL reason why us Brits care about this Allah-forsaken Hell-Hole?" said Captain Wales.
"Like Iraq and Kuwait its got oil reserves and rich mineral deposits....war on terror my royal arse...I want to grab a piece of this for Granny!" said the military man.
"Take a tip from me too and collect as much of this shrapnel as you can find ....the price of metal back home, like this casing shell, has gone through the roof....... slip a couple of quid to the RAF pilots and it'll be home in Brize Norton before you know it!"
The shelling stopped for a brief moment and silence returned.
"Never worry about those Taliban weapons, we sold them too them years ago. They're rubbish! Even the Thatchers sell better quality ones than those old bangers!" continued the Captain.
"Me..I prefer Eton Rifles, like this one when you are in a Jam!" said Wales producing an enormous sniper rifle with a telescopic lens from his lederhosen shorts.
"Dear me,..now that is an enormous weapon!" said Harry unfurling himself from his hedgehog ball.
"This was what I was concealing in that photograph of me in Las Vegas playing strip billiards. Being a Royal isn't just about rest and play. Britannia still rules the waves with a little bit of help from across the pond against these terrorists. President OBomber, I mean..at least I can understand him because I thought the former President Dubya Bush with his Texas drawl had declared war on tourism and the causes of tourism to boot!" continued Captain Wales.
"But isn't one mans terrorist just another mans freedom fighter?" asked Harry nervously.
"Do you want me to shove this telescope sight up your arse and send your balls into orbit around Pakistan?" asked the Captain menacingly.
"Sorry, it's not that I am a traitor to the crown. I just think that young men dying and being disabled for a couple of sand dunes isnt right!" replied Harry.
Captain Wales ignored this last comment as his focus was on the horizon. Laying down the gun stand on the ridge of the sand bunker he closed one eye, held his breath and squeezed gently on the trigger. In the far distance about 1.5 miles away a black shadow dropped to the floor.
"YEEESSS!" said the new Prince of Persia clutching his hand into a fist in an aggressive way. Handing Harry a set of binoculars he pointed silently ahead.
"Why are those women walking in front of that group of men. I thought in the Muslim culture women were classed as second rate citizens and had to walk five paces behind men!" said Harry ignorantly.
"That was BEFORE landmines!" said the Royal. This McMillan TAC 101 sniper rifle can blow the nuts of a fly on a camels back at 1.5 miles away....in the dark too!" boasted the Captain.
Taking off his military hat the young Captain scratched his ginger hair and reached into his pocket. He began gnawing away nervously at his fingers.
"Well, I am surprised with blue blood running through your veins. I thought you would have better etiquette than to bite your fingernails!" said Harry returning to his cheeky self now the bombing had stopped.
"Oh these aren't MY Fingernails! said the Royal. Want one?" he said tossing a dismembered digit towards the horrified Harry. "SAS training in Hereford....eat what you can when you can. PPPPiss Poor Performance and all that....nose to the grindstone...fingers to the bone! My Mum was Queen of Hearts and all that but I prefer something lighter!" said the Captain. "The vultures will only strip them clean anyway. Lets look in here to see whats for desert!" said the Windsorite Bear Grylls looking in his tucker bag.
"Scorpion leg?" he offered politely.
"I cant eat the pickled eggs behind the bar in the Tredegar Arms so what chance have I got of surviving out here!" said Harry returning to reality.
"Hubbly Bubbly?" offered the other Harry, cannabis stick in hand. Some great shit out here mind you. You want to try the Kandahar Poppy! Blow your mind it will, better than any IED !" said the Royal. "As my relatives would confirm. Its a Knockout! We better get a move on Tiger Woods mate.....you don't want to be caught in the same bunker for long." he said brushing the sand with his hat.
"What are you doing that for?" asked Harry.
"Covering my tracks mate. Out here there is a fatwa on me crown. That Zabihullah Mujahid put a price on my head. He's the only one that still thinks my real father is Prince Charles. Little does he know.!" he said pointing at his normal size ears.
"Gotta hide the prints of Wales!" he said brushing the area free of signs he was there.
Do you think it was wise to have HRH cut into the soles of those shoes then? asked Harry the commoner.
"Those aren't MY prints...look at YOUR soles mate!" laughed Captain Wales. "We are all Spartacus out here private. Except me of course! Never heard of Montys Batman?" he laughed.
"What me?...take a bullet for you?" asked Harry. "Im Welsh!" said Harry. "You only have to see a Wales V England Rugby match match to see how much we hate the English!" he continued.
"Common mistake.....but I'm not English......nobody truly is. We are a mongrel nation. We Windsors are German and can trace our bloodline back to William the Conqueror... French. Grandpapa is Greek and Prince of Denmark too and that doesn't even include the Hewitt strain.!" said Harry's new found pedigree chum. "Besides I have been to the odd rugger game. Quite good at it actually. We had a game once back at Kabul HQ.... wrapped a head of an Afghan Hound in a cloth and no-one could get the rag-head orf me!" boasted Captain Wales. "I booted it so high over the base that I nearly got put on report for taking down an Apache helicopter!" he continued.
"So how long does your average squaddie tour of duty last?" asked Harry.
"About 1001 Arabian Nights or three months if your lucky. I'm popping back to Blighty for a game of polo or something, perhaps you might want to crash at my place but don't expect a palace!" said Wales.
The sky suddenly darkened mysteriously. The Captain went back in to survival mode instinctively. As Harry looked to the horizon, he could see strange shapes of Afghan men and mercenaries from the neighbouring countries approaching cross-legged on beautifully coloured flying rugs.
"How bazaar!" said Harry. "Watch out those crazy insurgents....they are CARPET Bombing again...we need to find some cover!" said his Highness.
As they did so an Afghan policeman appeared at the edge of the wadi wearing a massive clock-face. Captain Wales wasted no time in shooting him dead.
"How did you know he was one of them?" asked Harry.
"Never ask a policeman out here the time besides he was ticking!" said His Royal Harry-ness.
The Captain suddenly lifted his head as on the hot night air in the distance could be heard a faint bell ringing.
"Whats that ?" asked Harry.
"It if rings twice it means that a new camel train has arrived and you don't want to get stuck with an ugly one do you?" said the Captain.
"I thought you had a girlfriend!" asked Harry.
"Chelsy has been relegated to the subs bench out here besides the bell rang five times!" said the Prince.
"What does that signify?" asked Harry.
"The only toilet in Camp Bastion is free and whilst I am third in line for the throne of England you need to get there before 20,000.00 squaddies on a diet of curry and beans!"
“ What’s their pool team like then boyz?” questioned Fast Eddie Felson dressed in his white hat and black and white brogues as he sat in the back of the minibus.
“ Not bad- they have a few Welsh players but nothing we can’t handle on and off the table!” said Bobby Mogzy cricking his knuckles.
The boys in the team minibus, had set out from the Iron Horse Public house in Galon Uchaf Road ,Merthyr Tydfil at 6.00pm to arrive for 8.00pm.
They knew if they arrived late, they would be docked a frame every twenty minutes.
It was a best of nine pool match in the South Wales area ‘Rhymney Brewery’ sponsored cup knockout competition and the two teams had more scores to settle than just the outcome of this grudge match .
Both the Iron Horse Public House and the Eden Bush Inn in Cwmaman were both featured in the television mockumentary on Sky TV as being two of ‘Britain’s Hardest Pubs’.
There were however, no prizes for finishing second.
There was also a bit of a personal too as two of the boys had a had a ‘two’s up’ with the pub landlord’s wife around the back of the Kooler Nightclub two weeks ago.
As the six Merthyr boys got down out of the clapped out minibus last used for transporting flying pickets in the 1984 miners strike- they sensed that they were on forbidden territory.
Mogzy stopped pissing through the hole in the floor of the rust bucket as they hit Aberdare’s Sobell roundabout.
Snake Valley…. home to the River Cynon….and Valley rivals of Merthyr since the 1926 General Strike when the blacklegs (with no legs) slithered back to work on their bellies.
The contaminated ground upon which they stood seemed to ‘hiss’ defiantly at the Merthyr Iron Warriors- or was that just the pollutants from the nearby Abercwmboi phurnacite plant.
As they arrived at their destination there was an air of trepidation.
From the outside the Eden Bush Inn, Cwmaman looked like a dive.
From the inside it looked worse.
As ex- army man and veteran of the Falklands Island War pushed open the door of the Pub - the entire region became ‘ a silent valley’.
Only the sound of a single stereophonic album being played on a cassette tape could be heard in the distant still air of a Valley that once was full of noisy heavy industry but now no longer had any work.
Mogzy was joined by Jim Remploy from the Gurnos , Richard ‘Hannibal’ Stevens- a known face and ear biter from Galon Uchaf and three other likely lads, as they passed in single file through the narrow entrance to the Inn.
The Dowlais Boxer, Jezzie Jones carrying his metal cue case slammed it down on the bar sending some of the alcoholic crowd and more timid creatures scurrying for the shadows.
Kellog Scalper was next replete in waistcoat, metallic chalk-holder stuck to his belt and matching knuckledusters on both hands.
“ Six pints of Snake-Bite-Bow and Lager and do you do any food my good man?” asked Fast Eddie politely to the slob behind the bar dressed in a grey string vest that had at one point been white.
Three arrows thudded into the bar as he said so.
The barman threw a packet of pork scratching onto the bar and asked for £2.00.
Fast Eddie thought that was a bit steep but handed over a £2.00 coin anyway.
“ We don’t take ‘forged’ Merthyr money….there ain’t no thing as a two pound coin!” said Bob Slobb, landlord of the Eden Bush Inn tossing it back at Fast Eddie.
The bar went silent again as Fast Eddie weighed up his options carefully.
He knew if there to be a fight BEFORE they had won the pool match his team would be thrown out of the competition and the £5,000.00 prize money disappear in a flurry of fists.
“ Sorry, my missed snake…mistake !” …..he said putting four old style no longer legal tender 50p pieces on the counter.
Bob seeing real money instead of IOU’s and giros for a change grabbed greedily at the coins.
“ That’ll be £1.80 for the six pints too!” Bob demanded with menaces.
“ Great to be outside civilisation sometimes….at these prices!” said Remploy.
“ Now where’s the pool table at?” asked Jezzy.
Over by the toilets, the Iron Warriors Pool Team caught sight of a huge blue pool table with a Simonis – no nap cloth- new back in 1981- the last time the place had been cleaned.
There was no baulk line or D….only three rings where pint glasses had marked the cloth.
“ Whose your Captain?” roared Mogzy.
“ It is 7.30pm and the game must start on time!” demanded the ex- Welsh Guardsman drummed out of the army for cruelty to the Argentine prisoners.
He was seen planting the British Flag on Goose Green in the eye socket of one of the conscripted kids singing ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina!” as he did so.
He was hard….Merthyr hard.
“ Me….!” said a barrel-chested ex Tower Colliery Miner stepping out of the dark shadows of the pool table lit by a 15 watt bulb.
“ Bryn Pica is the name….you may have heard of me!” said the bruiser face filled with scars from fists that had cut him on many a Friday and Saturday night.
He slung a white card contemptuously at Mogzy with the names of the pool players written in blood red ink on the card.
Mogzsy had heard of Bryn Pica and was aware of the fact he was the leader of the notoriously violent gang the ‘Cwmaman Cobras’ but wasn’t going to admit the fact or be intimidated by it.
“ No…never heard of you…!” he spat back with more venom than his Snake Valley Rival.
Mogzy picked up the card and wrote down the names of his six players in the order he felt best with a miniature blue betting shop pen.
He would play Jim Remploy first, as he lived on the table.
He played six nights a week – hadn’t had a job since he left school at 14 and made his living hustling pool and gambling on horses or dogs to supplement his invalidity money.
He like most men in Merthyr had a ‘bard back’ ….it was nothing to do with Shakespeare….he could bend over the table alright with it…but when it came to doing an honest day’s work for a decent day’s pay he suddenly became like the Daily Mirror cartoon character - Andy Capped.
Jim had actually been found abandoned, having been born under the pool table of the ‘Matchstick Man’ Public House in the Gurnos and had been adopted by the Landlord as one of his own.
He did literally LIVE on the table….having been conceived there to….with the stain mark still visible on the baize cloth where his twin brother had just missed out.
When the landlord registered his birth of the pool prodigy , the first name that came to mind for his father was Riley….and little Jim had lived the life of Riley ever since.
After winning the toss of the coin, it didn’t take Jim long to break and ‘swish’ the balls from the break .
As he set himself up to pot the black into the top pocket – with his opponent not having had a shot- he could hear the crowd trying to put him off by farting, belching hissing and dropping loudly coins into the jukebox.
None of the above bothered Jim as they were all familiar pub sounds to the potting machine…so much so that he sited the black 8 ball before potting it with his eyes closed to the dismay of the other team that their underhand tactics had not worked.
His show of arrogance however, had lit an already tense atmosphere and the slow burning of the touch paper didn’t take long for the bar to ignite.
No sooner than a Billy Ray Cyrus song had started up than it kicked off as the bar turned Cuntry and Western .
“ Cocky bastard!” said skinhead Bavo Stock, as he struck Jim from behind over the head with the bottom of a pool cue from the rack.
Jim not expecting this treatment from the ‘referee’ , slumped unconsciously to the floor where he was booted unmercifully by the pub regulars.
Jezzie was the first to react, as he raced to the table and picked up the still spinning white ball and slung the heavy ivory object at the skinhead.
The ball slung with full force , hit the venomous reptile in the chest just as the Country & Western ballad picked up speed.
“ Don’t break my heart….my achey snakey heart…!” warbled Fast Eddie as his team mate Richard ‘Hannibal’ Stevens, as he leapt onto the closest person and sunk his teeth into the fleshy part of the ear of local head-banger Plisskin.
He hung on for dear life, teeth clamped like an aural version of a Calgary Rodeo rider as he rode the punches of his opponent who was in complete agony.
Plisskin would soon need to adopt a new nickname of ‘Eighteen Months’ as he was left with a ear and a half by the Merthyr biter.
The landlord joined in, shouting and whooping like a red Indian, as after six cans of red bull his adrenaline was so pumped, he leapt clean over the serving hatch and swung a long thin metal object towards Fast Eddie’s face.
“ Your ‘barred’ !” he said -expecting to see some teeth come flying through the air from the man that had knocked out his wife’s teeth a very different way previously .
But they don’t call him ‘Fast’ Eddie for nothing, as he dodged the iron bar heading his way and stuck the head into the landlord with all the crunch of an Ibex goat hitting a love rival .
Fast Eddie and co being from Merthyr were used to getting their ‘retaliation in first’.
Fists flew and cowboy boots were bloodied, as the five remaining Merthyr Iron Warriors fought against the usual Aberdare odds of three to one.
They were however forced due to sheer weight of numbers backwards through the front door they had originally entered.
It was like a scene from an Indiana Jones movie, as the snakes covered the floor of the public house….with Bavo Stock in a serious condition-- as the pool ball had smashed his ribcage and damaged his heart.
Alongside him , lay the equally mortally wounded Jim Remploy , his head and shoulders sticking out from under the pool table that now served as his blue coffin lid.
The Iron Warriors knew that they had to get the door of the pub shut -as their only advantage was to keep their attackers in as narrow a place as possible- to prevent being surrounded and overwhelmed by numbers.
Smacking heads with his metal cue case Jezzy- looked to anyone passing- like Luke Skywalker, as he wielded his ‘light sabre’ as the Warriors forced the door shut and jammed the pool case across the handles stopping it being opened from the inside.
“Kellog …..barked the leader- go and get the petrol can from the bus….lets teach these Snakes how he do things Merthyr-style!” said Mogzy…still pumped up with adrenaline from the fight…his black eyes rolling like a great White Shark about to strike.
“ The bastards have smashed the bus windows and knifed the tyres!” replied foot soldier Kellog.
“ Never mind that now...toss me that petrol can!” Mogzy ordered remembering his army days aged 17 creating Molotov Cocktails in Port Stanley.
Pouring some of the red diesel through the letterbox, he set about lighting the rag on the top of the canister as a fuse…leaving it in the doorway he glanced up at the double glazed window to see one of the rival Cwmaman Cobras taking his and the other Iron Warriors photographs on his camera-phone.
“ Let’s watch these heat loving reptiles really hiss!” he said as the flame started to engulf the door.
He nodded his head in triumph and made a throat slitting gesture at the young hooligan sat in the window.
He turned his back and walked away with his Gurnos-style pit bull terrier bollocks swinging from side to side.
The explosion thirty seconds later -sent bricks and wooden splinters flying - over 200 feet in all directions.
All five remaining Iron Warriors were deafened by the blast.
How was Mogzy to know the whole of Cwmaman was built on landfill tips full of methane- at least over in Merthyr they were put on the side of the mountains where the leachates , could harmlessly enter the water table and drinking supplies.
But one thing Mogzy did know, was that they were trapped ten miles inside enemy territory in Snake Valley - were there were most hostile reptiles than the cast of the 1970’s sci-film ‘V’.
He would have to get the Iron Warriors back to Merthyr on foot and evade patrols of rival street-fighters with such colourful names as the Mountain Ash Moccasins, Robertstown Rattlers , Aberdare Asps and the Hirwaun Slowworms.
Some of the Cynon Valley equivalent of the Bloods and the Crips were all talk…or in Galon Nouchie speak ‘all mouth and trousers’ but Mogzy knew that with only five men collectively against the numbers of the ‘Gangs of New Fork ’- it would be a real hard task.
After a brief silent minute riposte for their fallen comrade, Mogzy rallied F- troop … five men in the late forties and early fifties…men who had all been street fighters …hard as nails….men that always had his back on Soul Crew visits in the late 1970’s and 1980’s to place like Millwall, Chelsea and Manchester United.
His job was get these boys back to Merthyr alive to tell this tale.
“We need to get off the main roads as there will be people out there looking for us and baying for our blood!” said Mogzy.
He went into Falklands survival mode as he led his ‘platoon’ into the roadside bushes and ditches.
Richard ‘Hannibal’Stevens said what everyone else was thinking.
“ How will they know it was us?” he asked.
“ Well you still have a bit of that bloke’s earlobe stuck in your teeth for a start …but seeing five men with tattoos on their faces spelled CORRECTLY is a bit of a giveway….!” said the smartest one of the bunch Kellog- himself a tattoo parlour owner and hairdresser who had invented the ‘Number one down to the bone’ haircut.
Jezzie replied innocently but dimly to great amusement from the rest of the tribe.
“I didn’t know snakes had ears!” .
As they headed through the outskirts of Cwmaman, the Abercwmboyz stopped dead in their tracks.
Mogzy made hand signals to indicate silence and to drop down as two cars – a Dodge Viper and a Shelby Cobra- sped passed on the road full of men who appeared to be part of a gang of Teddy boys.
Fashion was so far behind in the Cynon Valley that it was now trendy again….and the gang known as the Abercwmboi Asps…were number one with a bullet.
The Rock-a Bully rebels complete with ducks arses , black bootlaces tied around their necks with way too short drainpipe trousers and luminous green or shocking pink socks and loafers looked menacing tooled up with bicycle chains and flick knives.
They were indeed looking for the Merthyr Iron Warriors, as the in-car radio confirmed - as the cars slowed down scanning the road-scape for signs of life.
Booming out on Viper Valleys Radio was the Martha Reeves and the Vandellas song – “ Nowhere to Run to – Nowhere to hide!”
It was ‘dead-icated’ to the Merthyr Iron Warriors as a message of intent from the Tower Colliery ‘Underground’ Movement.
The young man in the pub window had in his final moments on Google Earth, taken a photograph of the Merthyr Mob and uploaded it to Face-book.
The video of the pub burning was there too, seconds of panic before the explosion took hold and then the screen ominously went black.
Not surprisingly there was now a bounty on the heads of the Iron Warriors.
The cars seemed to stop instinctively as if the Asps had a sixth sense that the Merthyr Warriors were hiding in the undergrowth on their turf.
Their leader , Adder Jacobson - a huge man with black rings around his eyes from years of ingrained opencast coal dust- poked his tongue out on the night air as if trying to locate his prey with his sensory organ.
He pointed in the direction of the ditch the five were in fact hiding in.
Mogzy whispered to his friends to stay down, but that if they started to approach they should use their usual scatter technique – the way they evaded police- where they all run in different directions- every man for himself and they meet at the next available road underpass they found on the main route.
‘Black’ Adder had a ‘cunning plan’ to flush his foe into the open.
He got four miniature beer bottles and placed them on the fingers of his right hand and began to clink them rhythmically while uttering a terrifying ‘Iron Warriors come out to play…..Warriors….come out to plaaaaay!”
Never one to run from away from a fight- always towards one- the five Merthyr boys were sorely tempted to emerge from the ditch and give the car occupants albeit only outnumbered two to one a good hiding.
Mogzy biting his lip warned his fellow ‘Merthyr Rats’ to stay hidden until the very last moment.
They were unarmed , whilst the Asps had bicycle chains, baseball bats and flick-knives at their disposal.
The two vehicles reversed slowly back around the S bend snake valley road towards the hiding men.
“ Wait for it!” whispered Mogzy.
The five Iron Warriors all crouched like a gathered clan from the film ‘Braveheart’ awaiting the signal.
The codeword as always was ‘Malcolm Price’.
The second car – the Shelby Cobra- stopped six feet away from the European funded undergrowth concealing the Merthyr Mob.
As one, F-Troop emerged, slinging rocks, stones and empty bottles that had been tossed into the roadside verges by passing traffic.
The element of surprise was their only weapon, as they raced passed the shocked Asps and out onto the railway line on the opposite side of the road.
The Warriors scattered like Gurnos tenants on rent day , as they appeared and disappeared in a flash….becoming invisible again as they leapt fences and ditches in a desperate attempt to get away.
They all manage to do so , except for Jezzy, who unfortunately caught his shiny snooker waistcoat pocket on the barbed wire fence.
Before he could undo the final third button, the Asps were on him…all five of them beating him senseless with the bats …giving him a good kicking with their blue suede shoes.
By the time the ex- Cardiff prison veteran had received his third strike to the head, Jezzy was deader than the corduroy trousers worn by his murderers.
Mogzy sprinted on…he went back 30 years to his basic training in the army…in his mind, he was still clad in a backpack containing three house-bricks, running the
‘fan dance’ and three peaks challenge on the Brecon Beacons mountains.
The combination of extreme discipline and extreme violence that he had learned in his basic training had served him well, to survive in the mean streets of a town like Merthyr.
It has not just been the birthplace of Iron and Steel for Lord Nelson’s cannons at Trafalgar but also the forge for some of the hardest men in the World.
Their codeword of ‘Malcolm Price’ was used in reverence to Merthyr’s own beserker warrior who once riled wouldn’t stop until everything around him was horizontal.
Mogzy ran on…lungs straining from years of smoking 60 a day, his heart struggling after binge drinking to excess for over 40 years (since he was 8)….as he ran for his life across the train tracks and fields towards Robertstown .
The shouts of ‘Cwmbach you cowardly bastard ‘ were hissed at him as he legged it cross country.
Mogzy had a built in fight or flight mode and on this rare occasions he ignored his rage and took to his heels…discretion was the better part of valour and he had won enough combat medals in his lifetime.
The plan to scatter was working even if it had cost him his ‘lance corporal’.
The other three rendez-voused at the concrete underpass on the A4059 near the Tesco roundabout.
They were all out of breath but more importantly still alive.
“ Where are ?” gasped Stevens…finding it harder than the others, as the wind was whistling through his ear….not his own but the partially digested one that was still stuck in his gullet.
“ We are not far from Aberdare Town Centre…up the road to Robertstown…!” said Kellog checking his app on his mobile phone.
“ What gang runs this area?” asked Fast Eddie.
“ The Robertstown Rattlers….!” said Kellog.
“ Small but vicious….big fans of that 1970’s film ‘Quadrophenia!” he continued….beware of anyone dressed as a Mod for the next three miles!”.
Mogzy had ducked out of sight amongst the multitude of furniture warehouses in various stages of closing down….to him it was like being on a different planet….being in Snake Valley ….like Jupiter or something.
He knew it would be going dark in the next half hour and his chances of hiding and evading capture would improve significantly.
He had spotted a couple of likely lads hanging about messing around on a small motorised vehicle .
It had been made out of bits salvaged from the local scrap-yard and looked like a cross between a scooter and a quad bike.
Mogzy knew this could be his big chance, as with his poor chest that if the snakes didn’t get him then that big hill at Llwydcoed certainly would .
At least if he failed , it would be handy for a cheap cremation but Mogzy planned on outliving the rest of his old school mates and being the first one to reach 50- ten years more than the average life expectancy of a Gurnosite.
There were about half a dozen of them in total and were distracted and busy bullying a disabled kid and his friend who had been on their way to a kiddies party dressed as Harry Potter and Professor Dumbledore.
As he crept around the back of the warehouse, he could see layer after layer of polythene sheeting on the floor.
“ Shit….these Aberdare Snakes do really shed their skin!” he said to himself.
He knew he had to work out a way of stealing that vespa scooter without being detected.
He noticed that the youth in the parka jacket with the mod ‘target’ on his back every ten minutes did a lap in the scooter- cum- quad bike between the two factory buildings.
He decided to sneak over into Philip Street and pinch a clothes line from one of the gardens.
He tied one end to the building around four feet off the ground and let his end drop.
He hid behind the edge of warehouse and awaited the return of his quarry.
With five anxious minutes hoping not to be spotted from the road the mod rider started back.
As he built up speed to show off for his mates Mogzy lifted the rope and
clothes-lined his victim knocking him clean off the scooter by the throat in the same way our Army Operatives took out German dispatch riders in the Second World War.
Mogzy grabbed his helmet off the unconscious youth and legged it after the driverless scooter in the direction of Aberaman.
The rest of the Robertstown Rattlers could not believe the ‘balls’ of the Merthyr man…they all suddenly turned their attention away from their disabled sorcerer victims…towards the Merthyr Man.
The problem for Mogzy was that he had no other option than to drive back through the pack of snakes the way the bike had come.
Like Steve McQueen in the ‘Great Escape’…. he paused looked at the crowd of six or so nutcases who were baying for his blood pushed down the mask on his helmet three sizes too small for his huge ‘Rocky Dennis’ head, revved up the engine and sent the vehicle spinning towards the gang at its top speed of 5 mph.
He rode straight at the centre of the gang who all parted for fear of collision with the quad bike as ‘Quad-rophenia reigned’.
Mogzy would have probably made it too, if he hadn’t collided with the poor disabled kid who refused to get out of the way.
Mogzy hit him full force and the bike bounced around like a metal ball until he crashed head first into the solid breezeblock building that was
‘Reptile House Interiors Furniture Showroom’.
Poor Mogzy was decapitated by the flagpole and his head -still in the crash helmet -bounced around the yard spinning wildly and head-butting the gang.
In truth, the same thing would have happened had Mogzy been alive .
That wizard- , the deaf , dumb and blind kid sure played a mean pinball - with Mogzy’s head.
*******************************************************************
To Fast Eddie , Richard Stevens and Kellog it was just another day at the office.
They had been detected by a small but vicious gang of ‘Hirwaun Hissers’ and a fist fight had ensued near the Petrol Filling station near Gamlyn Terrace and had spilled over onto the nearby Hirwaun roundabout.
Richard ‘Hannibal’ Stevens had been slugged with a sneaky shot from one of the petrol hose pumps , as he passed through as ‘tail end charlie’ and both sides had retaliated by spraying petrol over each other – to the horror of the garage attendant who was too frightened to intervene.
Thankfully, the fumes overpowered Kellog’s diesel aftershave.
The fight raged on, as the trio fought a brave retreat against the odds.
Fast Eddie was busy administering a series of left jabs- Howard Winstone -style to an overweight accountant who thought he was a street fighter.
The adder adder had lost count of how many times Eddie had punched him but he still lumbered forward at the smaller Merthyr thug.
Richard ‘Hannibal’ Stevens severed more flesh than footballer Luis Suarez at a PFA awards ceremony- an all he could eat buffet- but the snakes still kept on coming silently through the grass.
Kellog- the karate man, was busy round-housing one big fella-clad in an imitation snakeskin leather jacket bought from Rheola Market- which three sizes too small for him.
Everytime he kicked him in the face -a button would pop and an extra roll of fat would appear.
Blood and earlobes flew everywhere, until the roundabout looked like a scene from the Somme or Bristol Zoo Reptile House, as unconscious bodies lay strewn on the mud and low weeds.
How the Merthyr boys outnumbered three- to one- continued to fight was a mystery to most but not to the boys themselves.
Before they had decided on Custers Last Stand on the Hirwaun roundabout they had all had a head full of white amphetamine powder.
This had the mental effect on them that they were immortal to both fist or traffic…just like most people in Merthyr on a standard Friday night feel.
Having laid out the opposition, the three Merthyr Men decided they should start to run back up the dual carriageway of the A465 (T) and leap any traffic they encountered.
The ‘Invincibles’ raced up the Heads of Valleys oblivious to danger like Greek Warriors on their way to ‘Elysium Fields’.
In triumph, they sniffed more and more quantities of amphetamines on the two mile uphill stretch towards Baverstocks ‘Watchtower’ Hotel and the County Line.
In the distance behind them, the Aberdare Plods had heard about the melee and wanted to catch the Merthyr thugs before they escaped their jurisdiction.
It was neck and neck, as the drug fuelled trio raced passed the Llwydcoed Crematorium entrance towards the roundabout near the crest of the hill.
The blue light flashed above on the state of the art Austin Allegro Panda Car that was the Cynon Valley ‘pursuit vehicle’.
The three coppers peddling as fast as they could up the steep hill.
Standing just inside the Merthyr boundary next to the County Borough sign , the three thugs taunted their pursuers.
But Snake Valley had its revenge on the boys…well on Richard ‘Hannibal’ Stevens anyway.
“ Stop …right there!” said Inspector Gadgett through his megaphone three feet away from the thugs.
“ We didn’t do it!” snarled Richard Stevens, someone else’s nostril part sticking out from the gap in his teeth.
“ We weren’t involved in that fight on the Hirwaun roundabout nor that fire at that pub in Cwmaman !” said Fast Eddie fessing to the fuzz by accident.
“ We caught you on camera boys!” said the three Bow Street Runners that had been in the car.
“ Bollox!” said Kellog.
“ Taking drugs on our turf…!” said the copper.
“ Amphetamine in tablet form is legal!” said Richard ‘Hannibal’ Stevens…
” I know because my granny sells her prescription ones on the estate !” he said swallowing more body parts than a Jordan video.
“ Ah but you took all your drugs in one go didn’t you…there are AVERAGE speed cameras now on the A465(T) ….!” laughed the inspector pointing up at the sign.
“ Your nicked!” he said.
“ You can’t touch us…we’re in Merthyr now!” said Richards ‘Hannibal’ Stevens accidentally spitting a lip out at the Inspector.
“ Less of your lip son….you’ve bitten off more than you can chew this time!” said Gadget as he gave the pre-arranged signal to his men.
“ Fire the tasers!”
The three Iron Warriors convulsed, as they were drawn back over the county line by a combination of the electric wires and involuntary body convulsions.
The three men covered in petrol suddenly caught fire from the spark.
“We are a reasonable force ….using reasonable force!” said the boys in blue.
“ Hard lesson boys…. but you can never beat the ‘man’ …one consolation at least you Iron Warriors went out in a blaze of glory!”
“ It’s my birthday !” said Gadgett waiting for the boys to drop to the ground and roll.
“ Do you want to blow out the candles or me?”
Her long hair flowed all down her back, as should stood next to a fruit machine in Victoria Street, Merthyr Tydfil.
Her doctor had advised her to change her diet and change her habits if she wanted to live past 40.
As the reels on the machine, whirred electronically and stopped with a red cherry icon, two bananas and an orange.
She had lost her money again, even if she had nearly had her medically recommended five fruits a day.
It was Wednesday and teenager Amber Punt was skint.
She had had her state ‘benefit’ and wasted it all on hopeless gambling.
Amber was born with an addictive personality, which meant she never knew when to quit- never learned that there was only one winner with a fruit machine or that odds and cards were always stacked in favour of the ‘House’.
She could never walk past a bookmakers without placing a bet, and therefore living in a first floor flat in the Town Centre in Merthyr above a fruiterers was not the best place to be situated.
In a recession there is only one growth industry and that is gambling and Merthyr Tydfil had been in recession for over 200 years now.
Amber loved them all, fruit machines, horses, greyhounds, bingo, scratch-cards and lotteries.
If ever there was a sucker born -it was Amber.
She had her money on Monday and had frittered it away by Wednesday , leaving her penniless and reliant upon handouts from food banks, wheelie bins and friends when she was starving.
By Thursday Morning, she would be competing with the local rodents over empty food containers fly tipped in the centre of Town.
She was often engaged in a life or death struggle with a rat over an empty pack of Cheerios.
She had zero prospects, no chance of improvement and had lived hand to mouth ever since her Mother kicked her out at 16 with her baby due any day.
Sadly, she had lost the baby but in a way it was a blessing in disguise, as what child would want to be born into an endless cycle of poverty, depression and addictions?
But despite her bleak future, Amber was never down- she was grateful to be alive and lived every moment to the full.
They say that the best things in life are free, but they omit luxury yachts, foreign holidays and jet skis from that list and poor young Amber would never experience any of those pleasures during her lifetime.
She passed the remainder of her week walking around the parks, tramping around the beautiful Countryside of Pontsticill, the Brecon Beacons and Pant, walking barefoot in the fields to save on shoe leather and drinking directly from the mountain streams.
To Amber, she lived in the Garden of Eden and as long as she didn’t stray into Cynon Valley or into Sun Valley, she felt free from the temptation of snakes and Fruit Machines.
Her favourite pastime was to sit on the brow of Heolgerrig Mountain and get a panoramic view of the Merthyr Valley in all is glory.
Gone were the black spoil tips, white slag heaps and brown polluted river and its tributaries.
Merthyr had paid a high price for the Industrial Revolution but was now being returned to its natural state before the Rape of the Fair Country, with wildlife and flora restocking the once barren landscape.
Gone were the mines and ironworks, but so too the cholera and diphtheria.
Nature too was ‘the House’ and despite the pestilence of Mankind, the Earth will always rebalance and restock long after mankind has been forgotten from the history books.
Amber sat making daisy chains for her to wear, as she gazed at how green was her valley.
Her stomach rumbled loudly, warning her she was running on empty.
She glanced across at the Mountainside and wondered, as it was September whether or not there were any blackberries out on the brambles.
The Heolgerrig Mountain was bare – picked clean by straying sheep and birds as it sat high above the treeline-with its bleak barren windswept landscape.
Amber decided to try the Cwm Glo woods lower down , as she heard old wives tales that a witches coven once met there and lived off the fruits of the forests.
As she made her way over the wooden stile, her barefeet sank into the soft grass, as she strolled towards the copse of ancient oak trees, silver birches and rowan that had inhabited the Welsh upland.
Amber could see that nature had provided a bounty for primitive man in the form of fungi.
Mushrooms and toadstools were everywhere- as, in Merthyr, was primitive man.
They were growing untouched out of the remains of ancient trees and were all colours and shapes.
Mother Nature had laid on a banquet for her.
She felt like Eve -except she was fully clothed and thankfully there were no Aberdare people around.
She marvelled at the cornucopia of natural produce all around her.
Amber was a little wary of eating the mushrooms but being a gambler and being starving ,she had no real choice.
The first on her menu was a yellow and orange upright mushroom- it looked safe enough.
She smelled it.
It was divine- like peaches.
Unknown to the little waif- it was a mushroom called Chanterelle and was perfectly edible.
It’s slightly acidic taste was very palatable.
Once she had tasted it – her addictive personality took over and she scoffed the lot.
Amber was the kind of person who could not open a packet of McVities’ chocolate digestives and eat just the one.
She would have to eat the lot in one sitting.
She looked around at several other species of fungi which were extremely large and were shaded white with a brown flat cap dome.
Unbeknown to Amber these were ‘Cep’ mushrooms or penny buns.
They were highly prized by the Welsh Italian community and used for pastas etc.
They called them ‘porcini’.
They had been transplanted from Bardi in Northern Italy and this particular variety was called ‘Chiappa’- as it tasted of coffee.
They were the ‘Emperors’ of the Forest- with a taste to die for- not die with.
Once again, Amber polished off the whole glade.
She then came across a whole ring of mushrooms in a ring.
They had little wizened faced and looked like Paul Daniels.
Amber didn’t know but these were ‘magic’ mushrooms or shrooms in Gurnos dialect.
She kneeled down, closed her left nostril and snorted around in a clockwise circle.
The thirty or so mushroom she had ingested via her nasal passages were sucked down into her throat and oesophagus and joined their mushroom cousins in Amber’s stomach.
Magic mushrooms are so called because they contain a primitive form of LSD or acid which has hallucinogenic qualities.
Very soon Amber felt nauseous and like she had trespassed into Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland- as the trees looked like they had faces and their long branches like long arms.
There was a red and white spotted fungi which loomed large and bizarrely spoke to her.
It was a toadstool called Fly Agaric and was highly poisonous.
It whispered to Amber to ‘eat me’.
Amber refrained as the remaining conscious part of her brain was still working.
She didn’t like its colours and didn’t fancy shitting out her spleen later.
There was something untrustworthy about it- like the look of a politician after they had been re-elected for another term of office.
In addition, there were some green capped mushrooms and some white capped mushrooms.
Little did Amber know that the green ones were the highly poisonous Death Cap mushrooms and the white ones- the False Death Caps which were nutritious and edible.
The warring Mushroom Mafia families of the Valleys, were very protective of the food sources and didn’t want any members from outside the ‘Five Families’ muscling in on their fungi racket.
So they had planted both varieties to kill off the local opposition.
Only they and the local Coroners Department knew the difference- and they were well taken care of.
If they weren’t Bardi then they soon would be.
The Mushrooms stared back at her ominously and then started to sing a rendition of Paul McCartney’s ‘Frog Chorus’.
Amber was spooked but she was incapable of movement – and just sat like a Red Indian witch doctor transcending to a different astral plain.
Her head was spinning, her sight blurry and her speech was slurred.
Just like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky 6 -the Vampire Rocky Horror Picture Show movie- ‘Out for the Count’.
Then she blacked out.
The next thing, she was conscious of was the wind flying through her hair, as she sat astride her Harley Davidson motorbike.
She felt like she was capable of flight- a real sense of flying- as she flew down the narrow Heolgerrig Road, cornered like The Stig off Top Gear at the ‘Gambon’ roundabout passed the Cyfarthfa Retail Park and headed the wrong way around the roundabout and down the wrong lane of a dual carriageway like a cataract suffering 90 year old pensioner.
Cars flew at her in the opposite direction, as she zigzagged the oncoming traffic like she was a Hollywood stuntwoman.
Finding a small gap in the dual carriageway central divider, she hopped over into the correct lane, sending cars careering into each other for fear of being sideswiped by her Hawkwind ‘silver machine’.
In a psychedelic haze caused by the effects of the psilocybin in the mushrooms, she stared back at the wavy distorted colours of the traffic lights as they changed from green to amber.
She knew from experience on Merthyr’s roads that the sign for Amber was interpreted as ‘go faster’.
So Amber the Gambler went faster.
Unfortunately, in her hallucinogenic state she had stolen a motorbike but a disabled shopping cart with a top speed of 10 miles per hour.
Amber might have been fine if the Nantygwenith Street, Georgetown crossroads had been empty.
Regrettably, there were three other people all trying to beat the lights too.
Dick Scratcher, Merthyr Taxi Driver with his Provisional Licence to kill was the first to collide with the cart.
Second, was uninsured Driver, Gurnos Heroin addict, Mac Head in his tinted windowed Vauxhall Corsa.
Finally, came Polish Student Lech Walesa Junior who having worked a night shift of 96 hours solid, forgot we drove on the left in this Country.
He slammed into the side of the cart that had been knocked sideways by the taxi.
His ‘Solidarity-mobile’ made out of a Volvo with internal metal cage adorned with ‘bull bars’ and thirteen spare tyres built for Cross-Border hashish smuggling was the wrong kind of vehicle for barefoot Amber to hit.
He ‘polish’ed her off.
She became concertinaed, resulting in a mash of legs and arms that was reminiscent of back stage in a Stringfellows nightclub.
Her shopping cart was now the same size as an oxo cube and there was not ‘mushroom’ in that for a human being.
Amber Gambler had lost her bet.
And the moral of the tale is don’t drive ANYTHING under the influence of Psilocybin- as it isn’t magic or fun guys.
The lights went down on a hushed audience at the Aberdare Coliseum and the adrenaline rush of the young fledgling comedian intensified.
He waited for the nod from the stage manager before he went out into the Cynon Valley Snake Pit.
He wasn’t being paid he was just volunteering…a YTS trainee comedian …as there were precious few jobs in the Valleys he thought he would give it a go…and his tour of the South Wales clubs was starting to take off.
After all if Rhod Gilbert could make it on television as a comedian why couldn’t he?
He strolled confidently onto the stage heading for the centre and the single microphone that he was to make his own for the next 30 minutes.
As the initial applause of the twenty people present had died down he adjusted the stand.
As he opened his mouth to start- he heard it.
“ Get Off….you’re rubbish!” came the shout from the audience.
“ Thanks for that vote of confidence!” said the kid with the stage name of Mike Knight.
He tried to start his act.
“ Ever been on an airplane….” he stammered.
“ No…!” shouted back the voice of the female heckler.
“ Well looking at you lady…you don’t need to go on a plane….as you have your broomstick to fly on!” he railed back at his abuser- even though he could not see her.
“ Cardiff Airport…you are waiting to go on a plane…!” he continued.
“ It’s shut….!” said the heckler.
“ I wish your MOUTH was!” spat back Mike.
“ You are standing at the security check-in…waiting to go through to duty free and they pick me to be searched ….why me?” he tried to plough on.
“ Because you look like the type who’d enjoy two fingers up his arse!” said the heckler right on cue.
The entire audience laughed at that one.
“ Listen ….these people have come to see me…not you!” said Mike.
“ Actually, that bloke over there in the raincoat has come for the topless darts…not to listen to your Christmas cracker specials….!” laughed the heckler.
“ So ….the security guard says to me …occupation….and I say I know I’m Jewish but I don’t intend…..!”
“ To pinch another Country…..heard it !” said the Heckler ruining the punch-line for everyone.
“ If you think you are so funny….stop hiding in those shadows ….if you have any guts….you’d get up on stage and do this job yourself!” said Mike.
“ You should be on a stage…there’s one leaving for that Cowboy Town in Merthyr soon…it’s where you belong!” said the heckler.
The comedian novice tried again.
“ Do you worry about flying ….do you get sick?” asked Mike.
“ Only when I watch an act as bad as this…you have less talent than the panel on X Factor!” said the Heckler.
The crowd enjoyed that one too.
“ I’m nervous flying anyway…so why do they reassure you by calling it the terminal?” asked Mike resuming his act.
“ Terminal….I’ve had funnier cancers than this!” said the Heckler.
Mike tried to peer through the blackness to see who his abuser was but the footlights were too strong.
“ Look lady …if YOU are a lady that is….take that mask off Halloween is over… they warned me this place was haunted…!” Mike tried to fight back.
“ As if you are an oil painting yourself….God clearly ruined a perfect bum when he put teeth into your face…! said the unseen witch.
“ Look you women are all the same…never happy with life always criticising others- …I don’t trust anything female…anything that bleeds once a month and doesn’t die!” said Mike.
“ You know all about dying now…you are dying tonight on your arse son!” said the heckler.
“ So the check in lady asks me if I want a special seat…so I say yes on the black box please…the flight recorder to you stupid…!” he said in the direction of his verbal attacker.
“ I want to sit at the back of the plane….!” Mike carried on regardless.
“ Because you don’t hear of many planes reversing into mountains!” shouted the Heckler ruining it again for everyone.
Mike stormed off the stage and complained to the Stage Manager who looked a little like a feline version of Nicholas Lyndhurst.
“ I’ve had enough of this….my first proper gig and I’m having to deal with a heckler who knows all the punch-lines…is funnier than me …either throw her out or shine a light on the woman so I can see who is abusing me!” moaned Mike.
Doing as he was told the lighting man swung a huge ‘Colditz- like’ searchlight beam on the audience until it stopped on a woman in the ‘fringe’.
Mike was surprised to see it was a strangely attractive brunette with a slim figure who was sitting side- saddle on the top of the seats.
Her only blemish was a vulgar tattoo of a flaming battenburg cake on her shoulder.
On further examination it appeared to a drag artist- a man dressed as a woman.
“ Where you from Luv…is it Llanbobl…. with that tattoo on your back…you look like a female equivalent of Robin McBride….you cheap hooker you…come up here and fight me man to man …you granny tranny….I’ll soon have you ‘knocking on Heaven’s Door’….threatened the youngster.
The woman swung her legs over the top in doing so catching her ‘najjers’ in the velvet seating last seen in a 1970’s picture-house.
The heckler had called Mike’s bluff.
As she made her way onto the stage Mike began to get worried but the woman’s five o’clock shadow looked familiar.
“ Why are you abusing me….I’m only on work experience!” protested the kid worried that this was the Swansea Cross dresser on ‘You Tube’ that battered people for fun.
“ You know why ….’Ask Rhod Gilbert’ because you’ve been stealing his act !” said the voice of the Welsh Tourist Board.
“ Every club I have been in ….has heard my jokes before…because you’ve been pinching them!” said the heckler.
“ I keep getting paid off like Tom Jones was!” protested the tranny.
“ But there is no such thing as an original joke….no copyright on gags!” protested Mike.
“ Well…here’s one punch-line you won’t forget !” said Rhod as he gave the fellow a ‘Carmarthen Clout’ and turned the stand up comedian into a lie –down one.
The youngster lay still with an expression on his face like ‘Lloyd Langford’….as blood oozed from the YTS man’s cut face and animated stars around his concussed head.
“ Next time, leave the ‘Open Mike’ nights to the professionals!” said Gilbert
“It is the year of our Lord 1644 and we are gathered at this Hamlet of Gyrnos, to witness a trial to determine the guilt or innocence of Margaret, the straw roofer’s daughter, who is accused of being in league with the Devil!” declared the Puritan dramatically.
The man was dressed all in black from his stovepipe hat down to his cape and trousers, with only a square white frilled ‘ruff’ , adorning the area around his collarbone.
He held a silver-tipped cane in one hand and use it somewhat belligerently to command respect from the assembled crowd.
“ This wretch is accused of maleficium, causing storms which sank Good King Charles ships, consorting with familiars, and putting spells on the good folk of the village!” continued the Puritan.
Poor Margaret was tied up on a wooden stool which was precariously balanced over the limestone outcrop of rocks over the River Taf Fechan in Pontsarn.
She also had a hangman’s noose around her neck to prevent escape.
She may have only been in her forties but with all the outdoor hard work that had exposed to the elements and years of labouring in the fields that surrounded the Gyrnos, she looked more like she was sixty.
Her face was cracked and lined and she had more warts on her face than Oliver Cromwell himself.
“ Behold ….said the man…she bears the marks of a wytch…!” said the Puritan in a strong Suffolk English accent, as pointed with his cane towards her lumpy face.
Most people spoke Welsh in these parts but even they recognised why the oldest woman in the village had been called to the ‘cleansing’ waters of the Pwll Glas to answer for her crimes against God, the Monarch and Mankind.
It was a time of superstition, a time of ignorance and a time for vengeance.
There was no television, no radio, or internet.
The only entertainment was provided by the local Hangman and Netflix by local fishermen.
Most of the inhabitants of the sleepy hamlet, lived in simple, white- daubed cottages with thatched roofs and were not literate.
They were God- fearing folk, tied to the Feudal system of their local Lord of the Manor, who lived off the land, defecated in buckets and ploughed the fields just like their fore-fathers had done.
How times have changed.
Margaret sat trembling- she already had a fear of heights and was being held against her will, balancing precariously on a wooden chair with her hands and feet bound by rope, some 40 feet above the raging white water and limestone rocks of the Blue Pool.
“ I am innocent of all charges!” pleaded the woman.
“ Be quiet wretch…ordered the Puritan…it is my time to speak not yours…for it is I Matthew Hopkins -Court appointed Witch Finder General- here on the orders of King Charles I himself to root out the evil that lurks amongst us!” continued the Pilgrim dramatically.
“ I thought you told me you were down here on HOLIDAY!” said Olwen the Cholera, standing on her own away from the gathered throng.
“ Be quiet woman…snapped the Holyman’s sidekick John Stearne not wishing to have his Master’s Pilgrim’s Progress interrupted.
Once again Hopkins addressed his accused.
“We have examined your body and found it to contain many marks of the Devil himself…warts,
bo-pox, even a Bunyan too called John!” said the Pilgrim.
“ It’s a lie....!” said Margaret protesting her innocence.
“ AND she has a THIRD nipple!” said a yokel from the crowd called Scaramanga the Titman.
“ I know …because she feeds her familiar with it at full moon on Cilsanws Common!” continued one of her Irish neighbours from the cobbled Street, Betty Lynch who simply hated the old hag.
“ This is just crazy….just listen to yourselves for a moment….who picks the herbs and mixes your potions when your children are ill?” pleaded Margaret quaking in her Boots.
“ Verily- She condemneth herself with her own words!” whispered Hopkins to his sidekick.
“ Give them enough rope and these stupid, illiterate creatures will eventually hang THEMSELVES!” said the Pilgrim.
“ She turned all the cow’s milk blue in the village with her witchcraft and grabbed away from my son the last remaining pail from his hands!” said another villager, Thomas Thomas, the Satellite Navigation inventor’s son.
“ Where’s the evidence for that?” asked Margaret, amazed at the spurious nature of the claims against her.
“ I saw her run across my Twynyrodyn field of barley naked, before she changed shape into a Mountain Hare….!” Said Pete the Pimper.
The whole mob was now in a state of hysteria, making up lies and half-truths, just to get rid of the woman who was disliked by the village and was suffering from a mild form of dementia.
Matthews Hopkins banged the ducking stool impatiently with his shoe like a future Nikita Khrushchev at the United Nations, until the ‘Lynch’ Mob finally quietened.
“ We have heard several testimonies from you good, God-Fearing people of the Gyrnos, which in my eyes condemn this Evil Hag to death….and I Matthews Hopkins -the Hammer of the Wyches will, once I receive my payment from the Hamlet, arrange for the ducking stool to be lowered into the water to determine her guilt….I am not Judge Rinder…I do not predetermine this case….but will allow God to do that for me…..if Margaret shall float, she is guilty of her heinous crimes….but if she drowns….then she is innocent….!” Said Hopkins.
“ What sort of choice is that?” protested Margaret.
“ Either I die by hanging or drowning!”
“ Yes….but if your soul is pure….you shall surely go the Heaven…..or as I believe ….as guilty as the original sin, then you shall be reunited with your Dark Master for all eternity!” replied Hopkins.
“ This is why I am a Puritan….I can cleanse this Parish of the curse of foul creatures like you and do good by setting up chocolate factories at Bourneville and cereal production at Quakers Yard with the money I receive from the Community!” he continued.
Realising she was damned if she did or damned if she didn’t, Margaret decided to fight fire with fire and spit back at her neighbours, reinfusing their superstitions beliefs, hoping to prick their conscience or at least make them scared of her vengeance and of course of venturing out at night.
Margaret twisted her head and contorted her face to look as ugly as possible.
Like Anne Widdicombe without make-up.
“ So you ALL think I am a wytch do you?.....Well let me tell you this…when I meet up with Lucifer later today in Hell…I shall make sure that he knows all of the names of you ‘Good’ Christian Folk who would hang an innocent woman….you Silas Mahoney the Weaver….you Watt the Tyler and you gluttonous bastard- Corden the Smithy!” said Margaret pointing a bony finger at the cringing menfolk .
“ If you shall murder me in cold blood based on false witness, spurious accusations and religious claptrap be warned this day that the Hamlet of Gyrnos and the wider village of Merthyr Tydfil shall
see a curse that will not be lifted for over 400 years- till it ends with the election of an Olde Labour Government….your menfolk shall NEVER find work…your children will be born ugly and deformed….and your minors will starve….. I will be reincarnated in many forms and will ensure this accursed place is only home to the illegitimate, the drunks and the Damned…..cholera, rickets, boils and diphtheria shall infest the land together with vermin and pestilence!” continued Margaret.
“ Not taking it well is she?” said Corden.
“ Silence WYTCH…!” shouted Hopkins above the furore of the confession.
“ Thou art condemned thyself by thy own wicked tongue!”
As he said so, his nodded to his assistant John Stearne, who pulled slowly on the rope which tightened around the poor woman’s scrawny neck.
Margaret began to choke, as her windpipe became constricted.
“ Plymouth (Pentrebach) Brethren, we are gathered here today in the eyes of God to rid the Earth of this evil creature who has tempted your children away to her ‘gingerbread’ cottage in the forest, forced the local farrier to perform cart- karaoke with the Smithy, cast incantations and spells on the menfolk so that Dewi the sheepherder was found unconscious but still attached to the back of one of his ewes….and spoken in tongues with the Devil himself!” said Hopkins voiced rising to intensify his statements as fact.
“ Hang the Wytch!” cried Stearne stoking up the crowd.
“ But first….the cost of investigating such crimes against God himself do not come cheap….come all ye Faithful fill this bucket with coins so that I may continue my work and purge these lands of evil!” continued Hopkins.
Stearne having satisfied himself that the woman could not escape went around the crowd for collection.
“ This Parish is poor!”….declared Stearne….after pocketing a few groats with a slight of hand before passing the bucket back to Hopkins.
From on high, in amongst the oak trees, the entire scene was being witnessed by a man not un’familiar’ to Margaret.
A Nobleman who normally put the liar into familiar.
He had in his possession and bow and from his quiver he took an arrow.
Stretching back his right arm, he took aim – for around these parts he was the ‘first among equals’.
His name?
Why Jeffrey the Archer of course.
Down below, the choking Margaret was turning bluer than a Conservative Party Conference.
Margaret the Thatcher’s daughter was lost for words- she could not move a muscle- the lady was not for turning even if she could.
Hopkins having counted the money sighed with disappointment.
Was that all the hanging of a wytch fetched in these parts?
Ten groats, three farthings and two buttons?.
Anyway, he had a job to finish.
He gave Stearne a stern look, as he realised that his sidekick had his ‘hand in the tiller’ once again.
He should give him a Suffolk punch one of these days for his acts of dishonesty.
He signalled for the ducking stool to be cut free and the woman dropped into the raging torrent below, only for her to be raised back up to be hung by the neck slowly, thereby prolonging the agony for her and the ecstasy for him- as the Deviant Puritan ‘got off’ by making an example of the poor woman.
His misogynistic ways meant that once he had hung one woman in a given village, what other women would be brave enough to refuse his sexual advances without being accused of witchcraft and risk the same fate?
Like Margaret -they were Damned if they did or Damned if they didn’t.
Justice 17th Century-style.
As Margaret’s feet touched the water, she gasped for oxygen, taking what might be her last breath.
Her lungs began to fill with water, as she became totally submerged in the flooded River, coughing and spluttering as high above her ‘good’ Amish-like Christian Folk became her ‘witnesses’ to the acceptable punishment of Man over Women.
History has shown that for evil to prevail it takes only a few good men to turn a blind eye to it.
Margaret could see her hard life flashing before her eyes- she didn’t deserve this fate.
What crime had she committed in her lifetime other than taking in those stray cats from the village.
After all they kept the vermin problem down in the fields.
True, she did have fourteen of them and one of them just so happen to be name Beelzebub but so what…..he was a horny little devil.
Margaret could feel her soul beginning to separate from her physical body, as she started to feel that she was beginning to rise above the crowd and then the two were reunited in one sudden instance.
Her out-of -body experience was halted by an expertly aimed arrow that had cut the rope around her neck.
Like a scene from Clint Eastwood’s the Good, the Bad and the Ugly, the Good but extremely ugly Margaret threw herself of the stool into the mercy of the raging waters.
Yes, her hands and feet were bound but at least she would have a fighting chance than the slow asphyxiation that was on offer from the Church-appointed executioner.
The crowd and Hopkins himself were in a state of panic…how could God allow a self-proclaimed Wytch to escape the clutches of the Pilgrim….was it Black Magic at work?
Margaret bobbed up and down for a few minutes thanks to the trapped oxygen in her oversized dress moving round the eddy of the whirlpool before being ejected with force like a fallen tree branch downstream with the fast moving current.
Whether it was judgement by God or Man’s doing but 30 minutes later the dead body of Margaret the Thatcher’s Daughter was pulled out of the weir near Taff’s Well to the peel of bells from the local Church.
The sound seemed to say ‘Ding Dong- the Wicked Wytch is dead’.
Fast forward 320 years to 1984 and the Miner’s Strike.
Fast forward another 32 to 2016 when Teresa May became the unelected Prime Minister of Great Britain.
Only another 44 years and the Merthyr H-experiment 400 year old curse will lift.
Phil 'Boz' Evans
Dipping Your Wick by Phil 'Boz' Evans
The student rugby player looked around nervously.
He was regretting his bet with his mates already.
Manfred Quinn had never told anyone but he was frightened of the dark.
It was one of the more common phobias that humans suffered from and dated back to the dawn of mankind and the dulling of man’s principal defence of the sense of sight making them more susceptible to attack from a predator.
Standing on a plinth in Madame Tussaud’s wax museum in Baker Street, London, he felt like a fish out of water, but knew that his beloved facial hair would suffer if he did not complete his ‘Mission Impossible’.
He was regretting his boast that he could get a photograph of him kissing Pop Star Taylor Swift without being taking to Court for stalking or accused of being a groper.
The budding Disc Jockey was 48 hours ago sat in his shared student house in Merthyr Tydfil, with a can of Stella Artois in his hand, when a picture of his Pop Idol had appeared on the news.
From his Walter Mitty World existence, he had boasted that he could kiss the American Beauty and get a selfie photograph to prove it.
Unfortunately, two of his fellow students had called ‘Eyebrows’ on him.
Manfred knew that he had walked into a huge elephant trap and was now subject to a student game he himself had invented.
If a fellow student or rugby teammate called ‘Eyebrows’, then the person making the boast had a week to fulfil the promised act or they lost one or both of their eyebrows as a forfeit.
Manfred had taken great delight in the past getting his razor out, when his housemate ‘Haribo’ had failed to live up to his promise of not urinating until completing the ‘Golf Tour’ of Dowlais.
18 pints in 18 separate pubs without visiting the little boys room, was pretty much an impossible task, even for someone with the build of King Kong. Poor old Haribo to his credit had managed 12 pubs before being admitted to the Queen Camilla Hospital with a damaged liver and kidneys and one totally ruined pair of blue suede shoes later, after keeling over in the Morlais Tavern.
Manfred and his mates had taken pity on him by letting him come around from the operation anaesthetic before taking his right eyebrow off.
His other mate Sloth, named after the good-looking guy from the children’s film ‘The Goonies’ had been much more fortunate in that he had ‘forfeited’ his pre-pubescent ‘bum-fluff’ moustache for not completing his naked stand-up car- surf on the Domino’s Pizza delivery car, understandably bailing out just before he hit the overhead bridge, near the Ffynon-Dwn Spring in Pontsticill, and lost not just his eyebrows but his head too.
Otherwise he would have ‘topped’ it.
Despite his protestations to the Rugby Committee that his moustache was NOT an eyebrow- it was concluded that it was ‘an eyebrow that had come down for a drink’ and therefore was fair game.
Manfred knew that if he had not completed his boast of a swiftie with Swifty to the letter, then he was not likely to get any mercy from his team-mates.
His problem was that the Jet-setting singer was based in the USA and not likely to randomly appear in Merthyr Tydfil, nor London without warning.
His plea on her Twitter page had failed spectacularly and he was now being trolled by each member of the Kardashians for his ‘favouriting’ every tweet she sent out.
But like the Tony Robinson character Baldrick, he had come up with a cunning plan to preserve his follicles.
He had caught the £1.00 Megabus to the Smoke, in the hope that Madame Tussaud’s was likely to be open for the shot of her waxen doppelganger.
He knew his mates would rumble any ‘photoshop’ image he produced, so he had to catch the waxwork at the right time and not surrounded by 15 Japanese tourists with Nikons flashing.
He had just made it inside the door with 20 minutes to spare before closing time.
He knew he had to find the right figure to hide behind – that was outside any alarmed section and was tall enough to conceal him from the security staff.
He knew Lester Piggott and Frankie Dettori were non- starters – as was Ronnie Corbett and Peter Dinklage from Game of Thrones.
‘Think man!’ he muttered, until he caught sight of the frightening figure of Dracula played by Christopher Lee which unnerved him in the dim, subdued lighting of the museum.
His fear of the dark was once again coming to the fore.
He couldn’t help but think of the ghoulish way that the original Madame Tussaud had come up with the idea of a waxworks in the first place by preparing ‘death masks’ of the high and mighty that had been served up to ‘Madam Guillotine’ in the 1789 French Revolution.
The phrase ‘Liberty, Equality and Fraternity’ should have included ‘Eternity’ too – as her methods had helped preserve many celebrities well beyond their original shelf- life and provoked two questions he wanted to find out the answers to:-
What did they do with the models after they lost their appeal?
And did they have enough wax left available to capture ALL of Bruce Forsythe’s chin?
He had read somewhere that the models were actual life-size, with the celebrities having to pose for hours so that the sculpting staff at the human equivalent of Yankee candle could get the depictions accurate.
Mannie stood as still as possible, as he waited for the last of the day staff to leave and the night security shift to take over.
He knew instinctively that most security guards were elderly with poor eyesight and wouldn’t exactly check behind any exhibitions for ‘stowaways’.
His mind went back to the process of the destruction of the dummies- he assumed that they would end up like the Terminator in the film of the same name being melted down into a vat of molten liquid once they had passed their sell-buy date.
Whereas Bruce Forsythe would be one figure that would never been retired.
He looked around him and in the half-light could make out shapes and figures from all walks of celebrity life, sportsmen, politicians, television presenters and of course film stars.
It was in effect an upright version of the famous Los Angeles Walk of Fame outside the Chinese Grauman Theatre.
It was in essence the perfect place to snatch a Celebrity selfie.
Now Mannie knew he had plenty of time -as the museum didn’t open until 9am the following morning so he had around 8 hours to play with before he could leave his self-imposed prison for the night.
He knew he had to be careful if he opened or closed any doors, as there was likely to be an alarm on the top- silent or otherwise -and he didn’t want to be thrown out until he had the photograph he had come for.
His plan was that if he was caught he would to pretend that he had fallen asleep in the subdued lighting and had been sleep-walking.
Many a student had used that lame excuse to confuse a Dean or two of a University- who being fellow intellectuals, accepted without question the role of the unconscious mind and got off being expelled from campus.
As he passed through the sporting section, he was astounded to see the size of the fastest man ever on Planet Earth and tried to measure the stride he took.
Usain Bolt or Lightening to his friends was massive in all areas.
He was very surprised that he had chosen to be a sprinter rather than a Pole Vaulter.
If anyone could see him – he thought- he looked like John Cleese doing a Basil Fawlty impression on one of his Ministry of Silly Walks.
No wonder no-one could catch him- just his hamstrings alone were bigger than Mannie’s biceps.
In complete contrast next to him, stood the tiny figure of Mo Farrah- hardly a bag of Quorn in comparison to the full meat package.
Further along, in a riding position, was the tiny figure of the jockey Lester Piggott, who was famous being deaf and for filling his saddle bags with cash and riding off into the sunset away from the tax man.
Across from the winner’s enclosure, Mannie could make out another famous figure who wasn’t fond of the Inland Revenue.
That was the buck-toothed figure of Liverpool comedian Ken Dodd, who was flanked by two of his Diddy-men shrunken helpers from the tax haven of Knotty Ash.
Diddy Pay and Diddy F***.
It always amazed Mannie how Student Finance would send him a stinking letter when he owed 50p but the likes of famous faces got away with owing the Tax Man hundreds of thousand by ‘declaring’ temporary amnesia about Swiss Bank Accounts or the fact that their mattresses were filled with cash.
He suspected that in Doddy’s case it too wasn’t the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth.
As he strolled through the shadowy wax figures, he suddenly let out a chuckle in that Twitter troll Katie Hopkins had been placed next to both Adolph Hitler & Genghis Khan.
He wondered if they would have objected had they been alive.
Next came the politicians and World Leaders and of course the area contained likenesses of USA President Donald Trump and Former London Zoo inmate Boris De Pfeffel Johnson both with matching natural hair and tiny hands.
This set Mannie to thinking.
If these were scale models then Trump would have to use BOTH of his hands to push the red button on the nuclear switch to obliterate North Korea.
He groped his arse as he passed – to see how he liked it.
How in their right mind had people in a democratic society voted these two buffoons in?- unless of course it was the revenge of the Boaty McBoatface crew.
He moved on and could see the legendary figures of Elvis Presley & Michael Jackson in the distance and realised his search for the Pop Pixee wasn’t too far from its finish.
Presley had been dead for over forty years but was still as popular now as he ever was.
Would the same status be afforded to the likes of last year’s winner of the X- Factor or Britain’s Got Talent he wondered?
He assumed that the waxen figures of the likes of Gareth Gates and Alexandra Burke wouldn’t have the same shelf-life as their Andy Warhol fifteen minutes of fame had run its course.
No-one even wanted them to open supermarkets or turn on Christmas lights anymore.
Mannie wondered how celebrities REALLY felt when their waxen ‘golem’ was removed from display and headed for oblivion.
He wondered what the back catalogue was like in the stores and did they ever sell off the exhibits to places like Las Vegas or Los Angeles.
Given the excessive vanity of the Hollywood jet set and their constant fear of aging and looking over their shoulder for the time their star dimmed or the next big thing destined to grab the six-figure roles their Agent demanded- must have made them both shallow and insecure.
The other thing that puzzled Mannie about the cult of celebrity, was why stunning singers and actresses felt the need to enhance their appearance with plastic surgery.
Why would ‘beautiful’ singers like Christina Aguilera have botox or add trout-pout or baboons arse monkey lips to their faces?
Who on Earth would believe this modern- day fiction and enact a version of the Hans Christian Anderson tale of the ‘Emperors New Clothes’.
As he passed the waxen shapes of Britney Spears and Shania Twain, he suddenly had a sense of his own mortality.
Time waits for no man except of course Sir Elton John who was proudly declaring ‘I’m still standing’.
And then he spotted her.
The object of his quest.
The American Country and Western singer Taylor Swift.
The finished article was ever better than he could have imagined.
At the height of her beauty, cast in wax at the prime of her life with no acne or blemish -standing there like the Goddess Venus herself.
A spotlight shone brightly on her craven image and Mannie marvelled that some staff member at Madame Tussaud’s had created a masterpiece.
It could not be more lifelike if it tried.
He was in awe – half expecting the figure to move or speak or even sing into the microphone that she held so delicately in her delicate Trump-like hands.
Her lipstick in a shade known as ‘Regent Street Red’ was in perfect contrast to her pink face- he had never seen such a visage up this close – not that is since he was banned from his local Tesco 24 hour store for stalking the girl on the delicatessen counter.
He reached into his pocket for his camera-phone but the artist he had put on a pedestal was literally on a pedestal.
He looked around for a chair to stand on but there was nothing around.
Taylor Swift was a tall elegant lady anyway, but as she was posed high up on a plinth- there was no way Mannie could get up to the correct angle to plant a kiss on the lips of the model model.
He tried jumping up in the air and taking the shot but every picture looked blurred and he didn’t want any doubt if he was to retain his eyebrows – as his mates were less forgiving than a Sicilian Mafia Don.
No matter how swift he jumped he couldn’t get a Selfie with the Pop Princess.
He tried to lift the figure off the dais, but like the Jamaican Olympic Sprinter she was bolted down.
Being a resourceful student, he decided that he would find an object to lift himself up upon.
He looked around the display area to see if any of the figures were not as secured as tightly as Taylor Swift.
He returned with the figures of Peter Dinklage (Tyrrion Lannister in Game of Thrones) and Ronnie Corbett tucked under his arms.
He positioned the pair in such a way he could stand on their hands and take the money shot.
Whilst these waxworks were hardy- they weren’t as strong and stable as a Theresa May-led Government but they allowed him to climb up into range.
Like he was playing the most bizarre game of ‘Twister’ ever, the student had one leg on Ronnie Corbett’s horn rimmed glasses and the other on a dwarfen beard, as he inched his way up the miniature celebrities, until he could lean on the object of his photograph.
As he puckered up his lips, and holding onto the tiny skirt of the songstress, he made the fatal mistake of reaching into his pocket for the camera-phone.
The slender wax ankles of the mannequin gave way and both he and the fake Taylor Swift collapsed onto the floor, with Mannie clinging on like a koala in a eucalyptus tree marked for felling.
There was a loud crash as the pair hit the floor.
Mannie Quinn lay stiller than the mannequin he had mounted, hoping beyond hope that the security staff had not heard the sudden impact.
As he lay with the mannequin on top of him, he suddenly noticed that the sequined top Taylor was wearing now needed a different tailor and her tiny mini skirt that not even Eddie Izzard could fit into had become detached.
He was in a quandary, he had a beautiful naked woman on top- albeit in wax- and he was a red blooded young male whose brain had migrated South in his predicament.
The model was not only in scale but appeared to be anatomically correct in all departments.
The question that raced through his mind was did he?.... or didn’t he?
******************************
Security Guard Reginald Richardson-Kray was dozing in the control room on night shift when the sound woke him.
Being 83 years of age but without an occupational pension he knew he had to work till he dropped.
Whilst being in a locked warm office had its creature comforts at his time of life, it usually meant that like his local MP, he was paid to sleep on a bench.
Most sounds didn’t normally wake him, as he was used to the gurgling of the central heating and the expansion of the pipes at Madame Tussauds – principally because he had been doing this job for over a decade he felt like he was part of the furniture.
In fact, on several occasions when he was standing waiting for the last visitor to leave, he had scared people to death when he had spoken to them or moved suddenly in the dimly lit museum.
He flicked the cameras over to scan the place to see where the noise had come from.
With his degenerating eye condition and cataract, he could not easily detect the source.
Suddenly, he spotted the likely culprit in the Pop Section.
He could see that he was in a struggle with one of the exhibits.
He had heard of people spitting in the face of Hitler and Margaret Thatcher but not usually wrestling them.
He decided he better call for back up.
He silently called for two of his family members who were distantly related to two of the East End Gangs that had terrorised London in the 1960’s.
They didn’t believe in calling the Police- they had their own way of sorting things out the old-fashioned way.
As Reginald shuffled his arthritic feet towards the door, with his trusty metal torch for protection, he moved slower than a tortoise with a limp as Old Pop, as he was known, headed towards the Pop Section.
Due to his heart complaint, it took him all of three minutes for him to arrive at the scene of the crime and was horrified at his vision.
“ Halt… who comes there?” he asked as terrified as the semi-naked student.
Mannie stopped who he was doing and stood there like a rabbit in headlights or more precisely like a rabbit in torchlight.
“What are doing you little pervert?” demanded Reg with an authoritative voice.
Blinded by the beam of light, Mannie did not realise that he had been rumbled by a figure with acute angina, whilst being on top of a figure with a cute vagina.
Mannie paused but knew he had to take a camera shot of him kissing Taylor on the lips for his friends but then again had a dilemma…..which ones?
“ You dirty bastard….have you no shame?” screamed the guard at the affront of the student.
What followed could only be described as a Benny Hill chase, as an old man with a heart condition tried to outwit a perverted student, who shuffled along like a penguin with his trousers and pants around his ankles.
In the course of his activity Mannie had acquired had a waxen condom around his manhood, which gave the impression that he was carrying a candle in the same shade of colour as a baboon’s arse.
Reggie had been a big fan of boxing in his youth and was closing in on the intruder, like he was an octogenarian boxing kangaroo.
Mannie was as terrified as the pensioner and having been caught literally with his trousers down, he didn’t want a blow off that metal torch which Reggie was switching from hand to hand like he was a ninja warrior.
Unbeknown to Mannie, Reggie was trying to back him up to the back door, to which his nephews had an emergency key, which was the one condition they had agreed to before let their elderly Uncle take the night shift job.
Despite being a rugby player, Mannie found it hard to sidestep with his trousers and pants at below half-mast.
He had only one weapon to fend off the security guard and that was his waxen light sabre which was glowing luminescent red in the half- light.
Reggie knew it was only a matter of time before his nephews both called Ronnie got here, as they worked as bouncers or to use the new politically correct term of ‘registered doorkeepers’ in the establishment two doors down on Baker Street.
Dropping their saxophone the pair had answered their Uncle’s call.
With his back to the door, Mannie did not see the Two Ronnies arrive and didn’t realise that they were in the building until the left leg of Nick Clegg hit him from behind.
After the blow, like a Tom & Jerry cartoon, Mannie could see lots of stars swirling around his head in the celebrity museum and they weren’t coming from the Planetarium next door either.
******************************
The next thing that the student remembered, was waking up with a pounding headache and as he opened his eyes he could see that he was suspended, face tied down to a metal cage with a gag in his mouth that tasted suspiciously of Werther’s Originals, which he realised was the handkerchief of the elderly security guard.
He could have done with it to mop his own sweaty brow, as he was stretched out over a hot vat of molten wax.
With the steam rising on his naked genitals he suddenly remembered where he was.
“ How nice of you to join us!” said one of the Bouncers.
“ I am Ronald Kray- Richardson and this is my first cousin Ronald Richardson-Kray!” he continued.
Mannie had difficulty hearing what was said due to the bubbling of the hot wax and of course the broad East End Cockney accent from one of his would-be torturers.
Mannie was helpless, his hands tied behind his back and his feet were bound too.
His trousers and pants were still around his ankles and his old boy still covered in candle wax from the Taylor Swift model hung limply as it protruded through the bottom of the cage.
“No- don’t get up!” said Ron Two.
“ Now than Harvey Waxstein, if there is one thing our East End families don’t like its Welsh Cants taking a liberty on our Manor!” said Ronald One with a calm menace that really scared Mannie.
“We ain’t racist ….our families like the Welsh- in fact good old Grandpa Ronnie gave money to help in the Aberfan Disaster Fund- it’s was legit too-check the records of the Council- but we have a code of conduct in our Underworld – we can’t have cants molesting women real or wax on our turf, as it makes us look weak!” said Ron One.
Mannie couldn’t reply but just kept staring at the grinning dismembered dummy heads of Rolf Harris, Jimmy Saville and Orville the Duck on display on the stockroom shelves.
If he could have removed the gag he would have asked what his captors intended to do about the situation.
He would have preferred them to call the Metropolitan Police but that was not their way.
“ I suppose you’re wondering what is supposed to happen next?” said Ronnie Two, hand on a lever on the wall close to the Vat.
Mannie felt like he was in some bizarre take on a bad James Bond Movie with the heads of several past 007’s lined up on the racking near the vat, unfortunately, he didn’t have any gadgets that Q had devised to help get him out of the predicament.
No laser pens he could operate with his mouth or miniature saw that could be operated from within his watch mechanism.
He tried to move his legs but they were still tied and he heard the ominous sound of something sliding and then a ‘gloop’ sound.
He knew instinctively it was his mobile phone, which was now taking one of his eyebrows with it.
His purpose for being here in the first place was now defunct.
“Well we are about to dip your wick!” said Ronnie One.
Mannie stared at the severed heads of George Lazenby, Timothy Dalton & the very Pierced Brosnan in the hope they could somehow or other help.
He needn’t have worried about his eyebrow being shaved off, as they had now fallen off with the fear as he was lowered to three inches from the surface of the vat.
He looked up at the pair of gangsters who were trying to be like a poor version of Hale & Pace.
“ Well at least he won’t be able to Roger Moore!” laughed Ronnie Two.
Mannie would have laughed too but he wasn’t into ‘Bondage’.
If it hadn’t been for the intervention of Old Pop then Mannie would have been having his front, back and sides waxed at the same time.
He ordered the evil pair to stop as he didn’t want to go back to the old gangster ways – they were in legitimate business now- besides with his heart the way it was- he didn’t want to risk having a
‘Sean Coronary’.
With an evil laugh the pair raised up the cage and saved the student from a fate worse than death.
They let him off with a stern warning.
Suffice to say that the alopecia-faced Mannie didn’t do it again.
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PART III
Scene 17
Rome sweet Rome.
Try as he might Des Res couldn't keep up with the Porsche and gets lost in the Italian Countryside in doing so.
Titch: ' How can you get lost when all roads lead to Rome?'
Perrier: 'Why don’t you ask for directions in that Spartacus Pizza Hut?'
They eventually arrive in the Roman capital with Mario announcing in Welsh and Italian to his Mother his arrival in her homeland.
Mario: ' Mama Mia...Mam I' m here!'
The streets are lined with beautiful dark haired girls with skimpy bra-less tee- shirts!
Titch: 'See Naples and die!'
Perrier: ' But I thought we were going to Rome!' he says dimly as they drive in congested traffic passed the Colosseum.
Pat: ' I don't know what you see in them girls....not one of them is ginger!'
The city is alive with Welsh Rugby fans - all clad in red and white and anti Anne Robinson tee- shirts.
Pat: ' Now that's more like it!'
The car passes designer shops, Gucci, Prada and Des Res ( Rome) Limited- a carbon copy of his shopfront back home as an Estate Agency - Des Res looks baffled as they have stolen his logo and name.
Pat: 'I bet it is expensive in there!'
Titch: 'La Coste of Living is greater out here!'
Des Res: 'Next stop... Vatican City...I have some business with the Pontiff!'
Scene 18
Is the Pope a Catholic?
The mini pulls up illegally in St Peters's Square . The boys get an ugly look from a Swiss Guard wearing a Traffic Wardens hat as they scatter the pigeons.
Des Res: ' I've got a confession to make Boys....I planned this trip to cover my own acquisition of an Old Masterpiece!'
Des Res: ' I have done a deal with the Pope to buy a priceless rare collaboration work by Renaissance Men , Michelangelo, Raphel, Leonardo and Donatello!'
To get passed the guards, he shows them his gold medallion previously hidden beneath is 1970s Bee Gee chest hair....it is of St Peter the patron Saint of Estate Agents. He is shown into a room to be granted an audience with Pope John Paul II. Des bows to the Pope and hands him a business card.
Des Res: ' We have a mutual friend- a papal knight in Merthyr- you have a palace- he has a castle!'
Pope John Paul II: ' So you have come for the Nazi War treasures Kurt Waldheim gave me ...have you?'....Do you have the Reddy Money?'
As Des opens up his wallet full of Euros - His Crookedness the Pontiff unscrews the top of his Papal Staff and pulls out a curled up masterpiece.
Pope: 'Do you want to see it?'
Des Res: ' We have a saying in the estate agency business ...in God we trust...everyone else pays cash...or goes to sealed bids...and you're the closest thing to God I will ever meet!' laughed Des taking a cylindrical protector off the Holy See's desk.
As Des leaves the room...the Pope reaches down under his white robe and pulls out a hip- flask and swigs alcohol from it.
Pope:' I've a hunch....you've been framed!'
Des RES skips back through the Square towards the car. He is beaming as he has effected the second Italian Lob.
Mario: 'Someone looks happy!'
Des places the painting unopened in the fake exhaust.
Pat: ' I haven't seen him look THAT happy since he sold that fifth floor flat with no lift to Stephen Hawking on the basis that his guests would sound like him on the intercom!'
Scene 19
The Place of the Martyrs Hotel.
The boys are all unpacking their gear ready for a night in Rome on the eve of the Rugby Match. Pat opens the room curtains to find they can't open the window because it backs onto the cells that the prisoners of the Coliseum were tortured in.
Pat: ' I always said I would be Christian here!'
Looking down at the floor which was alive with cockroaches he continues.
Pat: 'Caesars palace it ain't ...I reckon we got the animal quarters!'
Titch: ' It's thumbs down from me - the Coliseum stinks worse than Des' feet!'
Des Res : ' Stop moaning will you...at least the neighbours don't have pot- bellied pigs!'...pointing at Pat with his gut showing putting on his Welsh rugby tee shirt showing Howard Marks being arrested by a policeman.
Perrier who has a pot bellied pig takes exception to the comment.
Mario: ' Well boys...we made it to Rome...now we are in Rome we must do what the Romans do!'
Des Res : ' What...pinch handbags and arses?' ( as he pinches Pat's arse as he struggles to get the tiny tee- shirt over his big belly),
Titch: 'No...drinka di Vino!'
Scene 20
The Streets of Rome near the Trevi Fountain on Match Day. It is warm in Rome on St Davids Day and the boys have got a few pints on . They leave a side street, and join a massive throng of Welsh Rugby fans with giant daffodils, top hats and blow- up sheep everywhere. They decide to cool off by dipping into the Trevi Fountain. Titch puts his supply of beer in the front, whilst Mario and Pat argue over an ice cream cone.
Titch: 'What's this song....?'....Three cans in a fountain...
They change it to a drunken rendition of 'Volare!' ....and then 'just one Cornetto' as they fight over an ice cream. As they make their way to the Stadio Olympico, the five tourists argue and debate over the greatest Welsh Player ever. Like most Rugby fans of a certain age they harp back to the halcyon days of the 1970s when Wales ruled the Northern Hemisphere.
Titch: 'Gareth Edwards for me!z'
Mario: 'King Barry John'
Perrier : 'I think JJPR !" He said inebriatedly.
Des Res: ' You can't have two Mun you drunken bugger!...how about you Pat?'
Pat:' Jenks for me...professional, accurate and of course ginger!'
The cry of Wales...Wales ...echoed around the stadium corridors, as Pat reached for his digital camera.
Pat: ' Thank Barry John for that...I thought I had left my camera at the Hotel....I promised My Editor that I would get a few photos for the Depress!,
He split from the others and showed them his Press Badge and made his way with his Assistant Titch to the touch line behind the Italian posts.
Scene 21
The Italian and Welsh teams lead out and line up for their respective National Anthems. They are led out by the Band of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and a ceremonial goat. Mario, Des and Perrier could make out the shape of Little & Large sitting on the grass relaxing behind the goals. After a circuit of the ground, the band and goat leave the stadium. The game kick offs and the Welsh team race to a 9-3 lead through the reliable boot of Neil Jenkins.
Pat:' See...he slurs ...that Jenks is magic !'
Titch looks on.
Pat: ' I will let you in on a reporters secret...I know how he is so accurate!'
' A good newshound never reveals his sources but my mate works for 'Just Mentals' and he told me his secret...watch him from behind next time!'
The whistle goes again for an infringement and Jenks steps up to take the kick.
Pat: 'See that shadow of his ears on the pitch are aligned with the goalposts....he keeps his head still and kicks through his boot....he was also taught by his mate the Maori Chief that every tackle on the pitch is a spiritual battle against an invader...a modern day ' War of Jenkins Ears' if you like!' laughed Pat falling over into the grass.
Titch: ' That's bullshit!'
Pat: ' Goat shit actually !' ( rubbing his hands).
Pat looks through the camera lens but is so drunk he has double vision.
Pat: 'Titch take some pictures for me otherwise my editors will be a head-hitter on Monday Morning when I get home!'
Scene 22
Potters wheel
Up in the stand the balance of power on the pitch was turning. Like his wine- Des Res was in vintage form. He was a passionate supporter.
Des Res: 'C'mon pass the bloody ball out wide!'
He was mentally tackling and scrummaging like he was on the pitch. Demi Moore appears from the crowd.
Demi: ' At last, I've been looking for you all over the stadium!"
For the third time that weekend, Des looked deeply into Demi Moore's eyes and the Welshman lost track of the game and surroundings- it was a blur - like Russell Crowe in Elysium Fields, Gladiator Maximus Boyceius- he was oblivious to pain ( Demi-god Max Boyce is shown in a field talking to him)- oblivious as the scoreboard turns over with Italian points. Des Res is motionless- his mind is elsewhere. It is a fantasy scene. He stands behind Demi with his hands turning an imaginary potter’s wheel like in the scene from the film ‘Ghost’. She turns around and slaps him hard across the face- he has been fondling her Silicon implant breasts like he was turning a lathe. A stadium steward has to intervene to break his grip. When he realises what has happened- he goes red and then white with embarrassment like the Welsh flag.
DES RES: ‘Miss Moore, more please!” he pleads like ‘Oliver’ in the Dickens story with a finished potters bowl.
The stewards drag the sex attacker away towards the pitch and his ‘phoney passport’ falls onto the grass in the struggle. He is ‘booed’ by the crowd around him. He struggles to pick his passport up.
Des Res: ‘But I only want to go to the touchline again!”
He is restrained further by more security stewards. The Passport is lifted off the floor by a steward who looks at the picture and hands it to the nearby Bruce Willis. He in turn gets the passport stolen by a pickpocket in a melee of the crowd. The pickpocket and Des Res both get arrested by the Police and slung in the back of a Police Van. Mario, & Perrier decide to watch the end of the game before going to the aid of their friend. There is 5 minutes left with the score Italy 6 Wales 12. Suddenly, the ball is hoisted high into the air as a change of tactics.
Perrier: ‘What is a Garry Owen called in Italy?”
Mario: ‘ Him’ said Mario pointing at a hairless Pack Leader.
The Italian Captain, Garry Baldi has ordered his fly-half to kick it high and in the direction of Welsh Forward Robert Sidoli. He knows he has divided loyalties as his Brother Peter plays for the Home side.
Garry Baldi : “99”
The third Italian Lob was on. Sidoli stands sweating. The ball takes an eternity to drop. His mouth is dry- divided loyalties- does he catch it for Wales or drop it for Italy. Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of an Italian Mafia Hitman with a gun pointed at him. Sidoli’s legs turn to jelly and his hands to ice cream. He drops it rather than be killed by a contract killer. The ball bounces free and into the hands of massive Italian forward- Hugo Bastardo. The Welsh BBC Sport commenter Jonathan Edwards takes up the microphone. John Inverdale and every single Englishman (including Eddie Butler) in the studio is willing the Italians to score and leave Wales with a first ever Wooden Spoon.
Edwards: ‘Bastardo has the ball 5 metres out…all that stands between Italy and victory is Neil Jenkins…all that stands between Wales or Italy for the wooden spoon is Jenkins…it is a David and Goliath story here and my monies are on Goliath’
On the side behind the goal, the drunken Titch had strayed too close to the action…too busy looking through the camera lens. Due to his Press Badge- no steward would interfere. He tries to get a close up shot for Pat’s editor…now all that stood between the rampaging forward was the squatting six stone frame of Titch. The noise in the ground is deafening as the Forward crosses the line and places the ball down tackled by Jenkins as he collides the unfortunate Titch. For a split second only Titch knew that the rugby ball hadn’t been grounded by the Italian Forward. He had made the supreme sacrifice for his Country.
Titch: AAAAARGH!!!! As he is hurt and the camera obliterated in the collision.
The Referee asks the Fourth Official:-
Ref: “Can I award the try?”
He and the rest of the stadium look up at the big screen and see that the Italian has put the ball down in the ‘Dead Ball Zone’ but that there was a nut sack belong to Titch in the way. Merthyr’s latest eunuch was rolling round in agony- while the rest of his companions (bar Des Res) are jumping around in ecstacy. The Try is disallowed. The referee blows the final whistle. Pat starts to sob. Mario races from the stands to the pair.
Mario: ‘Why are you crying….we won…you are both Heroes!”
Pat: ‘I bet the suitcase of money on Italy to win!”
The Italian crowd and stewards now turn nasty. They too have realised that it is Titch ‘tackle bags’ that have robbed them of Victory. Perrier takes matters into his own hands. He strips off to create a ‘Dai-version’ and streaks across the field to distract them. They race through the players tunnel and reach the Mini-Car- pursued by lots of angry officials. They then drive out of the City using the sewers and stadium roof like the film the Italian Lob. As they do…a dementia suffering Michael Caine does a double take at the Union Jack Mini. They escape (like the old Mini advert) because the Police cars cannot cross the cattle grids.
Final scene
Outside Viazzani’s Café in John Street , Merthyr
The four friends are back in Merthyr buzzing of sweat, unshaven and bleary eyed having driven the car non-stop for two days. They ‘roll in’ to a look of disgust from Luigi. They are surprised to find that Des Res has beaten them home. He sits there immaculately dressed- smelling of quality aftershave, as he lowers the broadsheet Merthyr Depress newspaper.
Des Res: “ What kept you?”
The others are shocked as to how he had beaten them home- in view of the last time they saw him he was on his way to an Italian jail.
Pat: “ How the Hell did you get home before us?”
Des Res: ‘The Orient Express of course!”
Mario: ‘Was it packed?”
Des Res: ‘At first it was Murder…but once I showed them this…I was upgraded!”
He shows them Bruce Willis passport that he had lifted from his pick-pocket cell mate.
Titch: ‘ So how the Hell did you get out the Police Jail so fast?”
Des Res:’ I used the one word of Italian Perrier taught met !” he said (pretending to sneeze)
Perrier’ ‘What Ebola?”
Des nods.
Des Res: “ Oh and Pat…your Editor is outside the window…I think he has a message for you!”
The Editor is outside the half window of the café waving a sack.
Pat: ‘ I have something that belongs to you- !”
He hands Des the rolled up painting still in the cylinder removed from the Mini fake exhaust. Pat turns his back on the group and starts to smile- he is waiting for a cry of desperation from Des RES. The camera pans out with Pat smirking even if he is about to lose his job. DES Res unfurls the painting for the first time. It is a work of Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo & Raphel as promised by the Pontiff- but they have green faces. It is of the Teenage Mutant Nina Turtles- which he has paid £40K for. He has been conned.
Des Res: (like the Terminator) ….There’s going be a new Pope in Rome soon…I’ll be back John Paul!” (angily)
Luigi: ‘ What’s the matter with him?”
Pat: ‘I think he is having ‘Turtle Recoil!”
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A message from author Philip Evans - "Here is the start of a four part play which whilst rejected by BBC Wales may amuse the readers of Americymru"
The Italian Lob
The basic premise is a one off special television hour and a half mini- film - as a homage to the legendary BBC programme ' Grand Slam'.It is a story to reflect the changing face of the Welsh Valleys and how cosmopolitan they have become and also how the sport of Rugby Union - the National Sport of Wales - just ahead of beer drinking- has changed since the 1970s some 45 years ago. It is initially set in Glebeland Street Merthyr Tydfil , with the five main characters being a French Welshman ( Cafe Owner) , English Welshman ( Estate Agent) Irish Welshman (Newspaper Reporter), an Italian Welshman ( Chip Shop owner) and a Scottish Welshman (Publican) encompassing the Six Nations so involved in the tournament.
The location is already there with all five establishments in place- albeit cosmetic changes would be needed to the shop fronts.
There may even be funding available to shoot in a socially deprived area.
My preferred choice of actors/comedians for the parts as listed above are :- Rhod Gilbert, Greg Davies, Boyd Clack, Steve Speirs & Rob Brydon.
There will be minor ( not miner ) parts for Ruth Jones, Max Boyce, Steve Meo , Mike Bubbins ,Rob Sidoli , Neil Jenkins & Dale Mackintosh.
If possible the preferred choice of the Director is Mr Gareth Gwenllan with his BBC Wales 'High Hopes' team involved.
All music to be drawn from the multitude of hits from the Stereophonics and Manic Street Preachers with a few Max Boyce and Boyd Clack numbers thrown into the mix.
I would hope that the money could be raised by way of Welsh sponsors- Brains Brewery , WRU and any other Welsh Company that would want product placement or direct advertising in the film.
The plot and storyline is based on my published short story ' The Italian Lob' from 2007, which is a road movie of five friends and business neighbours leading from the austerity hit Merthyr Tydfil, through to the brothels of Paris and then to the Stadio Olympico for a 'Wooden Spoon ' decider rugby match in the climax of a poor Six Nations for Wales.
It is also a story about divided loyalties....hence the title Italian Lob.
It is a direct contrast to the 'Grand Slam' - it can be shown anytime when the Team is not at its greatest.
Its target audience would be the proud Welsh people who love Rugby, Beer, and Comedy...ie every Welsh person Worldwide.
The tale starts with the five Glebeland Street businesses shutting up shop on a Thursday Night in late February , ready for a St Davids Day match in Italy on a 'killer' trip of beer, vino and women for five 'converts' in a cramped Union Jack clad mini car , bought on the cheap with one of the characters redundancy money from the former Hoovers factory - as a prop from the 'Spice World' the Movie, and ends with a Welshman inadvertently making the ultimate sacrifice for his Country.
The use of the mini is to illustrate that its occupants are British as well as Welshmen and of course is a further homage to the 1960's film the Italian Job.
There will be several different 'Italian Lobs' too throughout the story which will be revealed by the enclosed script.
I sincerely hope you enjoy reading the 'pilot' script- it is my first ever attempt.
It is my wish that this story sees the light of day as a tribute to my late Father Douglas Evans who died in 2011 and of course my Brother-in-Law and his friends who provided the inspiration for the idea.
Yours Faithfully
Character profiles
Titch Hatchey
Age 50 thin, receding hairline, smoker, nervous type, loves fast cars, drink and away trips with freedom away from his nagging wife, recently made redundant former Hoover & Japanese electronic Factory worker, now trying his hand at being a Pub Landlord....Scottish ancestry.
Des Res
Local Estate Agent , refined, debonair, eloquent , but loves himself, sporty, aged 55 , proud for once being being mistaken for Bruce Willis at Paris Airport ...moustache..rich but generous with it.
Pat O'Lee
Local newspaper advertising salesman...52 ...loves a bet...extremely tight with money...has a ginger fetish...married to a ginger lady...very serious and a little quick tempered.
Perrier Jones
The owner of the French cafe de Glebeland , good looking, fit likes to go to the gym...ladies man ....54 ....but not the brightest....an entrepreneur who likes to hide it from the tax man.
Mario Pizza
Age 48, olive skinned, third generation chip shop owner, family came over before Second World War ...tiny thin pencil moustache...happy go lucky ...always joking.
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PART II
Scene 9
The inside of the small seedy club has a small stage and a small bar. The room is dark, smokey and is full of dry ice vapour- as a prelude to the arrival of an artiste. The music starts up- it is a striptease song. The five tourists receive a round of five Stella's and a bill for 20 Francs which is passed around the table by the tighter members of the group- Titch- Pat until it ends up in front of Des Res who always gets stuck with the bill.
Ruth Jones is once again dressed as the stripper only this time is younger and is dressed in a ginger wig.
The five excited males start clapping with Perrier so excited that gets up on his chair and does his own version of 'Pole Dancing'. It is obvious he is aroused as his Welsh Leek emblazoned underpants begin to swell.
Mario feels uneasy- being in a rough bar in a Foreign Country containing a sleazy stripper. He looks around him and notices that the ice mist is starting to lift revealing that the other men present in the bar were wearing white vest tops, leather hats and were sporting 'Freddie Mercury style moustaches'. Mario nudges Des and Titch to alert them to the fact- but they appear to somehow know already.
On the stage , stripper Ruth Jones beckons to Pat to move closer to the stage - in his excitement he doesn't notice the stage name Rusty Rocket. Pat carefully selects the lowest denomination note from his money belt and places the note with Napoleon's head on it into his mouth. He moves forward to the stage and places the note in the ginger collection box being the knicker line of the stripper.
Perrier gulps with anticipation - bringing a lump to his throat.
Pat has his own unexpected lump to contend with. He has an eyeful of a different Paris Tower.
Pat screams: 'He's a Transister!' Outing the hermaphrodite.
Pat the traumatised paper boy shrieks...'It's got a nob!'
Perrier goes limp and jumps down from the chair trying to cover his embarrassment with his Sweater shop jumper. In the background, further shapes reappear from the mist- an Indian Chief, a telephone engineer and a cowboy-
Mario screams: 'We are in the YMCA !'
Des and Titch collapse on the floor with laughter as the big joke they have played on their 'back row' has worked a treat. The Madame sidles up to Titch and demands a small service charge for her part in his friend’s humiliation. This time the Madame reverts to her native thick Welsh accent.
He puts away his camera phone video for future evidence and pays the Madame.
Madame Fifi La Foo: 'For five Francs more- you can kiss me where it smells!"
Titch ( Rob Brydon) : "I am not taking you back to Port Talbot luv...besides you are no oil painting ( looking around at the entrance filed with French brothel type paintings) I don't Chagall I'd have to be in Seine to go on a two louse la trek with you!"
She doesn't take offence and chuckles like she has been in a wedding with distant relatives. The gang head off for the Moulin Rouge. Perrier keeps asking anyone around the way to a place called the Red Windmill.
Scene 10
The five are sat around a table watching the show at the Internationally renowned cat house. There are colourful female dancers in a line high kicking to a can- can on a stage. The boys too soon become can-can boys as the beer flows. The Estate agent becomes entranced by a dark haired caged dancer who seems to be staring at him.
Des Res: 'I am sure that's' Hollywood actress Demi Moore...she's been looking at me all night!'
Pat: 'Don't talk to me about cat houses....( sobbing in drink) I'll never be able to stroke a ginger pussy again after tonight....my pet kitty will have to go when I get home!'
Titch: 'Speaking of kitty...drink up you lot , I'm thirsty!'
The beer continued to flow - the boys were treated to some aerial entertainment. Mario was busy looking up to the heavens intrigued by his own Virgin flight of fantasy as two pensioners dressed as rodents were copulating intermittently on trapeze above their heads.
Perrier: 'I knew Disneyland Paris wasn't as good as the Florida version but surely that's taking the Mickey out of us tourists!"
Eventually, the five professional alcoholics decided to head home for a night in Le Fleapit. Back home in their hotel room after a short walk , the Welshmen were tucked up in bed.
Scene 11
With the sun shining through the holes in the room Titch awoke first. Des Res was snoring loudly with the tiles on the roof sliding back and fore with the vibration threatening to turn the Hotel into a five star one. He let out a belch that Barney from the Simpsons would have been proud of and the resulting alcohol cloud like an Iceland volcano woke the Estate Agent from his slumber.
Titch: 'See he is always up before me in the morning tickling me under the chin!' he boasted doing his own stand up routine.
Des Res: ' Don't remind Pat about last night!'
Pat: ''You bastards...you knew what you were doing ...I have had nightmares all night!' He said reaching into the mini-bar for a hair of the dog....knowing the room was booked on Des Res credit card....'I'll find a way of making you pay for that one!'
The ribbing of Pat was merciless .
Mario: ' Did your dream involve you nearly eating the 'lunch pack of Notre Dame?' " teased the chip shop owner.
He received a pillow missile for his comment. The Centuries old unwritten Welsh male oath of 'no tales on tour' was adopted.
Perrier : 'what did you think of the sword swallowing act last night?'
He fared worse than Mario as the French Gideon bible bounced off his coiffured bounce. Des was oblivious to events he was busy recalling a vision of a bikini clad Demi Moore dancing in a cage beckoning him towards her.
Des Res: ' I wonder if she was doing some research for Showgirls 2 ?'
Mario: 'Who?'
Pat: ' You are not going on about Demi Moore are you?...it wasn't her...why would an Hollywood A- Lister be dancing in a cage and staring at someone as ugly as you?
Des Res: ' I'll have you know that I was mistaken once for her ex-husband Bruce Willis in the Charles De Gaulle airport....it was during the Algerian crisis...!'
Pat: 'Rubbish!'
Des Res: 'It's true ....a tourist asked me to sign an autograph!'
Pat: 'Bollocks'
Titch: ' You were the only one talking bollocks last night!'
Pat reached for a shoe and threw it at Titch. He ducked and it hit Perrier square in the quiff. He dived over Titch to scrap the newspaper hound .
Perrier: 'Lets see who will die hard now!'
The pair grappled on the floor playfully until they both gave in to the exertion.
Scene 12
Return to the Spice Mobile. With Titch driving as usual, there was a reshuffle with Des Res being relegated to the back row and Pat and Perrier separated like two squabbling schoolchildren. Titch had donned his yellow jersey and cycle helmet for the mountain stages of the Tour De France. The mini speeds away South with Titch driving like a Playstation driver at speeds that look even faster in kilometres as he tries to make up for lost time. Here, the song motorcycle emptiness by the manics could be played. They reach the Alps and restock their own mini- bar with beer at St Berrnard in the Alpen Springs and clean water and breadsticks are taken on. The roof of the mini now is clad in breadsticks, daffodils and leeks.
Pat: 'We look like the Hovis Expeditionary ski force!'
After a further hour driving till the dark descends , they then decide to park up in a makeshift lay-by high up in the Alps. They decide to leave the car radio on over night to drown out Des Res snoring and ensure that as they are in an Avalanche zone the sound is consistent. Owen Money is busy on his BBC Wales radio show playing songs which send them gently to sleep. Titch awakes from his slumber with the first Rays of the sun on his windscreen. He comes around to an announcement on the Radio.
" Rover- the manufacturers of the Mini have decided to recall all models following a discovery that they may be technical problems with the handbrakes"
Looking down at the 1000 foot drop into Italy six inches from the mini Titch agreed. He looked at the sleeping Welsh tourists and considered saving himself.
Titch: 'It's a self- preservation society!' (cue music from film- the Italian Job- as he opens the door – which stops abruptly once he closes it again)
Titch tried to reason as to what had happened overnight. He suspected that the violent snoring of Des Res coupled with the dodgy handbrake had led to the little car becoming perched precariously with its boot hanging over the edge of the Mountain Pass. He decided to wait until the others woke naturally in the back so as not to panic the other occupants into a fatal mistake.
Pat was the next to wake and the look on Titch's face in the rear view mirror was enough for him to realise the odds on him surviving were slim. The newspaper hound saw his life passing before him in twirling Merthyr Depress newspaper headlines:-
'Downhill all the way for Rugby Fans on the Piste'
'Des-aster as Estate Agency crash hits peak'
'Perrier Springs Eternally'
The sound of a Welsh ringtone alarm nearly proved fatal, as four of the car occupants fumbled for their mobiles to the tune of 'A design for life' by the Manic Street Preachers. The fifth largest and oldest tourist , Des Res slumbered on blissfully unaware of the 'gravity' of the situation.
Titch: 'We need to lighten the load in the back!' (Whispering to the still, white Perrier).
One by one the 'refilled' beer bottles were 'passed' into the front seat to Titch who due to his dt's spilled most of them on Pat before pouring them on an unsuspecting French Shepherd in the Valley below.
French Shepherd Moutton Rouge: "Ello...Ello...it is peezing down again!' He said looking up at the golden stream of rain.
A text message appeared on Titch’s phone. It was a dragon symbol ( indicating it was his wife) ....it read...'How R U ....U no answer...RU OK?'
Titch: 'I knew she would push me over the edge one day!'
Scene 13
Titch's wife is sat with her mobile in her hand in her curlers reading the horoscope in the paper. Her psychic nose won't stop twitching.
She has intermittent images of Sue Barker and Princess Grace - which can only be interpreted as connected with Cliffs. She has a bad feeling something is deeply wrong with her husbands trip and doesn't want her marriage to be on the rocks. As she is always on the phone , when she rings direct enquiries they recognise her voice and know her personally.
Lynne Hatchey: 'Alpen Headquarters, please send help!'
Scene 14
Cliffhanger
The boys are wide awake and have to try and extricate themselves from their quandary. Des Res is still snoring unaware of the predicament- the boys are too frightened to wake him as he is a bit of a drama queen.
Titch: "You're still too heavy in the back!....you must get rid of some more weight!'(whispered)
Mario: "But how?" ....you've had all p*ss bottles, the last of the food, even our shoes and Perriers box of ribbed condoms...., we've given you all the heavy items...there is nothing left in the back!"
Titch: 'It's the 'Gold' beer in the boot....it's weighing us down!'
Titch: 'Eureka!' He said moving Des feet from the head rest - with the Estate Agent slowly coming around.
Titch: 'Pat - reach in the back and see if you can reach Des' wallet ...it must weigh a tonne ...you never see a poor Estate agent do you?"
The sight of Pat taking money from his wallet really shouldn't have bothered Des after all these years of round-dodging but it was the directness of it this time. Still half- cut and the sight of a hairy hand reaching into his heart pocket in the French Alps was too 'Gaulling' even for the mild mannered Des Res. Some primeval fear was awakened in him- and he uttered one audible word:-
Des Res: Darlo...
He struck out with his fist and punched Pat so hard sending him backwards in doing so jamming his behind in the steering column. He then returned to his snoring unaware of the drama unfolding around him. The resultant wedgie that Pat received for his efforts stabilised the car but sent the 'gold' label beer in the boot further backwards and the jolt sent open the spring on the car boot mechanism. Pat was now disabled , Titch was shaking with the DT's and fear. Mario was unable to move, as he was wedged tighter than one of Titch's home made roll up fags. Titch reached inside his pocket and took out his old faithful tin of tobacco. He always felt more relaxed when he rolled his own.
He cleared his head. How would his Welsh Rugby heroes get out of this tight spot? He tried to think back to his days as a boot-boy at the Arms Park. Not as an apprentice but as a hooligan. He decided to hum internationally to raise the spirits in the car. The rugby songs did the trick, as the car rocked to the tune of Bread of Heaven. The boys were convinced that God was Welsh so they prepared to meet their maker in style.
Titch: 'Barry John- into your hands I commend my spirit!'
As the car was just about to tip over the edge- from the Alpen mists appeared a giant St Bernard dog which bounded onto the bonnet of the car stoping its descent to the Valley floor below. Reaching out of the window Titch grabbed the brandy cask from around the dogs collar and helped himself to some of the St Bruno and smoked and drank deeply.
Titch: 'I'd like to share with you boys...but this is an emergency!'
Titch: 'L'eau de chien !' He spluttered spitting out the spring water like it was Albright.
With Bread of Heaven still ringing in his ears, he was divinely inspired to grab a hardened breadstick of the roof of the car as a pool cue and potted the 'gold' pool style through the rear seat flap and gold beer out of the back of the car into the deep blue yonder - causing an avalanche in the Italian village below never before seen. The mini having lost its ballast - righted itself with a bump which woke the startled Des Res suddenly.
Des Res: 'Morning Boys!' He said trying to stretch in the confined space.
'I had a lovely dream about Wales - some girls with the voices of angels were singing 'Bread of Heaven' ( cue Charlotte Church and Katherine Jenkins) - pointing at the St Bernard drooling on the windscreen.
Des Res: 'When did we acquire the nodding dog?'
Des looked around at his companions and knew something was up.
Des Res : 'What's up ....I missed something right...I've never seen Pat sweating so much since he nearly bought a round at the Millenium Stadium!'
Titch managed to drive forward with Pat lodged in the steering wheel and a two tonne dog on the bonnet to safer ground. Only then did they tell Des Res what happened. The only way to get the hysterical Estate Agent to stop shaking was to make him drive the car.
Titch: 'But you will have to drive...my Taff-ograph....says I have used up my allowed hours....and as you are the only one who is able to drive as the others are now in continent!'
Des would only drive on one condition that he could play his Max Boyce CD 'Live at Treorchy '.
He tried to convince his fellow occupants that they were lucky to be alive- and that it was another sign that the Welsh were God's chosen people.
Des Res: ' see Dog is God backwards...you were singing Bread of Heaven....the dog was carrying Spring water....it all adds up...we are bound to win in Rome boys...we are 'divinely inspired!'
He put pedal to the metal, as he screeched around those high hairpin bends above the Mountain passes, as Max Speed met Max Boyce. The boys in the back wished they 'all had Doctors papers' to avoid the butt- clenching journey. Des Res was determined to hang onto his 'yellow jersey' as he drove with the motto of the Welsh Front Row stuck in his head as lorry drivers tried to overtake him.
Des Res: 'Thou shalt not pass!'
Des Res looked in the rear view mirror and liked what he saw- not just his bronzed tanned face, and neatly trimmed 'Pepe Di Marco' goatee but the other great love of his life- behind him was a red Porsche Carrera with a flashy female driver with a body and face to die for.
Scene 15
Cut to the chase.
The mini is being pursued by a red Porsche on a straight road into Northern Italy. The driver of the mini car is Des Res and the Porsche Demi Moore. The car is tailgating the mini trying to get them to pull over so it can pass. Des Res flashes a smile at the female driver- which is reciprocated by perfect Hollywood veneers.
Des Res: ' Now that is what Chris de Burgh was singing about- that really is a 'Lady in Red'
The Porsche pulls alongside the mini on the right side of the road and Des Res and Demi lock stares- like a mutual attraction of flirting- They both accelerate to 150 kph with the mini initially in front.
Des Res (gleefully) : Outstripping the stripper!'
Des then checks the rear view mirror- the Porsche is gone- it is now in front of him. He suddenly realises there is a man in the passenger seat with her. It is the real Bruce Willis. He points at Des Res as the cars race at speed and signals that it is like looking in the mirror- like he is his doppelgänger.
Mario: 'Des ...I don't want to spoil your big moment but we drive on the RIGHT in Europe!'
The two cars almost crash as they round the bend to see a road block of cars up ahead. Des Res and Demi Moore stand on the brakes to avoid a collision.
Pat : ' It's CARmaggedon!'
There are skid marks on the road and worse ones in the back seat of the mini. The red Porsche zigzags through the fleet of black sedans blocking the road and away into the sunset. Des Res is furious that the love of his life has disappeared again. He gets out of the car and rages at the dark suited Mafia men on the hillside and road.
Des Res : ' What ...do you think you own this road?'
Perrier: ' Who are those people with the dark glasses and violin cases?'
Pat: ' I think it's a safe bet that they aren't The Blues Brothers!'
Mario: ' They are the Cosa Nostra ...and the DO own this particular road!'
Titch: 'Let me out of the car...will you...they are looking for me!'
Titch gets out of the car and walks around the back and produces a long thin packet from the fake exhaust. Instinctively, the Mobsters raise their weapons and train them on Titch and the purple incandescent Des. Des is raging like Basil Fawlty.
Titch: 'Let me negotiate this deal Des....I am gonna make them an offer they can't refuse!'
He swigs the brandy cask and pretends to be Marlon Brando. Titch has a small scar on his face from a playground fight as a kid. He comes up 'spaghetti western' style face to face with their leader who has a much bigger knife scar on his cheek. After an initial Mexican stand off, Titch whispers that he is with Mario Pizza originally from Bardi. Mario on leaving the car is welcomed by his third generational countrymen as the Godfather meets the Codfather and the first of many Italian Lobs is complete. A bag of unmarked bills is handed over in exchange for the vacuum cleaner blueprint.
The mini is allowed to pass and the car moves on silently passed monasteries until it reaches a border control check point and toll booth.
Scene 16
Checkpoint Charlie's
Stuck in a queue is the red Porsche containing the two Hollywood A- Listers. There is only one guard on duty for two booths as his mate has gone on a toilet break. He has to cover both lanes.
The Italian official looks at the Porsche containing Bruce Willis and the Mini containing Des Res...he takes both passports in at the same time to scan them and drops them on the floor mixing them up. As they look identical he hands the wrong ones back.
Italian Border Guard: ' You are not planning on 'moonlighting with any Shepherds Mr Willis are you?'
He is talking to Des Res by mistake - who just nods at him as he is anxious to catch up with the accelerating Porsche.
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PART I
Scene One
It is 5.30 pm ...it is already dark...it is a cold late February night in Glebeland Street, Merthyr Tydfil.
The French baguette shop owner is closing up his cafe for the night.
Perrier is dressed in a fake blue French beret , striped tee-shirt and red neckerchief with black trousers- he takes in his metal advertising sign Cafe De Glebeland written in Welsh, English, Polish and French.
He greets his work neighbour
Perrier: ’Bon Soir Des Res, everything organised for our Tour De France yet?'.
He startles the Estate Agent who is dressed in fake designer gear, who soon recovers and winds him up in response.
DES RES : ‘ 'Ello, Ello....I will say zis only once...11am Tomorrow Viazzani Station Cafe and don't be late!"
After he has locked the door of his shop and shuttered it- he strolls up the street to check that his business neighbours are all still planning on going to Italy with him tomorrow on a weekend killer trip to Rome for the Wooden Spoon decider rugby match.
The offices of Des Res are already closed, so he peers into the Merthyr Depress Newspaper Office to seek out his friend Pat O'Lee.
He is supposed to be working but he is hiding his 'Racing Post' selections from the Editor in a current edition of the Newspaper.
He is holding the phone in his double chin , whilst trying to sell advertising space by cold calling some old dear at teatime interrupting her Meals on Wheels visit.
Perrier taps the window and mouths the words- "11am in the Station Cafe." for a big breakfast before setting off on their journey.
Confident that Pat has already got the message , he continues on to the Italian fish shop of Mario whose chip shop window is steamed up with condensation but he has written a message in the steam...11am at my cousins cafe TMZ and signed it with a flourish ...the Codfather.
Scene 2
The Viazzani Station Cafe
It is 11am on a Thursday Morning and four of the businessmen are sat in the cafe- eating a full English breakfast of pasta, spaghetti and meatballs.
All around the cafe are photographs of Merthyr's finest boxing legends.
Howard Winstone, Eddie Thomas and other local celebrities like Owen Money.
His photograph has a stuck used chewing gum on the glass where his nose should be...under the words BBC Radio Wales( Free Plug).
Luigi, the cafe owner (played by Michael Bubbins) is unintentionally dressed like Mario the plumber from the Nintendo series. All around him are memorabilia of happier times.
The four characters, Pat, Perrier, Des & Mario look at their watches nervously awaiting the arrival of their transport for the weekend.
Pat O'Lee moans that the missing tourist is late.
Pat O’Lee: ‘'We should be under starter's orders by now !'’
He always speaks in betting parlance.
Mario replies...'Don't worry ..he is always late...I micro de wave his cheeps all the time in my shop!'
They are shocked when the fifth member of the posse turns up in a Union Jack clad mini car doing a handbrake turn in the 'unloading goods only ' space.
They expect to see Jeremy Clarkson driving it but instead it is a Midge Ure lookalike still wearing his Hoovers overalls- he says in a Michael Caine voice- Titch Hatchey here- and not a lot of people know that and the Des-ignated driver (looking at the Estate Agent) for the English stage of the Tour!'
All four are expecting a much larger vehicle- given the size of the men in the Tour party.
The taller characters Pat (Greg Davies) and Des Res are horrified at the thought of spending five days cooped up in the coupe.
The only way Pat can fit in it given his height is to have his head out of the sunroof in the front.
Titch has bought him a mini umbrella mortar board hat ( Greg was an ex-teacher in real life and the In-betweeners) for him to wear in the event of rain on the journey.
Pat : ‘ '20-1 that we don't make it to Rome in that tin can!' he says opening his black book and marking it with a mini blue free bookie pen.
Titch rips off his overalls in Superman style to reveal his cheap imported red rugby shirt from Rheola Market.
All five characters are now dressed identically with Red Cotton traders, Welsh rugby jerseys and obligation 'Wheres Wally (Wales) ' red and white scarf and bobble hats .
Mario:’ Where are we gonna put these giant yellow inflatable daffodil and leeks?' opening the boot.
The mini boot is crammed full of prototype Brains Beer called 'Valleys Gold' not yet tested on humans.
The minis boot is the ultimate ‘mini-bar’.
Luigi:’ ' Finally, someone you bother with that has real brains!' to his cousin Mario , as he closes the boot and begins to tie the inflatable vegetables to the roof rack.
Perrier :’' A mini-cooper -pour cinque home- incredible!' (gasps in fake French).
Pat: 'But you have to admit it has a great boot...big enough for our beer storage and a spare pair of pants each too I will wager!' .
Mario: ’Why do I get the impression you had a hand in this somehow?' rubbing his Valleys essential moustache suspiciously.
Looking at Luigi and Mario side by side Pat replied mockingly:
Pat:’' It’s a lovely car- Super… Mario- it will get us to the Game Boy in plenty of time I'll bet you!'
Perrier butted in.
Perrier: ‘'Well I can't see us driving passed the Vatican in this O'Lee City vehicle man, we wouldn't even be able to pass the Pope Mobile in that!'
Titch : 'Merthyr Tydfil folk have great traditions of 'Roman runs' ...I am confident that in my mini, me, and even you shower, can pull the Italian girls that Hall & Oates sang about in this Austin powered Shaguar!'
They squeeze in with the seating arrangements as follows: Titch driving on right hand side, the massive Pat with his head stuck out of the sunroof with a daffodil tickling his ear.
Perrier, Mario and Des Res are squeezed like sardines in the back, taking it in turns to breathe.
Scene 3
The mini is shown driving down the A470 towards Cardiff, different signs are passed on the way suchas Pontypridd - beware as the Hills have Dai's , Taff's Well- I didn't know he was ill etc.
The conversation in the car is about beer, rugby and money.
Mario: Why are we taking these continental style bottles then?....surely cans would be better for the South of France?
Titch: 'See this isn't only a junket Mario...Perrier and I have a business plan worked out , my accountant assures me that we can write these bottles off as a business expense providing I get receipts from the hypermarkets - we drink them on the way down- stop off at Lourdes and refill them and sell the Holy Water to my customers - I will also buy some cheap French loaf stocks which I will tie to the roof- then I will flog them back home in the Farmers Market- and make some real bread from the deal!'
'Do you think I could get some fresh fish on the way back for my shop too over there?' Asked Mario
'Wot...loaves AND fishes at Lourdes on one tiny roof rack- now that really be a miracle!' Said Perrier thinking of his profit margins.
The conversation turned to rugby.
The match was billed as a 'wooden spoon decider between Italy & Wales' with the home team the bookies favourites this time.
'If Italy lose do they get the wooden pasta ladle?' Laughed Titch from his Pole Position behind the Union Jack steering wheel.
'Be a bit more patriotic like me!' Said Pat.
'Anyone mentions Wales losing will get a Clarkson off me!' Said Titch raising his fist threateningly in the rear view mirror.
'I don't know about Top Gear ....said Pat ...but I know we have a bottom gear...!' He said uncomfortably sitting on the gear stick with his huge arse.
'Is this bloody car a prop from Spice World the movie?' Moaned Des Res trying to shuffle some space as they start to cross the Severn Bridge.
'Why did Ginger Spice sit here?' Asked Pat sniffing the seat.
'Well I got Victoria Beckham's seat...coz I can't chuffing move!' Protested the Estate Agent.
'Steady on Posh Spice...just cos you're used to the posh space in that castle of yours in Merthyr!' Laughed Titch looking in the rear view mirror.
'Si...I have heard that an Eeenglishman's home is his castle..but did you have to buy Crawshay's Cyfarthfa Castle for yourself?' Asked Mario.
' Look it was all legitimate...when I opened the sealed bids...I was surprised as you to discover that I was the highest bidder...!'
The conversation was stopped as all five occupants booed the 'Welcome to England sign'.
It was the catalyst for the the song 'always shit on the English side of the Bridge" sung to the tune of Monty Python's 'always look on the bright side of life.'
By the time they had reached the outskirts of London they had decided to sing the National Anthem.
Des: ‘“ Enough talking about shop anyway boys….lets have some rugby songs…we are on tour after all!” changing the subject swiftly.
Des: “ How about the National Anthem?...Mae Hen Gwlad…!” he sang with gusto with the car occupants all joining in until they realised like Tory MP John Redwood they didn’t know the words – as it was in Welsh.
They all mumble it out to an embarrassing silence.
They finally settle on a rousing chorus of ‘We are the cheeky boys!” (by the cheeky girls) which lasts for two hours and three Counties and three crates of Brains beer later.
Each chorus is met by a buttock raising Mexican wave of flatulence from the spaghetti induced breakfast.
Scene 4
The arrival in Dover, Kent and the ferry to France.
The drunken trio that had been helping themselves to cans via the back seat opening are awoken from their slumber and Des announces to them where they are.
Perrier: “ How do you know it is Dover?” he asked with white cliffs on full view.
Mario :’“ That is Vera Lynn being pushed around in that bath chair over there!” teased the darked skinned Mario waving to the old dear- who wearing a UKIP badge flicks the ‘foreigner’ a V on their fingers which doesn’t represent a Churchillian Victory sign.
Des: “ It must be ….look at those Refugee Asylum Camps over there!” he suggested …oh that and of course the sign DOVER, KENT thereon…(sarcastically)- camera shot cuts to sign.
Titch : “Are we going over on the hovercraft then- its cheaper?” McTitch is rediscovering his Scottish roots.
Pat: “ Yes…I’ve got a coupon that I get to go for a £1.00 with four full paying passengers!”
DES : “ You tight git …I knew you had your hand in this somewhere!”
Tickets are shown and the car is waved onto the Ferry- and the boys are called out by the Customs & Excise and Border control.
Perrier began to sweat.
Perrier: “ See that one with the brown hat on?” he said pointing at the Officer with the long flowing Status Quo hair.
“ I am sure he was in school with me and is ‘batting for the other team’” he whispers to Mario.
Handy Andy : “ Please remove your French Hat Sir…anything to declare?” asked the Camp Customs Official.
Des Res: “ Only his genius!” slyly.
Perrier : “ No- Aren’t you Handy Andy from Penydre School?” enquired the nervous man trying to avoid direct eye-contact.
Handy Andy : “ Look boys…a pop star…better search him thoroughly!” he said gleefully tossing Perrier’s French hat he had stuffed in his trousers towards the X-Ray machine.
Titch : “ Chuck Beret!” laughing , as the ashen faced Perrier was led away by the professional shirt-lifter.
Pat: “He found HIS calling then!” laughing.
After half n hour hanging around waiting for the search to finish- Perrier returns to his Countrymen.
Handy Andy:” Do you want your mini-baguette back then?”
An embarrassed Perrier tries to explain the position.
Perrier: “It must have got lodged in the back of the car by those two when I was sleeping!”
“ Before or after your home video on Facebook?” laughed Des Res who had uploaded the image.
It is Perrier’s turn to change the subject.
Perrier: “Titch….how can you drink so much when you weigh less than Mahatma Gandi?”
Downing his fifth can of duty free Stella , Titch stands rock solid despite the pitch and roll of the Ferry.
Titch: “I will let you in on a little secret…I worked for the Japanese for years in Senior Management and they made it clear that if your own standards didn’t reach their own high standards …you were out-as a high profile executive (he said scratching his high forehead) , If you didn’t cut it in the Board Room and Directors Bar then you faced the sake…if you didnt want to Nip in the air then you conformed- I can now drink like ‘em, think like ‘em, even build bridges like ‘em till they were taken over by the Italians who closed my factory- and made me redundant- I have had to adapt and have become the equivalent of James Bond in Valleys circles- I have my own line now in industrial espionage – I’ve just pinched the blueprint for their new vacuum cleaner for children- some would die-son to get their hands on it…I am going to sell the idea to my contacts in Italy….It’s easy money like taking Baby from a Candi!”
Pat- “ How will you smuggle the blueprint out the UK?…microdot?….it is odds on you will be caught!”
Titch-“ This is the in-genius part…Perrier- you are an expert on tailpipes- (touching a raw nerve)- How many exhausts does your average Mini Cooper have?”
Perrier (wincing at his recent body invasion): “One”
Mario: “ So why does our car have two?” he questioned not putting one and two together.
Titch: Precisely Mario- when it comes to blueprints on vacuum design- there is a sucker born every minute!”
Scene 5
Arrival at a busy Calais Ferry Terminal and Port
The Mini passes through customs without any opposition, but Perrier is stopped again.
Perrier: 'It's no good being self-employed - you are a marked man!'
Mario : ' you are definately a marked man' ...we should call you the Lord of the Rings after today's performance!'
The five boys head towards their car which is being driven off the Ferry by Titch.
They stop at the beer hypermarket and refill the golden bottles with Stella Artois- they are served by Ruth Jones who can make a crack about everyone in Wales loving 'Stella' .
As they get back in the car, Titch resumes the driving and turns to the cramped trio in the back .
Titch : 'I'd offer to swap seats Pat but I've only just recovered from my vasectomy operation and it's taken two years for the swelling to go down'
Pat: I had a feeling you lot would be jockeying for position and that I would become the back marker before the Prix de arch de triumphe...shift up Mario!'
The drinking in the car continues apace - with Mario becoming adept at reaching in through the built in easy access through the rear seats removing the golden beer bottles without disturbing the seats or their occupants.
Mario: It's a good job that I am an amateur gynaecologist!' He declares as his hand disappears between the two seats.
Des:'You missed your vocation in life, Codfather, you should have been a Customs Official!' Teased Des watching Perrier shudder once more.
Titch : 'It's good this Stella but it's not like your Welsh beer is it ....Brains is definitely best!'
Mario: 'Well you should know you have consumed more brains than the cast of the Walking Dead!'
The car starts to fill up with empty beer bottles and the bladders get stretched.
Perrier: 'Stop....there is a toilet over there!'
The camera pans to the side of the French motorway basic toilet stop. The smell of the place is awful- so much so that the boys decide to urinate on the wall outside. Inside there is a circular floor with a hole in the middle for solids to slide into.
Mario: 'Where's the toilet gone?'
Pat: 'It's my bet..it's closed for repairs...it's only a hole in the floor!'
Des: 'it's no wonder those French Rugby Players are so accurate with their drop outs...I'm going outside!'
Perrier and Des are standing side by side urinating on the wall..camera shot from the rear of them.
Perrier leaves to reveal has drawn a Welsh Rugby ball on the wall and written in urine 'Gilbert' on it.
Des: 'Rod Gilbert?'
Des is staring at it and as he leaves the camera can see he has added 'Mister' to it....( as a homage to the Inbetweeners character Mr Gilbert played by Greg Davies previously.)
Titch: 'that's the last stop we can have boys before we reach Paris....thanks to Perrier we are three hours behind schedule...!'
A committee decision was made as bladders were tested once more and the front of the car too became full of empties.
The Welsh 'pee-RS of the Realm- had to use the bottles to urinate in- and bottles were passed to Titch who drank whatever was passed to him- warm or cold.
Scene 6
Arrival in Paris.
The camera pans to a shot of the colourful mini containing the pride of Wales speeding through Montemarte looking up at the beautiful' City of Light' and the Eiffel Tower.
After the excitement of the landmarks there is a huge contrast when the Sat Nav with the voice of Rene from allo allo brings them to the front of 'Le Fleapit' hotel.
It is situated on the banks of the River Seine, but is strictly down market with tiles off the roof and in a state of general disrepair.
Titch : 'What's the French word for 'condemned'?'
Des: Look...I found it on Trivago...it has three stars...'
Pat : if you look up through the hole in the roof ...I bet you can see them too!...never mind I think I have a discount coupon for this place too!....
As he opens his wallet....moths fly skyward...there is an old green pound note in there...some green shield stamps and a long list of coupons which unfold and drop to the floor.
He finds the ticket.
Scene 7
The hotel rooms.
They are basic and very French .
Titch looks under the bed and finds some cockroaches.
Des: What are you looking for?,
Titch: Lenny Henry.
Perrier: It's not exactly a French version of a Premier Inn is it...?...I wonder who does their adverts?
Des: 'Thierry Henry probably!'
The lads unpack their bags and all change into the obligation second Welsh strip of sweater shop polo- neck sweaters, casual slacks and white Donnay socks.
As they put on their aftershave- Des admires himself in the mirror.
Des Res: 'Boys...I must say we Welsh are a good looking race!....we are like the equivalent of the Spice Girls....I wonder which one I would be?'
All remainder of the lads look at each other and say as one:
'Old Spice'
Des growls at the insult- as he is Narcissistic and considers himself to be younger looking than his real age.
Scene 8
The boys arrive in the seedier part of Paris- the West Bank - it contains lots of boarded up shops and dilapidated hotels making them homesick for Merthyr.
Titch : 'Look we are in our Twin Town area called Avenue De Clichy'
Des Res: 'but ours has more red lights!'
They look around to see an array of brothels but no traffic lights to control the kerb crawlers. As their accents South Wales echo into the evening mist- an ageing prostitute attempts to entice the party towards her establishment.
She is once again played by aged Ruth Jones.
'Excusez- moi mon cheri parle vous Francais?'
Titch being the most experienced linguist and all round master of the tongue- heads towards the Madame.
The Madame is 60 and has used a lot of make up.
Pat: If she was a horse I would have had money on it that they would have shot her by now...is that REAL Plaster of Paris?'
Titch reaches down the front of his trousers for his wallet- hidden there in case he was mugged so at least he would enjoy it.
He whispers something inaudible in the Madame's ear and she laughs.
Pat hands her a Leekes Department Store lighting discount coupon as he passes.
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Ewe Tube
“C’mon Mun….it will be an internet sensation!” said 16- year old Brecon Farmer Kane Boddy.
His older brother Abel wasn’t so sure.
He preferred to trust his own judgement rather than his brothers.
The pair sat astride their skidoos on the peak of Pen Y Fan, the highest mountain in the Brecon Beacons National Park.
Kane had his mobile phone out ready to film the stunt- if only he could persuade his brother to do it.
“It’s only 886 metres Mun…straight down from the ‘Col’ to Cribyn…it will be Hell of a ride!” said Kane trying to cajole his Brother.
As most people know, when you have a pair of identical twins – one is born usually good and the other evil.
Or as in this case Evel.
The brothers had been out helping feed their Father’s sheep, on the side of the mountains in the worse snowfall in Wales since 1958.
After a week of blizzards, which had swept in from across the Atlantic and down from the Arctic Circle- the highest points of the Welsh Valleys had been covered in nearly six feet or snow and in some places the drifts were as high as ten feet.
Cars were completely buried, with snow ploughs having to be employed for the first time for a number of years.
Once again, the Local Authorities at Powys & Merthyr were caught napping - although in their defence it WAS Early May.
The sight of the Brecon Beacons covered in a white blanket, was the money shot that sold postcards in the nearby Towns of Brecon and Merthyr- but to trainee hill farmers it was a nightmare, as they had to get feed to inaccessible places, so that their sheep would not starve.
Their flock were more like family members than livestock, Kane & Abel saw them more like pets than commodities- each one having a distinctive name and cry.
The brothers having spent all their young lives around the sheep had become very attached to them- in more ways than one.
To be a sheep farmer in the valleys you have to be resilient, strong and resourceful.
Neither Kane nor Abel possessed such wisdom or acumen and their father feared for the future of his farm, as the boys could best be described in farming terminology as a little ‘twp’.
Who else would ride their heavy skidoos so close to the edge of the mountain ridge when the snow had been drifting.
Unbeknown to Abel, whilst he had decided to take the moral high ground from his Brother, he was in fact parked above him on three foot of frozen ice and soft snow which hung perilously over into the Col of the second highest mountain in Wales.
Perhaps, if he had taken the advice of Heavy Rock band Steppenwolf and kept the motor running, he might had stood a chance, but suddenly the floor collapsed below him, the combined weight of one man and his skidoo and of course gravity, sent him flying through the air, like the cartoon character Wily Coyote on a floating rock above a canyon drop.
Abel’s face went a whiter shade of pale and his underpants merged with the skidoo.
Kane suddenly realised what was happening and a look of horror shot across his face, as his chemical sheep- dip damaged brain processed the fact that his brother was in serious trouble- but even so like all youngsters who do not see danger, he kept filming the episode on his camera-phone- then his thoughts turned to his own safety, as the white snow drift he was perched on started to collapse over the edge too.
Luckily for him, he made it back to firmer ground- but only by a matter of inches and he suddenly realised that he needed to send his leather biker trousers to the dry cleaners.
In what seemed like slow motion- his Brother still sat astride his skidoo, disappeared out of sight in a snow cloud and white spray.
Kane was frantic- his Father would kill him-if he found out about his dare.
It was almost like it had been written down somewhere that he would kill his brother.
What did he do?
Go for help or join in his brother’s fate by leaping over the side after him?
As much as Kane loved his Brother- he wasn’t as brave as he thought he was, and staring into the Abergavenny facing abyss- his courage had deserted him.
He decided that discretion was the better part of valour and set off down the Storey Arms side of the Mountain, towards the A470 and civilisation, in the hope that someone could get hold of the Brecon Beacons Mountain Rescue Team and an air ambulance.
Falling through the air at nearly 100MPH, Abel’s short sixteen year old life flashed before his eyes.
He always wanted to get a ton-up on his vehicle but not like this.
Everything around seemed to slow down and blur- with a second feeling like an hour, as he and his skidoo plummeted off the top of Pen Y Fan , partially obscured by a white snow cloud.
Was it his brain preparing him for impact?
Or was there really a God?
Abel ‘s mind raced almost as fast as the skidoo, as he tried to think of a survival technique.
What if he was to time it just right and push his legs up off the skidoo, a split second before impact?…just like the Roadrunner in the Warner Brothers cartoon managed to do?
Abel felt like he was riding a white comet bound for Earth as he pushed with all his might and tried to jump sideways.
He wished he had paid less attention to cartoons as a kid and listened more in his school physics lessons about the effect of centrifugal force, as he was unable to move.
Skidoo and Youth just made a massive seven foot impact crater which was soon covered by falling snow from above.
Abel was knocked unconscious by his own knees and when he awoke in serious pain, he realised he was now in the yoga position of dwi pada sirsasana or ‘the silent frog.
Both his legs had become lodged behind his shoulders and he looked like a lady-boy contortionist on it’s Honeymoon.
He was trapped in a snow prison of his own making, surrounded by soft snow that very quickly would turn to ice.
Whilst Abel was in constant pain and aware that he had broken several bones in the fall, he was surprised to find that like his pet Jack Russell terrier at home, he was now capable of licking his own balls.
He was still Abel Boddy but no longer able bodied.
He looked around him at the air pocket that had luckily formed around him and his bike and tried to think rationally.
What would Bear Grylls do in this situation?
After he had finished panicking- he decided that he must try and reach the roof of the ice ‘cave’ to drill a hole for oxygen to pass in.
He estimated he had a maximum of twenty minutes before the snow solidified into ice and around ten more before the oxygen ran out and he would be found dead by the rescue services.
He needed something to punch a hole in the ceiling with but it was difficult, as he had been concertina'd and looked like a tin can crushed on a road by the weight of a passing car.
The only thing he had in his pocket was a silent whistle that he used to call up the sheep with.
A high pitched frequency only audible by animals- given to him by an award winner Sheepdog Trainer at the Royal Welsh Show- who had warned him to use it sparingly.
He reached it and blew it as hard as his punctured lungs would allow.
Kane skidded to a halt outside the ‘Gnat Free Lodge’ and rushed in to use the telephone.
He was picked up by his lapels and booted out.
His ‘sort’ wasn’t welcome at this five star establishment.
His protestations were ignored by the bar staff.
It was an absolute rule- no person was allowed in the building in the afternoon without a cravat.
No one in working clothes or especially Wellington boots were allowed in EVER.
Kane was beside himself with worry – until he remembered that there was a special call box near the Storey Arms for the Rescue Team.
He kick-started his skidoo and made his way back up the A470 towards Brecon.
His young brain was puzzled by one odd event.
Why were there so many dogs heading in the same direction?
Abel sat hunched on own partially collapsed ribcage.
He was trying to make peace with God- in the belief he was going to die.
He knew that if he slipped back into unconsciousness he would not survive his ordeal.
He tried to think positively despite the fact he had a bird’s eye view of his own bollocks.
He tried desperately to relive the games of snooker in his mind, that he had played out with his brother in an effort to stay conscious and not slip off into eternity.
Suddenly, he thought he heard a sound from above him.
Was it his imagination running riot caused by the lack of oxygen?
He HAD been talking to his own nuts for the last thirty seconds after all.
The scraping sound came again.
It got louder and louder until finally a small hole appeared above him in his ice prison.
A tiny amount of oxygen filtered in and Abel’s damaged lungs let out a sigh of relief.
It was followed by a small piece of woolly tubing.
It was only an inch in diameter but it acted like a chimney.
It looked like a ‘Ewe Tube’.
“Praise be to the Lamb of God!” said Abel suddenly rediscovering his religion.
His teenage mind tried to rationalize events.
Who the Hell could be on the mountain in this weather?
A second hole which appeared above him answered his question.
He looked up and saw a glazed sheep eye staring back at him.
His pet sheep Dolly must have come to his rescue in true ‘Lassie’ fashion.
The hole got bigger as the ovine tried desperately to claw at the ground with her hooves.
Who ever said sheep were stupid animals had clearly never met the indomitable, resourceful Dolly he thought.
“ Well Hello Dolly!” shouted Abel trying to keep himself focused.
He was sure that she answered him back in a human voice muffled by the six inch solid frozen igloo roof.
As the temperature like Dolly dipped suddenly, the snow turned to ice and making the hole larger proved to be difficult for the ovine rescuer.
“ Are you in it?” the sheep bleated.
This was interpreted by Abel as questioning whether he was of Eskimo stock.
“ Inuit?....no… I’m from Brecon mun!” he asked talking to his blue testes.
“ Am I going nuts…nuts?”
He thought the lack of oxygen and the acute pain of his injury was making him hallucinate and hear things too.
Above the warm confines of his igloo, the wind had picked up and was howling like a wolf around the bleak landscape of the Brecon Beacons.
From below Abel could with a squint make out Dolly looking around nervously at the sound, but like Nipper the HMV dog , the Sheep doggedly refused to leave his side or Her Masters Voice.
What Abel didn’t know was that Dolly wasn’t Dolly at all but a lost SAS applicant, that had lost his bearings in the blizzards and subsequent avalanche of snow whilst doing the military version of the ‘Fan Dance’- an Army exercise to determine the physical quality and mental resolve of recruits.
He had witnessed the accident and decided that the life of the young farmer was more important than any Army examination.
His Regiment had decided that rather than risk fatal dehydration again in the Summer Months for squaddies on Penyfan, Cribbyn and Corn Du they would use the Spring and Winter Months instead.
They still had to carry an 18 kilogram Bergen backpack, rifle and water bottle but as an added weight – a proper sheepskin as camouflage.
SAS now stood for Soldiers As Sheep.
Their unofficial slogan to get one up on the Royal Navy was – ‘Be the Beast- and beat the best’
There was much competition between the different arms of the Armed Forces.
It was a handy drill too, as preparation for the soldiers for those long nights in the Northern Iraqi desert, when the temperatures dipped way below zero and with no wife back home in Wales to cuddle up to - it was an essential to slip into a woolly jumper and stay out of sight of the enemy.
The 21 year old hopeful, Monty Redcapp, sighed knowing his act of heroism would be interpreted and punished as a sign of weakness.
Whilst his Drill Sergeant’s may wear the words ‘Help is for Heroes’ on their chests- for this act of individualism -his reward would be peeling more spuds than the Busy Bee Chip Shop in Merthyr did in a year- or cleaning the Officers Mess- which had been interpreted by Army Regulations in Brecon -as licking out with his tongue the Captain’s toilet bowl once again.
The rest of his Unit had carried on regardless- despite the three months of brainwashing – the remainder of his Civvy Street conscience would not let him forget the parable of the ‘Good Samaritan’.
He would not leave an avalanche victim die of asphyxiation or exposure- even if his own life or future career depended upon it.
In the distance, he could hear much barking and howling he could make out black shapes heading at speed towards him.
Now Private Redcapp wasn’t scared of anything in Civvy Street- except dogs that is.
He had developed ‘Cynophobia’ after his Mother had read him a tale from the Mabinogion about Gelert the dog when he was only five years of age.
His soldier Father had died in a football hooligan attack by Blackburn ROVERS at the Wolverhampton Wanderers Ground –Molyneux- in the bad old terrace days of the 1980’s and he had suffered flashbacks ever since.
His psychiatrist had cured him for a while – until his squaddie mates had rented comedy horror film ‘Dog Soldiers’ which had brought back all his night terrors.
The barking got louder as over the snow covered hill like Zulus at Rorke’s ‘Drift ‘- the pack of dogs headed toward the fleece- covered soldier.
It seemed like every dog within ten miles wanted in on the act.
Down in the ice prison, in an effort to stay awake, Abel blew his dog whistle as loud as he could.
It was silent to humans, but was of such a high pitch it was irresistible to canines.
The power of the patented ‘Wolf Whistle’ was not lost on its Merthyr inventor, but had not been a commercial success, as it turned Man’s best friend into Man’s worst enemy, as the frequency sent dogs rabid with desire to stop the sound .
They acted like moths mesmerised but compelled to put out a naked flame.
In the Cefn Coed Simbec laboratory, the test subjects had been known to kill to stop it.
In addition, seeing a solitary sheep lost on the hillside was too big a temptation for the pack of animals.
Legally speaking, the dog pack was banned from hunting animals on private land but the animals themselves didn’t know or care.
But they were a big ‘worry’ for the SAS soldier.
The big question for Private Redcapp was could he stop enough of the ‘Charge of the Bite Brigade’ before they ripped out his throat?.
He didn’t want to see his own version of ‘pink mist’.
He lowered his rifle and took aim.
He pretended he was back on the firing range at Sennybridge shooting at the enemy insurgent targets, as a burst of semi- automatic rifle fire took out the Dalmatian at the front, adding red spots to his black ones.
Another burst and the leading whippet took a fatal bullet in between its ribs.
The greyhound at the front was moving way too fast, so he concentrated on laying down cover fire at the body of the pack- who collapsed with yelps and squeals, as they ate more lead than a swan on Cyfarthfa Park lake.
As long as the pack stayed together, Private Redcapp had a chance.
Unfortunately for him, the more brighter dogs- the Lurchers and Golden Retrievers- being used to gunfire , as they were GUN dogs -broke from the pack in separate directions to outflank the Ovine Officer Material.
The Jack Russell’s had gone down on their bellies crawling- like they were on the local army assault course- to keep low and minimise the target.
Above the din of the battle, Private Redcapp could hear the distinctive sound of an incoming chopper.
He just hoped that his air support would arrive in time to save him.
The Air Ambulance dispatched from the Queen Camilla Hospital had not witnessed such carnage before.
There was more blood on the ice than a Canadian Seal Pup Clubbing convention.
From above, the helicopter crew was shocked at what was going on.
US Army veteran , Pilot Hawke Downe was stunned at the scene below.
He was a veteran of the Somali conflict and had seen some real action.
They thought they had seen everything in the Valleys, but this was their first sheep with an automatic rifle gunning down a pack of mad dogs.
It was Apawcalpyse Now, as ‘Lambo’ sprayed the howling dogs with lead.
They were expecting to aid the search for an injured farmer, not witness the killing fields of Caninebodia.
From the air- they could make out the shape of a Red Setter wearing a blood stained second placed rosette from Crufts Dog Show, no longer moving ‘like Jagger’.
The pack had now completely encircled the sheep who was firing at the closest dog to him.
He kept wheeling in a circle frightened that he would leapt upon and tore to pieces from behind.
The pile of dead Afghans and Russian Borzois grew until the moment the pack had been waiting for.
The click of empty bullet chamber on the rifle.
Private Redcapp now knew he was as good as dead.
“ C’mon land will you….relieve me like in South Africa…or I Mafeking dead!” he said to the Helicopter Pilot under his breath.
Down below in his ice cave, Abel heard the gunfire and the sound of the helicopter overhead but was still unable to move…all he could do was blow hard on his whistle to try and attract attention.
Little did he know that his rescuer needed rescuing.
The Pilot and paramedic were too frightened to land, it was against the rules of their NHS Health & Safety Manual-so decided the best course of action was to film it on their mobile camera-phones and upload it to the internet instead.
The short film ‘Ewe Tube’ had over 100 hits in seconds- as did Private Redcapp.
Ironically, it was the badly named German Shephard, that lunged at the brave squaddie and tore out his throat and the rest of the frenzied bunch ripped him apart like an unlucky fox in the Taf Fechan Boxing Day Hunt.
Normally battle scene bravery is confined to secrecy, but thanks to the action of the Pilot, the bravery of the Private in his last stand was recorded on film on the internet for posterity.
For his gallant actions, Private Redcapp was awarded by the Army not only the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal but also Royal Welsh Best in Show.
Unfortunately, the British Government received writs and legal claims from compensation from the dog owners so ‘cruelly’ killed by Private Redcapp.
The redtop newspapers had named Redcapp -as the ‘bone gunman’.
As for poor Abel Boddy, his remains were never found.
His brother Kane inherited the Farm and his Brothers Birth-right.
The Helicopter Pilot made two million pounds from the video and is now working as a Director in Hollywood, California.
Scene of the action - Pen Y Fan in snow by Oakfield Photography
As he sat at his desk at Swan Street Police station, Constable Peter 'Wolf' Blass's attention was drawn to a light which was moving about mysteriously from the first floor of the disused Swan public house.
" What do you make of that shaft of light?" asked the Policeman to his loyal partner in crime, Isaac Haynes.
" That pub has been shut for three years now...I think we better investigate!"
Like all good cop buddies they never went anywhere unless they were together.
Their combined 60 years service with the South Wales Constabulary, meant that they were on 'light duties' after a terrible car crash in his dog patrol car had left PC 'Wolf' Blass with shattered knees and a guilty conscious, after his dog 'Sniffer' had gone to Doggie Heaven, on account of his swerving to avoid a Cat in Lupin Close.
'The Cat' was in fact a local Gurnos burglar , who was the pair's last recorded arrest, with Sniffer bravely hanging onto the Cat, by his teeth until help arrived.
Isaac Haynes felt that he had been 'shafted' by being paired with Wolf Blass, as he was hoping for an easy last six months, till he got his Police pension.
Boy did he regret losing the keys to the entire Panda Car collection in the Police Compound that night , nothing could move for a whole week , and the boys in blue had to borrow a Police Horse to get around.
They never forgave him at the station, as the Chief Superintendent had used the situation to promote a campaign called 'Heartbeat' , a return to 1960's style on the beat policing , which had ever overweight copper on his case, till he found them at the Briggs Arcade 'Heel Bar' where he had dropped them.
The pair received mercilessly ribbing from the lads, becoming known by the PC incorrect name of 'Car Keys and Crutch'
" Oh it is only a ghost ....said Haynes...the Swan is well known to be haunted... it is one of the oldest pubs in Merthyr!"
" Light Duties ...we were assigned to by the Super...and that was a light!" ordered Wolf Blass with two days superiority over his partner.
" All right!...moaned Haynes...grabbing his Columbo style Gannex....but it is Halloween....that's when ghosts are supposed to walk abroad!"
As the two intrepid investigators passed the blue lamped entrance they headed for the front door of the Pub.
Yvette Fielding and Derek Acorah sat silently in the main bar area of the disused pub...spirits surrounding their every move.
The web cameras whirred and clicked , as their investigations for 'Most Haunted Live 'were beamed live to the Nation, via the wonder of the internet.
In hushed tones, Yvette whispered to Derek " I think I can hear knocking....is it the spirits trying to make contact?"
" Open the bloody door....!" shouted 'Wolf' Blass ...pounding the pub door with his fist... this is the Police!"
" It's times like this when I miss Sniffer....! sighed Wolf Blass, looking at the open aperture at the top of the front window...he would have had them pinned in no time!".
As the door creaked open, the Producer, Karl , stuck his head around the crack in the door , only to receive a receive a size nine boot for his efforts.
" When I say open the door mate....I MEAN OPEN the door!" declared 'Wolf' Blass stepping over the prone figure of the producer and into the pub bar.
"Officer down ....he laughed....your kneecap...has gone again...!" pointed out Haynes as his partner crumpled to the floor .
" It is better...if you remember to let ME do that next time !" declared Haynes twisting his partners leg back into a forward facing direction.
" Allo Allo Allo, what's all this then?!" enquired Haynes looking at the circle of three people holding hands around a wooden bar table.
" Is this one of them swingers parties ....I've read it about in the Police Gazette?" enquired Wolf.
" If you must know I'm a medium!" announced Derek Acorah looking up from the table .
" Well I' m extra large!" declared Haynes lifting his Police issue trousers up to his size 50 waist.
" Do you mind...you are interrupting his concentration...!" declared a stranger stepping out of the shadows , causing both Constables to jump in unison.
" You are interrupting an important scientific experiment, to prove that there is in fact life after death...Mr Acorah here, is not only attempting to communicate with the dead but is hoping to be the only man ever to 'cross over to the side and return' since our Lord did it 2000 years ago.!"
" What about Bobby Ewing in Dallas....?" asked the ever alert Haynsey suspiciously.
" Aren't you Doug Collar....the Running Reverand....former Policeman? Interrupted Wolf Blass running through his photo-fit image in his mind.... " I never forget a face or a sermon!"
" Correct....we are here with the team of Most Haunted Live ...and you are live on Living TV so please do not swear!" continued the Minister.
" So what exactly are you doing in a disused pub at 11.30pm ....do you have a Spirit Licence?" asked Haynes ever the copper.
" We Exorcise!" interjected Yvette Fielding from the table circle.
" Never do it myself!" was the proud boast reply.
" Are those bar prices of £1.25 a shot of whisky still valid?" enquired the prostrate Wolf..." Only I gotta a bad knee see- medicinal like!"
" I thought it was a trick of the light.... announced Haynsey...an optic illusion!" he chuckled at his own joke, pressing up the glass in quick succession and placing his partner's whisky shot on the bar.
As he left £2.50 on the till register, he turned just in time to see the whisky glass move through the air and into the hand of his downed partner .
" Now that's what I call service!" he declared knocking the shot straight down.
" It appears , we are in the company of spirits !" declared Fielding..." Perhaps you gentlemen would help us in our little experiment...it might be handy having independent corroboration!"
As Wolf Blass staggered to the table, the three became five as the circle transformed into a pentagram.
Acorah sat at the Head of the table facing North, Fielding sat next to him together with local priest William Peter Blatty and the two policemen making up the séance party.
" Can you all join hands and be silent ...I will try and make contact with the spirit through my spirit guide...Magua!" announced Acorah dramatically.
" He's from Galon Uchaf isn't he...!" announced Photofit Blass.
" We share a bond!" declared Acorah.
" He's from Galon Uchaf too...!" continued the copper remembering his regular Saturday night charge sheet.
" Sssh...he needs to concentrate....!" snapped Blatty.
" Will you look at that ....!" said an amazed Haynsey....
Emerging from the centre of the ouija board , was a billow of mist and a shining object appeared above the bar table.
" I can see a crystal ball shining...!"announced Haynsey mouth agape
" That's not a ball !" announced the summoned spirit angrily...that's my bald head!....and what's more I tore my hair out working with you pair of clowns!"
" I know that voice....!"said Wolf with some trepidation at the vision before him who seemed to be looking through some kind of round window.
" Your....Inspector Dai Porthole...aren't you...the most feared but respected policeman ever to serve in Merthyr?" continued Wolf nervously.
" I thought I recognised the shining....what do you want with us?" asked Wolf concerned look on his face.
" Well...your drinking on duty for a start...replied the spirit...and you both haven't bulled your boots today.....!" boomed the spirit....but as usual I have come to help you out and save your bacon!"
" Exactly what do you mean....?" asked Haynsey....as I feel that there is going to be a price on this offer of help!"
" I want to help you solve the last of your unsolved cases on your desk before you leave the force, in exchange for one little favour!" offered the phantom.
"Agreed?" said the spirit menacingly.
" Agreed!" stuttered Wolf Blass and Haynesy as one.
" Agreed....SIIIIR...ranking officer on parade!" continued the phantom menace.
" Agreed Siiiir ..!" .said the pair sitting to attention and saluting the dead Chief Inspector.
" Good ...I'll be in touch....other spirits want to come through!" declared Porthole.
As the vision disappeared , Wolf Blass regained his composure and quipped to his partner.
"We'll have to call him Dai Portal-hole now!"
" I heard that !" came the voice from the ether.
Derek Acorah suddenly went into a trance and the glass on the ouija board began to spin wildly.
The gathered gang of five noticed that the glass began to spell out a word....M....Y..
" My...!" offered Haynsey.
...F...A...N..W...Y
" Fanny.... " continued the Policeman...." My Fanny what?"
" MYFANWY....!" declared Acorah , as he suddenly took on the face of the long dead composer Joseph Parry complete with white moustache and grey suit.
" What do you want with us ?" asked Fielding to the new incarnation.
" Those bloody benches...the spirit moaned...with my name on it...outside Nationwide...the ones with the bloody red lights on...I didn't spend weeks composing my songs to have the lyrics stuck up some hooded chavs arse...Dewi Argloed ....!" wailed the spirit.
" If you don't like that you, won't like the run-down 1960's Maisonette they named after you in Caedraw!" offered Wolf Blass
" We have a Doctor Who Court ?" asked Haynsey
" No ....that's not William Hartnell...it's Joseph Parry....the musician....you fool!" laughed Wolf Blass.
" So what's he doing now...if he is dead...is he DE- Composing!" chuckled Haynsey getting into the 'spirit' of the party.
A ghost baton made of ectoplasm suddenly cracked Haynsey on the head before departing.
Acorah's face began to change once more this time into a woman's face.
"Look !" declared Haynsey at the medium chameleon.
The table started to lift mysteriously , on the side of Wolf Blass without any apparent force.
" That's Loretta Swit...Hot Lips herself from MASH ...didn't you have a crush on her once Wolfie!"
" How do you think the table is lifting?" offered a red- face Peter embarrassed by the appearance of his Policeman's Helmet .
" I thought I'd seen the last of 'Blue Peter' !" declared Yvette fielding off some ectoplasm.
The face changed again, to that of the famous medium, Helen Duncan who was known as the Blitz Witch.
The atmosphere changed from one of mirth to one of fear.
" You police...you locked me up under the Witchcraft Act....accused me of being in league with Lucifer...and all because I predicted the sinking of HMS.(Classified)........during the Second World War.....you police...are always getting the wrong guy.....WINSTON SILCOTT, BARRY GEORGE, COLIN STAGG, and my little friend here TIMOTHY EVANS from Merthyr Vale...he wants me to curse you all....!" the spectre fired a blue spark of electric light from her fingertips towards Wolf Blass, but fortunately his disability helped him , as his sudden movement on his dodgy knee and shifting weight shattered the rickety bar chair on which he sat .
The bolt missed him, but rebounded off the pub mirror and struck the head of Priest William Peter Blatty turning his hair whiter than his own dog- collar.
As the Blitz Witch disappeared into the writhing body of Acorah there was a mass sigh of relief.
" Can you smell that Evil?" asked Yvette.
" No that's just Wolfy....declared Haynsey...I've spent many a rugby trip in Ireland with him to know when he's dropped one!"
" Sorry about that....!"offered the reappearing spirit of Inspector Porthole.
" Like you boys in the constabulary, we go round in pairs up here....I tried not to let that Witch through , but she has a way with us Navy types!"
" Anyway, you wanted me to help you clear up some unsolved local crime?" asked the Inspector....." I am always happy to help the police with their enquiries"
Looking down at his Police Note pad...Haynsey put on his best Witness Box Voice and started to read out.....
Unfortunately, by the time he had got to the right page, the medium had transformed into another spirit.
" Where am I....?" declared the one- eyed sailor looking around furtively for cannonballs.
" One minute I am kissing Hardy on the ass on the deck of the Victory ...the next I am strapped to a hairy Welshman ........where am I?" announced Lord Horatio Nelson
" In the Swan ....Merthyr Tydfil....South Wales....!" offered Yvette calmly.
" Merthyr Tydfil.... I stayed there after Trafalgar, down by the Lucy Thomas Fountain......they even named a pub after me in Pontmorlais....where's it gone?" demanded the apparition.
" Closed.....said Wolf Blass.....along with most pubs in Merthyr Tydfil....like the Crystal Palace, The Talbot, the Rose N Crown, The Gurnos Tavern, Matchstick Man, Gwynnes Arms, The Lamb, the Beehive, Castle Vaults, The Wheatsheaf , the Kings Arms, the Western, The Eagle , the Tydfil Arms......."
As the pub names were called , Haynsey sobbed like a mourner at a funeral at the passing of each boozer.
"You know why all those pubs closed.......none of them sold that wonderful Rhymney Brewery Bevan 's Bitter....now that's what you call 'Real ale'....pass me my Police CAMRA!" declared Wolf Blass...splashing his pint down on the table in doing so showering the spirit.
" That's one in the eye for me...must go... my support act wants a word!" declared Lord Nelson
" Hello Boyos...it's me Ray Gravell....what's happened to my beloved Parc Y Stradey .....they knocked it down and built a new stadium....how will they fill that ...I'm Scarlet with rage....they promised me they would name a stand after me....and they only named one entrance in my honour...imagine calling it the 'Gravell Path indeed'.....I'm hopping mad...!"
As the face disappeared , all the talk of old Merthyr Pubs had made the Running Reverand sentimental...."What about the most famous one pub of all...the one on Glebeland Street.....named after our once great heritage of railways in Merthyr .... The Narrow Gauge...... !" sighed the Holy Man
" I thought that was named after the number of shotgun weddings we had in the town!" proffered Wolf Blass.
" That boys.....was the best run pub in Merthyr Tydfil !" continued the Rev
" When I was a copper I did enjoy drinking its fine ales.!"
" As it was a pub known to police its own , popular with the Labour Party and the LVA , the landlord and landlady Dick & Peggy were given carte blanche to operate ....in the days of strict opening hours....they were given advance warning of police raids....many a time me and the other boys in blue hid on the floor behind the bar covered in coats ..... !"
"I too did some of my best undercover work there!" sighed Haynsey
" I heard that!" ....said Dai Porthole re-emerging on the face of the Medium
" He is being re-possessed!....there's a lot of that about in Merthyr" declared Wolf Blass.
" Now .....a Police Order is a Police Order....and I'm here to help you clear up those unsolved Merthyr crimes...but remember the ether is like a shortwave radio and there is a bit of a wavy signal....if you imagine the crystal ball as being a primitive search engine...trying to connect to the spiritual internet....we are not broadband but dial up and there is a lot of spam...besides the rules of 'the other side' prohibit me giving straight answers...a bit like a politician on Question time....or Haynsey in the Witness box....okay!"
" Firstly, ...oldest murder on Merthyr books.... local Brecon girl murdered near the Parish Church, Lower High Street on her way back home from Tanglwst Aberfan ....one.....Tydfil Brychan...any leads?" asked Haynsey.
" Irish....pair of brutes ....BOBO & MAGWAR.... Pict on her... long since dead...close case!" replied the Spectre.
" Fight in old Tesco store in early 1980's...who was involved?" asked Wolf Blass.
"Ouiji bored....Corned Beef wars...double cross....'Princes' of the aisles...tins of soup...blood stained all- weather tee-shirt?" blurted the spirit.
" Who was the Gwernllwyn Close flasher... who stuck his old boy through the letter boxes?" continued Haynsey.
" Dowlais.....guess who's coming...foreskin still in door...tip off....try ARTHUR COX. Penydarren!" wailed the banshee.
" Abercanaid. 2008 ...body of de-selected Local Party candidate...found...shot, drowned and stabbed five times in the back.... marked suicide on Police records... asked Wolf Blass.
" I'm Labour in to answer that one!" was the spectral reply.
" Tiny body found in Gurnos buried near front door...any concrete ideas who it is...?" quizzed Haynesy
" Step-son" was the cryptic reply.
" How much did the Council lose on the Quo concert....£200,000.00K? asked Wolf Blass.
" Down, down deeper and down....!" was the rocking reply.
"Lynette White Inquiry ...?" asked Haynsey.
"Hooker...Scrum Half...touchdown...ruck...balls up...no result" said the voice from the ether .
" Who stole our Isambard Kingdom Brunel Railway Station ?" said Wolfie
" Great Train robbery....see Ronnie Biggs at the Welsh Office!" was the reply.
" How do Merthyr Football Club can get a crowd of Four Thousand for the Walsall game and 221 average British Gas Premier game?" quizzed Haynsey.
" That's one crime ...I can't solve!" replied the sprite.
" Thanks Dai...our enquiries are complete!" said Wolf Blass.
" Now to you completing your part of the bargain!" declared the spirit.
" Well if you want our souls ...we sold them years ago to the God Bacchus !" laughed Wolf Blass.
" And if George Best wants either of his livers back, he'll have to fight us both for them .....snapped Haynsey losing his fear of the Inn spectre.
" I want you to arrest the medium....Derek Acorah!" ordered the deceased Copper.
" On what grounds...? asked Fielding shocked.
" Being the worst actor since Ben Affleck in Pearl Harbour.... Impersonating a policeman....being over the spirit limit...(and nodding at the white haired clergyman.).... and a bleach of the priest.!"
Acorah suddenly broke from the trance and legged it passed the two Coppers and up the stairs to the first floor before they could move.
As the Grandfather Clock struck 12 midnight ' The Witching Hour' brought the remaining hair on Wolf Blass neck and back to attention.
A blood- curdling scream came from the medium, as the Most Haunted crew and the two policeman made their way to the first floor.
Pushing Wolf Blass in front of him...Haynsey opened the door to the guest room to find it was completely empty save for one leather brogue- style shoe which sat in the exact centre surrounded by a chalk pentagram.
The Most Haunted Live Team were worried about the disappearance of Acorah but excited about the prospect that Acorah had finally crossed over.
" Check his shoe for his message!" demanded the Producer eagerly expecting great viewing figures.
" Are there any words inside?" asked a nervous Fielding.
" Just one....!" said Wolf Blass dejectedly realising he had lost his last chance of a 'collar'
" Tuf!" came his reply.
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!
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.!
“ 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.
“ 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!”
"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!
“ Can I take the blindfold off now?” protested his long suffering wife.
“ Yes ..okay!” said Myles Soginist to his spouse Gertie.
Blinking in the strong Italian sunlight, the 75 year old lady didn’t have a ‘scooby’ where she was.
Her husband, not normally the romantic type, had booked a surprise ‘Golden Anniversary’ to celebrate their 50 years together married.
“ What do you think then?” he said triumphantly as she faced the sign Veneto Aeropourto.
“ Bit noisy isn’t it!” she complained but not for the first time ever.
“ What did you expect…it’s a bloody airport for Christ’s sakes!” he protested.
“ Nothing is EVER right for you is it ?” he said as he shook his head trying to keep his remaining solitary brown tooth still in its gum.
Gertrude was a professional whinger, a better moaner than La Gioconda.
She was also deafer than Peter Andre having a lap dance off Jordan.
“ I brought you to Italy to see one of the most beautiful cities in the World that is rapidly disappearing under flood water and rising sea levels!” Myles said dejectedly.
“ But I’ve been to Dawlish before on tinsel and turkey!” said Gertie adjusting her NHS issue hearing aid which was whining louder like a smoke alarm on a Malaysian Airliner.
“ You daft old Bird….we are in Venice not the English Riviera!” replied Myles.
“ Venice….are you sure? …. it smells and looks like the Somerset Levels….!” said Gertie jutting her top set of false teeth up and down as she spoke.
“ Did you pack any Denture Fix ?” asked Myles.
He remembered the last time he had slept with her had been a nightmare, as with her snoring, teeth chattering and lip movements in the night , he kept waking up from a dream believing he had found the missing race horse ‘Shergar’.
Boy had Gertrude Frump changed from the woman he had first married.
Not only her Maiden Name either.
She had trebled in size- no longer the legs of Bette Grable- more like the legs of Beth Ditto…her hair had turned white and thinned so much and what remained was so straggly he felt like she could have been an extra in the ‘Waking Dead’.
She had false teeth, a glass eye, titanium hips, and drooping breasts.
She also had so many blue varicose veins in her legs she looked like a human version skin of ‘Spaghetti Junction’ on a Birmingham sat nav.
Myles being so egotistical, couldn’t see that he had aged too.
He was of the opinion he could have done better and still could if only Gertie would finally give up the ghost.
He already had his eye on the bingo caller at the local OAP complex , who always looked at him suggestively when she called the number six and nine ….69.
Myles didn’t care about her reputation as a ‘Black Widow’….or even that she came from the disputed region of ‘Chechnya’.
With Gertie’s false teeth problem, he no longer was prepared risking having a ‘Marie Antoinette’ style execution of his oldest friend and toy in the World.
“ Gondola Sir?” asked the Italian, Gio Barcorola.
“ I thought I ordered a taxi to meet us at the Airport?” asked Myles.
“ Sir, you do realise that Venice is located in a lagoon in the Adriatic Sea?” said Gio.
“ So you can’t DRIVE there then?” asked Myles.
“ This is a ‘sea taxi’ ….Is this your first visit to Italy?” asked Gio.
“ It is my first time abroad…I’m from Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales !” said Myles proudly.
At the conclusion of this statement Gio took a step back which is very difficult thing to do in a Gondola.
“ That explains it then!” said Gio.
“ 50 Euros UP FRONT please!” he said lowering the arthritic pair into the narrow boat.
“ Explains what?” asked Myles sensing the condescending nature of the statement.
“ Why you are dressed in a wrangler jacket and jeans carrying your change of underpants in a carrier bag!” replied Gio.
“ The traditional Merthyr Tydfil Wedding suit and office briefcase!” said Gio.
“ Bit choppy innit that water !” Gertrude protested.
On the surface of the grey/brown sea water filling the Venetian Lagoon , particularly around the jetty there was lots of flotsam and jetsam.
A filled ‘Pampero’ nappy floated past the gondola, as the trio made their way to the Medieval City.
“ Is it far to Venice?” asked Gertrude.
“ About ten miles by sea from the airporto!” said Gio dabbing his pole in the water and levering the little watercraft away from the shore.
As he did so he naturally started to sing ‘O Solo Mio’ only in Italian.
“ I don’t know about you Gerty, but as we are now ‘culture vultures’ …I cant put my finger on it but I have a sudden urge that I could do with a Walls Cornetto right now!” said Myles.
“ After all - we ARE on our second honeymoon!”
“ Coincidentally, I have two in my on-board mini-fridge….they don’t cost the ‘Earth’ either…only Ten Euros each!” offered Gio.
“ Ten Euros!” exclaimed Myles ….” You know where you can stick them don’t you!”
“ That’s the trouble with you Myles…in all my 50 years of marriage to you …you have always measured everything in terms of money…..!” said Gertie.
“ Money never has been my God!” said Gertie.
“ I’ll have one !” said Gertie reaching into her Merthyr purse designed with a little bell on it to detect pickpockets.
She handed Gio , a crisp Ten Euro Note who then reciprocated her smile.
“ What about him!” asked Gio.
“ After 50 years of marriage to HIM , old empty bollocks can pay for his own!” said Gertie.
Myles just scowled at his wife.
He knew that on the first bite from her loose dentures, the ice cream would go the same way the nappy did.
As if to spite him, the dentures stayed in place as she bit the chocolate and nuts off the top.
He glowered at her with every successive bite, counting 2 Euros off a time- she even licked out the wrapper so he couldn’t get even a sniff.
After thirty minutes of heavy punting, the gondola arrived at the quayside near the old Arsenale Building leading to Grand Canal.
“ What do you think of the view of this Grand Medieval city- once the centre of the European Renaissance ?” asked Myles.
“ Doesn’t it make you quiver with excitement to think that Marco Polo himself may have stood on this very spot?” said Myles.
“ Not really….said Gertie….I’d rather be down the Club with Elsie…Bingo tonight and all!”
Myles paid Gio and turned to him and said loudly.
“ Do you see what I have to put up with now?....never marry for lust Gio …marry for brains… they last longer than looks!” saged Myles imparting his wisdom.
“ Meester… I never marry …too much hastle…I am like my Venetian ancestor, Casanova my friend, I would rather screw the tourists who come here looking for love, romance and entertainment…I take their money , shag their women and eat and drink their hospitality…marriage is for eediots from abroad ….like your Mr Pilkington on Sky tv!” said the down to ‘Earth’- Gio.
“ What do I owe you?” asked Myles.
“ 70 Euros…!” said Gio.
“ It was 50 Euros when we started!” protested Myles.
“ But in the last 30 minutes there has been a run on the £…!” said the rip-off merchant of Venice.
“ I do take it you will need a ride back home at the end of the holiday!” said the Gondolier in a mildly threatening voice.
Myles realising he was in a foreign country, on an island sinking into a lagoon, with no visible alternative return vessel , suddenly realised discretion was the best part of valour and handed over the 70.00. Euros.
“ And zee tip?” asked Gio condescendingly.
“ Don’t eat yellow snow…I’ll give you a tip when you meet us back here at the Quay at 12 Noon in two days time!” said Myles.
By way of compensation, the Merthyr Man waited for the gondolier to turn his back and pinched two cornettos from his ice box.
As he waved Gio off with his remaining hand, he smiled at the greasy Italian, secure in the knowledge that he was not as stupid a ‘punter’ as he thought he was.
Myles felt a tug on the hand behind his back and turned to see a rabid mongrel dog known locally as Gobbi, foaming at the mouth , running away from him on the quayside with one of the ice-creams.
Gertie had made her way selfishly towards some shade.
Picking up the remaining half-chewed ice cream, he went down on one knee and offered it romantically to his wife of fifty years.
His knee clicked and he knew it might take a lifting crane to get him back up.
“ Well what do you think of the splendid Baroque architecture, the pastel colours and the exuberance of Venice- the Bride of the Sea- then?” asked Myles.
“ It’s alright… but it’s no Mecca is it?” said Gertie sounding like she was in fact related to Karl Pilkington.
“ Besides it stinks to High Heaven here…it doesn’t show that on the postcards!” said Gertie.
“ Why do I bother?” said Myles finally levering himself up.
“ This way!” he said pointing in the direction of the main town.
“ I hope you have booked me somewhere nice and not just a ‘Travellodge’ like last time in Weston Super Mare!” said Gertie.
“ The Doges Palace!” replied Myles.
“ I am not staying in any dog’s place!” protested the old dear mishearing her husband.
“ NOT the DOG’s PLACE….this is the DOGES PALACE…..it is a Five Star Hotel….the Doge was the Ancient ruler of Venice!” said Myles trying his best to educate pork.
A feat he had not accomplished in 50 years of Holy matrimony.
“ As long as I have somewhere to rest my varicose veins and put me teeth in a glass I’ll be fine….!” said Gertie
“ and somewhere to rest my Dukes…..!” mouthed Myles knowing in anticipation what his wife would say before she said it.
After 50 years of marriage, his life had become so predictable, so mundane and deliberate he secretly hoped death would take him soon.
Or better still Gertie.
That was part of the reason he had taken his spouse to Venice.
He knew from reading history, that it had lost almost a third of its population to the Black Death or bubonic plague in Medieval times and hoped his wife might contract it.
“ You’ll like this next bridge ….it is one of Venice’s most famous attractions…Ponte del Sospiri!” said Myles pointing up.
“ It was recently refurbished with a UNESCO World Heritage Site Grant…..it is called the Bridge of Sighs !”
“ What about it ?” moaned Gertie disinterested.
“ I don’t understand ….you normally like misery….especially mine …!” said Myles
“ Do you know why it is named that?” he questioned.
“ No….and I don’t really care…I could have won the National tonight!” said Gertie.
“ The prisoners from the local jail that were sentenced to death were paraded over this very bridge.!” continued Myles relentlessly.
“ You see my dear….in Venice…you are never far away from death…the Grim Reaper casts a shadow much greater than that of St Mark…!” said Myles chillingly, in a way as if in some Freudian way , he had finally made up his mind once and for all.
“ What are you mumbling on about …you know I am deaf …especially here in Venice…your bloody snoring did that….!” moaned Gertie.
For the rest of the journey to the Hotel, the pair moved in silence , through the narrow streets and alleyways in a similar fashion to those Venetian prisoners condemned to die had moved all those years ago.
When they reached the Doges Palace Hotel, exhausted from heatstroke and sweating like bingo players waiting on the final winning number, they collapsed inside.
“ Can I take your suitcase Madam?” asked the concierge.
Gertrude handed him her Aldi carrier bag containing one pair of C & A knickers and a spare pair of socks.
Merthyr people pack lightly- as they are too mean to pay excess baggage fares at Cardiff Wales Airport.
“ Is Madam staying long?” asked the fawning Italian hoping to get a tip for service.
“ He tells me he’s paid for Four days!” she said pointing uncaringly at her Spouse.
As if telepathically, the concierge looked at the underwear and back at Gertie.
“ Wear them once forward, once backwards, then inside and out and they are marked C & A so I know which direction to wear them!” she said to her Venetian ‘flunkey’.
The look of horror was enough to know that not only would he not get a tip, but that imagery would stay with him for life.
The other cultural ambassador for Merthyr walked up the reception desk with his little ‘pinky’ finger crooked upward in a vain attempt to appear posh.
“ Bueno Vista Mon Amigo…I have reserved the Honeymoon suite for my wife and I for four nights under the surname Soginist…!” said Myles.
The Italian didn’t even raise her head in courtesy from her mobile phone.
Myles coughed politely.
Gertie looked around her at the foyer and the extensive decoration of Venetian Gothic design with over elaborate golden gilded pillars and cameo reliefs in white alabaster and Murano stained glass.
“ Myles …..are we sure we can afford this?…it is like going into one of those Cardiff Solicitors offices…I don’t want to pay for all this!” said Gertie.
“ Don’t worry my dear…you have to live every day at our age as if it is our last….you might die tomorrow…you never can tell !” he said and then muttering under his breath….” I live in hope!”
Finally, the Italian Belladonna looked up at him with beautiful brown eyes….eyes that he could happily drown in for ever…..she looked like a younger version of Sophia Loren only even more attractive.
Louisa the receptionist, looked at the odd couple before her and immediately felt pity for them.
He had more hair coming out of his nose and ears than he had on his head with a bulbous nose that W C Fields would have been proud of.
Whilst she was more wrinkled than a walnut belonging to the character, Madge in the TV series Benidorm.
Her drooping lop-side faced made her look like a Basset Hound chewing a wasp.
Louisa looked through the booking list and asked for the passports to verify identity.
As she opened up the passports and photocopied them , she noticed that the British Government Uncivil Servants in the Passport Offices still had a sense of humour.
Whilst specific instructions were given not to smile, the Passport office had added holograms to the photographs which made Myles look as if he had a nose ring and a huge elephant ears , whilst Gertie had snipers crosshairs on her fore head which made her look like John F Kennedy in Dallas, Texas in 1963.
Sniggering to herself , she handed them back to Myles, who took this as a sign ‘he had pulled’.
“ Grazi Senor!” he said to Louisa.
Louisa signalled for Mario to collect their belongings totalling one Aldi carrier bag and one more expensive Asda bag.
When Mario asked about the same, Myles quipped that unfortunately he had now ‘two bags for life’.
A joke that was totally lost in translation.
But the simulation of wanting to strangle his wife was not.
Louisa felt particularly uncomfortable at the crazy look in his eye and the aggression in his face.
The lift ride was also uncomfortable as due to Gertie’s deafness , what she thought were silent chapel farts in the small claustrophobic elevator, could be heard by most people on most of the Hotel Floors and at one point did scatter the pigeons in St Mark’s Square- a mile away.
As they reached the 13th Floor, Mario opened the lift doors and guided the ancient pair towards their even more ancient room.
He bowed gracefully but in all honesty mainly to get more oxygen in his lungs, he held out his hand for a gratuity.
Myles took it and shook it and placed a Werther’s original butterscotch sweet in his palm.
“ No need to thank me son!” he said slamming the door in the servants face before he could react.
Gertrude looked around at the four poster bed and ornately decorated room that would have not been out of place in a Sky Atlantic set of the Borgias.
“ Do you like it?” asked Myles still hopeful there was just the faintest glimmer of the girl he had married there under the surface.
The flame of love was quickly extinguished.
“ I can’t stay here!” protested Gertie.
“ But it’s beautiful…..it’s the Honeymoon suite ….to celebrate our 50th Wedding Anniversary!” proffered Myles.
“ Golden walls for my Golden Girl on her Golden Anniversary in a city known as the Bride of the Sea!” he said romantically.
“ Don’t like it….you know I have condition called Khyzdophobia!” she snapped.
“ But those aren’t dwarves up there on the walls Luv…they are Cherubs…winged naked little boys known as ‘Putti’ to us Art lovers and culture vultures!” he said voice tailing off knowing that he could never reason with a closed mind.
The last 50 years or the ‘Golden Age of Matrimony ’ as he liked to call it had proved that very fact.
“ I can be putti in your hands tonight!” he said hopefully.
She just glared at him with her single eye.
“ Okay…I have Nanosphobia …I don’t care …..it is like being backstage at a 1970’s BBC Top of the Pops set….I can’t sleep with all those naked boys staring at me all night!” said Gertie.
“ You’d never make a good DJ then!” quipped Myles.
“ Those paintings are the work of the famous Renaissance artist Tintoretto….Philistine!” said Myles.
“ Never heard of Philistine!” said Gertie ….” Although that is a Goliath of a painting…who is that little shepherd boy using his catapult on that Orc …..is that the Lord of the Slings?”
Myles just shook his head at the woman that thought Stephen Fry was in the TV show IQ and that Meerkats from Russia could actually talk.
He wondered what he had ever seen in this human equivalent of a Booby bird.
That’s right…. it was her pert breasts fifty years ago.
Now they were so elasticated she had to tuck her nipples in the top of her stockings.
He knew he would get no peace tonight, if he didn’t ring reception.
He held his hand over the receiver and pretended to speak to Sophia.
“ I am very sorry to bother you !” he said in his best telephone voice even if it was to tell a complete lie.
“ But my loving wife is not satisfied with the best room in your hotel or even in fact it is the best in Venice but we need to switch to a much more inferior room ….if possible one without a sea view or overlooking the beautiful Campanile of St Mark ….yes I know she’s awkward try living with her for 50 Golden years…but Madame here doesn’t like it because she has a phobia of the little people ….it affects the older generation that’s why it is called NANosphobia…..yes try googling it ….it really is a true condition it just affects old awkward battle-axes who complain about everything….yes I appreciate there are gender differences….men are from Mars and women from Venice….but hey the customer is always right…..any chance you could move us to the lowest cockroach and rat ridden basement below canal level if possible next to a sewerage outfall ….just to give my spouse something genuine to moan about?.....sorry….what was that?” asked Myles in a Fawlty-esque conversation.
“Fully booked love!” he exclaimed.
“ Something to do with the Carnivale and of course - a Sky Film crew filming a documentary here!” said Myles.
“ Well , you will have to draw the curtains around the bed then so I can’t see them!.....I am exhausted I haven’t had my afternoon nap….I’m fit to drop!” she moaned collapsing on the four poster.
Myles seeing his opportunity tried his luck.
After closing the velvet drapes he asked his beau.
“Shattered are you?.....”
Gertie opened her one eye like a Cyclops.
“ Do you have a headache too then?” he enquired further.
“ No….!” said Gertie.
“ Well that’s the first time in a decade then….time for a bit of rumpy !” said Myles.
Gertie was trapped.
She like Boy George preferred a good cup of tea to sex.
Unlike Boy George she didn’t like the same kind of teabags.
It was her Second Honeymoon….how could she refuse?.
Myles was off like a shot popping a blue Cialis pill as he rummaged through more sets of drawers than a Gurnos burglar.
After removal five layers of lady undergarments, he knew he was close …either that or the Rialto Pescheria fish market was working late.
She may be hard of hearing he thought but not herring.
He looked down a sight he had not seen for ten whole years.
Surely it hadn’t closed up from lack of use?
Was that a vaginal cataract or just a cobweb?
Myles didn’t care.
The dog had seen the rabbit and was off on a chase.
To him an old one closing was just as good as a young one opening.
30 seconds later the old dog was a spent force.
He looked up to the painted Heavens on his Honeymoon Suite ceiling.
He felt like King David , Peter Andre and Gareth Gates must have after they had scaled the peaks of Jordan.
“ Have you finished yet?” asked Gertie looking down over her ‘Chat’ Magazine.
Due to the chemical enhancement Myles tool didn’t stay down long.
It was like it was spring loaded.
Like the Grand Old Duke of York before him, the new Doge of Venice grabbed his wife and began to use ‘Doge- y style’ on the poor woman.
If it got any hotter Myles knew he would have to dip it into the other ‘Grand Canal’.
Very soon the old man became de-hydrated as there wasn’t much liquid left in his body- but the same could not be said for Gertie who was like the ‘Orinoco Flow’.
He had not seen such foaming at the mouth since that rabid cornetto- thieving dog two hours ago.
Despite this marathon love session Myles was still intent on killing his spouse.
Unfortunately, this was no longer the preferred method of choice.
He collapsed on his side of the bed and tried to beat down his knob with his a piece of Venetian Carnivale costume.
It added a new meaning to the ‘Masked Ball’.
Gertie laughed in her sleep at his performance almost like a comedy of errors at the nearby ‘La Fenice’ Opera House.
She slept for four hours after his exertions.
Gertie’s mood suddenly darkened and then her face became twisted and distorted as her dream suddenly became a nightmare.
Inside, her mind played out a scene, where she was trapped on a Venice Bridge, surrounded by little people with jagged knives all out to kill her like the psychotic dwarf dressed in a yellow raincoat in the Julie Christie/Donald Sutherland film ‘Don’t look now’.
It was almost as if her body sensed that her husband now stood next to her with a pillow ready to suffocate his miserable wife.
Myles was weighing up in his mind whether or it was worth it or not.
On the one hand he would nag free, but on the other he would be sent to prison for the remainder of his natural life.
But the question he pondered was whether or not four square meals a day, no utility bills and peace and solitude would be that bad – after all at 78 years of age he was not like to be anyone’s prison bitch.
Gertie made up his mind for him, as she opened up one eye (full of eye-snot deposited by the Venetian sandman from the lagoon ) and asked suspiciously what exactly her husband was doing with that pillow in his hand , as he hadn’t made a bed ever in his 50 years of marriage.
He replied that he was protecting her from mosquitos in the absence of a net.
Gertie slept with one eye open for the rest of the night.
As did Myles, although it was on his Cialis enhanced knob which eventually tickled him under the chin to wake up to a glorious Venetian Morning.
They both dressed for breakfast and went down to the Breakfast Room in an uneasy silence.
The room was quite full with most of the seats and tables taken.
There was a full Sky TV film crew and several well- known actors buzzing back and fore for the continental breakfast.
Myles recognised the one off the television as being Ricky Gervais.
“ Don’t look know’ but there is that bloke David Brent from the Office!” said Myles quite proud of the fact he was in the presence of celebrity.
“ What Orifice?” asked Gertie loudly holding her ear-trumpet aloft.
“ Didn’t you have enough last night….you dirty bugger!” she continued.
“ Not the orifice…Extras etc…..!” he said innocently.
“ No Extras for you Myles …you had more than enough to last you another decade last night!” said Gertie.
Myles gave up.
He was intrigued to see a ginger tall man with glasses that looked like the bottom of milk bottles arguing with a bald Mancunian and what looked like a baby in a High Chair.
He couldn’t remember any of their names but they were all friends of Ricky Gervais.
“ Are these seats taken?” asked a young American Tourist.
“ No… help yourself….I’d only have to talk to her otherwise !” replied Myles.
“ Hi… the names Hank Marvin Haggler and this is my new wife Gloria….were from New Joisey…and we’re on Honeymoon!” said the young Yank.
“ Hello!” said Gertie looking up at the stranger, who was completely the opposite of her own husband being tall, dark and handsome.
Gloria sat down opposite her husband and looked longingly at him.
Myles looked at the beautiful young woman and then back at his wife of 50 years and wondered how a butterfly could turn into a caterpillar and then a deaf’s head moth.
“ Pass the sugar….sugar?” asked Gloria.
“ Okay …..pass the honey…honey !” asked Hank in reply.
“ Do you know …..interrupted Gertie….I have been married to him for 50 years and he has not ever once said anything like that to me!” moaned Gertie….getting in her first of many moans of the day.
Myles looked at his wife and said without a hint of emotion on his face.
“ Pass the milk you old cow!”
The silence was deafening apart from Gertie’s hearing aid of course.
More whine than the whole of the Italian vineyards.
“ This Venice water….it’s not like the clear blue stuff you get in the Venetian in Las Vegas !” said Hank sounding disappointed and trying to change the subject.
“ Well that is because everything in America is fake….fake water…fake cosmetic surgery and fake orgasms!” said Myles bitterly.
Another awkward silence prevailed followed with the American couple moving to another table as soon as one was free .
Gloria whispered to her husband ….” I hope that doesn’t happen to us!” .
“ It won’t !” said Hank…..” Say isn’t that the bloke who upset all the Hollywood A Listers at the Golden Globes?” said Hank pointing at Ricky Gervais.
On the adjoining table, the Sky TV Film crew was in uproar, as Ricky kept pinching food from the plastic tray in front of Warwick Davies and bouncing croissants of the bald-head of Karl Pilkington.
His sidekick, fellow bully Stephen Merchant sniggered at the scene and at their misfortune in a Twonks Tea Party.
Multi- millionaire Ricky had all the power and money and what he said went.
Like a real producer, telling his henchmen when to laugh and how to laugh.
Poor Warwick and Karl had to kow-tow to his bidding like ‘Idiots Abroad’ on a whim.
It was not like Ricky had done them any favours…other than make them World Famous Millionaires.
You could say if you weren’t an atheist like Ricky - that they had sold their soul to the Devil.
Gloria turned to Myles and said….” And that is the reason we never had children” she said pointing at little Warwick.
“ That’s a bit harsh isn’t it…even by your standards!” said Myles.
She then pointing at Karl, Stephen & finally Ricky.
Who just laughed like a hyena and made Derek-like expressions at the old pair.
Gloria finally plucked up enough courage to ask the celebrities for their autographs.
Ricky happily obliged asking politely who the autograph was to be made out to.
“ My husband Hank Marvin…please !” she said .
Hank waved from the other table.
“ I’m Hank Marvin too!” said Ricky picking up a sausage and eating it greedily.
“ He is a ‘shadow’ of his former self !” said Merchant following Ricky’s lead.
Both attempts at humour were lost on the young American woman, who was too young to remember the 1960’s band or that Cockney rhyming slang existed.
“ Do you want any of the others?” asked Ricky passing the pen to Warwick Davies.
“ Ewok from Star Wars…Willow Huffgood…and of course DER LEPRECHAUN !” said Ricky in a scary voice.
Warwick duly obliged in ‘shorthand’.
“ Him?” asked Ricky pointing at the bald Mancunian Twonk .
“ I’m sorry I don’t know who he is!” said Gloria.
Ricky thought this was hilarious.
The American woman didn’t have a clue who Karl Pilkington was.
“ I am sorry I should have introduced you….pointing at Karl….An Idiot…and then at the newly married New Jersey woman….A Broad…!”
Laughing at his own joke Ricky nearly fell off his chair.
Warwick Davies punched the plastic food tray with his fist in hysteria like a spoilt baby.
“ And him?” asked Karl in turn pointing at Stephen Merchant.
“ It’s okay I already have ‘Beaker from the Muppets’ autograph from Disneyland!” said Gloria.
It was Karl’s turn to join in this time as Merchant’s face went redder than a baboons arse.
Myles and Gertie had decided they had heard enough and needed to get some air away from the puerile banter.
Even their own company was preferable to this lot.
Grabbing his walking stick and her tripod wheeler walker, the pair stepped out into the magnificent Italian Sunshine to explore the Ancient City once the centre of all World Trade.
As she passed a stall Gloria picked up a postcard showing the Grand Canal and the shining white Rialto Bridge.
“ I must buy this one- if only to make Elsie at number 42 jealous that I have been abroad, do you know she hasn’t stepped one foot off British soil ever- the closest she came was as a Land Girl picking tomatoes in Guernsey….she’ll love this!” said Gloria.
“ Don’t forget to tell her that Venice is a lovely place but that all the streets are flooded!” said Myles sarcastically.
“ Good idea!” said Gertie ignorant of his jibe.
“ Do you want to go to go to see St Theodore and his crocodile in St Marks Square or the Rialto bridge that featured in Shakespeares’ a Merchant of Venice?” asked Myles hopefully.
“ What about a visit to the Pound shops or Charity shops followed by a McDonalds or KFC?” suggested Gertie.
“ Gertie- this is Venice not Merthyr- thankfully they don’t have a High Street dominated by multi-nationals unless you count Guchi & Prada…!” replied Myles.
“ But they have an Ann Summers shop…..look at all those masks in the window!” said Gertie.
“ And that one has a massive nose…is that for their Italian Prime Minster…Silvio Pinocchio …I think he is…the one who held all those Zumba Zumba parties!” said the Sun reader.
“ That mask my dear is to denote people of influence in Venetian Society ….the Doctors mask always had a bigger nose than anyone else…the mask was used as a primitive defence against the bubonic plague as people were more ignorant…like you…as they believed the disease to be carried by airborne germs rather than by fleas on the back of rats….!” said Myles trying but failing to ‘Educate’ Rita.
“ So if the disease was carried by rats….why didn’t Merthyr people get it?” asked Gertie.
“ One really big reason…Merthyr didn’t exist in the 14th Century!” said Myles.
“ It was a hamlet back then!”
“ See Merthyr people have smoked for years ….cigars that long ago!” said Gertie once again displaying she had gone to a failing school.
Myles just shook his head in desperation.
He may as well talk to her about the plot of a tv soap.
“This is this World famous St Mark’s Square!” announced Myles triumphantly.
“ Good, I’m knackered !” said Gertie without even a glance at the beautiful architecture.
As she sat down at a chair outside the a café bar called ‘La Dolce Vita’ Gertie was pleasantly surprised as two handsome Italian waiters fought over her attention.
“ 10 Euros Pleeze…!” said the first one Don Giovanni.
“ But I haven’t ordered anything yet!” protested the Pensioner.
“ It is a charge levied to sit down at a seat in this square and its view of the Basilica!” said the oily skinned lothario.
“ What about the table?” asked Myles.
“ Nothing- but who in their right mind sits on a table?” replied the second Italian Hale Caesar.
“ Me…!” said Myles putting his foot up on his wife’s tripod and sitting cross-legged like the Dalai Lama on the glass table and obscuring the view of the Basilica with the back of his hand.
The waiters upon receipt of the Ten Euro note from a disgruntled Gertie, left the eccentric Mad Dog Eenglishman out in the Mid-Day Sun.
“ You always have to show me up don’t you….you think you are so clever….so superior to these Spanish …..!” replied Gertie.
Myles didn’t both to correct her ….he hated Latin in school but hated being ripped off as a tourist even more.
“ Where too next then my little bundle of Joy?” asked Myles sarcastically.
“ Il Ghetto…the Jewish Quarter….La Fenice or the Rialto ?” he asked hoping the haul around the narrow claustrophobic streets in this heat would see her off.
“ What about that Bridge that Alec Guinness built ?” said Gertie.
“ Your ignorance astounds me sometimes !” said Myles.
“ You have less Culture than Tory MP Maria Miller!” he said snidely.
“ Max Miller…..I used to love him…Wheeltappers and Shunters on a Saturday Night…and then bingo!” said Gertie nostalgically and very deafly.
“ Does everything in your sad World revolve around Bingo?” asked Myles.
“ That’s roulette!” replied Gertie.
Myles looked at her …her deafness had got worse and was now almost equal to her stupidity.
She was now only hearing certain words that she chose to hear…selective deafness …a condition known to affect men but not normally women.
“ C’mon I’ll show you the way to the local BINGO hall…!” he said .
“ Great!” said Gertie moving a little quicker on her tripod walker following the mention of her favourite word.
After another 15 minute walk they arrived outside the magnificent La Fenice Opera House.
“ That’s not a bingo hall!” protested the gasping old dear.
“That’s where the posh people go to hear fat people singing at stupid prices!” said Gertie.
“ The Three Tenors!” sighed Myles looking up at the hub of Venetian Society for over 400 hundred years.
“ More than that to get in there…..is that fat black woman singing there tonight?” asked Gertie.
“ Who?” asked Myles wondering what gem his ignoramus of a wife was on about this time.
“ Oprah….Oprah Winfrey?” she spouted.
Myles closed his eyes in temper.
If it had not been for the presence of a French Tourist filming a video he would have happily strangled her on the spot.
“ Time now for the piece de la resistance - !” said Myles.
“ Oh yes….I am busting too….it’s like Merthyr Town centre since they closed the Bus Station toilets…I have to find a bog soon or I will have to pee in that canal there!” said Gertie letting out a loud sulphurous fart.
“ You will have to excuse my wife…she is a little deaf!” said Myles apologising to Jean Michel Jarre .
“ Apologies….you may need more Oxygene soon!” said Myles.
“ Zut Alors!” came the reply as the cameraman wiped some shit off his lens.
The pair shuffled on like the ‘waking dead’ to the white Structure known as the Rialto Bridge.
“ This my dear is the most famous sight in Venice- this bridge dates back to Medieval times when Venice was the capital of Europe if not the World….the hub and trading centre for famous merchants like Marco Polo!” briefed tour guide Myles.
“ I like his mints but I think Trebor ones are better…you don’t get the hole in the middle!” said Myles taking the piss out of his wife before she had the time to react.
“ I know Marco Polo didn’t make mints….I’m not completely stupid!” said Gertie.
“ Who was he then?” asked Myles.
“ I don’t have to tell you!” replied Gertie defensively.
“ Come on I promise NOT to laugh….who was he then?”
“ That guy from Gladiators….they one they banned because of his drug taking….or that bloke from Made in Chelsea!” said Gertie trying to hedge her bets .
Myles broke his promise and pissed himself.
“ Marco Polo was an explorer and Venetian trader who is reputed to have started the ‘silk road’ to China!” said Myles.
“ Why would he have a Milk Round in China?” asked Gertie once again mishearing the important part.
“ Never mind!” said Myles treading the boards at the entrance to the famous Italian Bridge.
“ I’m sorry Sir but the bridge is closed today for the filming of a television series!” said a heavy duty bouncer .
“ He looks like Marco Polo from Gladiators!” whispered Gertie.
“ You can’t just close a bridge off to the public on a whim ….on whose Holy Orders…. A Papal Bull from the Pope in Rome?” asked Myles.
“ Higher than him….Ricky Gervais!” said the Scottish Bouncer Big Lonsdale Braun.
“ But there are other people on that bridge too!” protested Myles.
“ They are the crew!” said the impassive guard.
“ Oh those must be the ones Ricky asked me to get the ice cream for at breakfast this morning at our Hotel!” said Myles using brains to defeat Braun.
“ What hotel are you staying at ?” asked Big Lonny suspiciously.
“ Doge’s Palace….we were the couple arguing at breakfast!” said Myles.
“ Okay….if you’re getting the ice cream in ….mine’s a cornetto…have you seen the price on them here?” said the muscles from Musselburgh.
Myles limped away to the ice cream vendor and was disgusted to find they were 15 Euros each.
He had to buy ten.
It was a real job to carry them all.
Hidden behind a rubbish bin, lurked Lurkio the rabid dog.
He had already stolen one ice cream off Myles the day before and saw him as easy meat for a second one.
As the pair of pensioner were waived passed by Lonsdale, busily chewing on his cornetto bribe, both Myles and Gertie made their way onto the most famous bridge in all of Christendom.
Gertie motoring up the incline on her little tripod that afforded her mobility.
Myles still capable of walking unaided listened intently as the TV scene played out.
“ An Idiot Abroad Scene 5 Take 3….Gobbo the Hunchback on the Rialto Bridge” shouted Derek-tor Ricky Gervais to the entire cast and crew.
“ Action!”
Warwick Davies, all 3 foot 6 inches of him came out of the scenery dressed as Gobbo Di Rialto, the Hunchback of Venice in a bright red raincoat.
“ Don’t Look Now” said Myles.
He knew full well that his wife of 50 years always did the opposite of what he asked her to do.
Gertie opened her eyes wide as what was a remake of her nightmare unfolded.
Karl Pilkington appeared on the scene , naked bar a golden oak leaf to hide his ‘acorns’, as Ricky had put it , chased after the little blighter towards Gertie with a serrated knife shouting “Come back Gobbo you’ve pinched my nuts….come back with my Pound of Flesh!” in the worst Venetian accent ever.
The pair were heading straight in the direction of the frightened woman, who leapt onto the top of her Tripod three-wheeler for safety, away from the onrushing dwarf.
At the same time as Gertie was distracted, Gobbi the rabid dog seizing his chance ran at full pelt towards the shopping tripod and the now unguarded cornettos.
His bulk and frame combined with the wheel movement on the sloping bridge sent the old woman tumbling over the side off the Rialto Bridge into the turbulent waters of the Grand Canal below.
Myles couldn’t have planned her death any better if he had set it up.
As Gertie flew through the air….horrified bystanders saw her false teeth fly out and land with a splosh in the grey lagoon liquid.
The film crew were in uproar as they thought it was part of a stunt act hired by Ricky himself.
Stunned Ricky stopped the scene and shouted at Warwick.
“ It’s your fault get after her…!”
He picked the mini-actor up by the scruff of the neck and slung him off the bridge.
“ You too Golden Globes!” ordered Ricky to Karl.
“ I ain’t going in there Pal….I’m seen the Manchester ship canal and that is bad but this is a SHIT Canal...!” he protested.
Arriving on the scene came the local Jewish Venetian Policeman, Massal Toff to investigate the accident.
“ Did he try to kill her?” said Massal pointing at Myles to the gathered crowd.
“ He was reported as being unstable by the receptionist at the Doges Palace yesterday?”
“ No…it was an accident…!” said Karl defending the old man.
“ A Hunchback dwarf and a rabid dog knocked the old lady of the bridge!” said Stephen.
“ And you are …..?” asked Massal.
“ Stephen Merchant!” replied the googly-eyed ginger.
“ Of Venice!” quipped Ricky.
“ What are you some kind of comedian?” asked Massal aggressively.
“ Well I am actually!” said Ricky.
“ Idiot!” replied the detective.
“ No that’s him!” said Merchant pointing at Karl.
“ And if you are a Venetian detective….you must be….SHYLOCK HOLMES?” asked the all -powerful Ricky.
“ Any more outbursts from you and I’ll arrest you for obstructing the course of justice!” warned Massal.
“ Look Tom Cruise & Brad Pitt couldn’t shut him at the Golden Globes in Hollywood …what chance have you got!” said Karl.
“Am i reading this statement correctly….Gobbi the rabid dog…gobbled Gobbo the Rialto Hunchback…that sounds like Goobeldegook to me!” said the Policeman.
“ Are you taking the piss….hunchback dwarf….rabid dog…? …that sounds like a bad plot in ‘Extras’ on Sky TV!” replied Massal.
“ So you do know me then !” said Ricky smiling inanely.
“ No !” said Karl realising he had finally for once the opportunity to get one over on his Boss.
“ Ricky here threw Warwick off the bridge in temper!” said Karl.
Ricky looked at Karl with daggers coming from his eyes.
“ You do realise that ‘Dwarf Tossing’ is still illegal in Venice?” questioned Massel.
“ That’s why Warwick didn’t bring his wife on location with him!” responded Ricky trying to laugh it off.
“ Is it a strict liability offence?” asked Karl.
“ Meaning that WHOEVER you are …no matter or not if you are a celebrity you cannot be seen to be above the law in Venetian society?” asked Karl stirring the shit (with a huge pole into the Grand Canal).
“ And who says travel doesn’t broaden the mind!” said Ricky looking at the monster he had created.
“ Yes….!” Replied Massal…“ but sign this autograph for my kid and I’ll let you off!”
A call came through on Massal’s mobile.
He listened intently and then ended the call .
“ Good news Mr Soginist…they have found your wife clinging to a red and white barbers pole 300 yards down in the Lagoon….they have taken her to the Santa Maria Dei Miracola Church to give thanks…the same thing happened in the 15th Century where a man survived after half an hour underwater….the bad news is they haven’t found her false teeth or that Dwarf yet…!” he glanced at Ricky disapprovingly.
Myles put on a happy face as he put his Wife’s Life Insurance Policy back in his pocket grudgingly.
Ten minutes later Massal got a second call.
“ Luckily for you… Mr Gervais your little friend was literally fished out of the Lagoon by a local fisherman who couldn’t decide at first, if he had caught a baby humpback whale or a demon in his net …..it was only when Warwick quoted Shakespeare to them did they believe his story he really was an actor in a Mini Theatre Company!”
“ Ah well ….said Ricky looking pensive from the centre of the Rialto bridge…The Quality of Mercy is not strained eh Massal….” All’s well that ends Well!”.
“ Get that dwarf dried out and let’s get on with the next scene….it’s costing me money!”
Newly expectant Father Declan Anthony Pod paced nervously in the corridor of the Maternity Wing of Llanelli Hospital.
The Year was 1972 and like every Rugby Union Fan in Wales, he secretly wanted a son to follow in his on-field footsteps and play rugby first for the Scarlets and then for Wales.
The timing of his Wife’s labour couldn’t be any worse, as on this very day, Llanelli were playing host to the International Touring Team New Zealand.
The Grand Stand ticket in his shirt pocket was burning a hole in his heart, as he was caught in the horns of a dilemma.
Did he sneak off to the big match? Or wait in this draughty corridor for the 24 or so hours the Doctor said it could take for his first-born child to enter the World?.
It had been a cruel twist of fate that had led to this situation, as his Wife’s due date had been the following Monday but her water’s had broken that afternoon and all the women of his backward West Walian village of Llareggur (that had inspired Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood) had warned him that the child would be born on the real Sabbath Day.
Times were so different in the early 1970’s for men and the maternity process.
There were no ultrasonic pictures, no amniocentesis or health testing.
No-one except for God knew back then the sex of the baby.
Going in to the delivery room was unheard of and taboo to the local midwives, who considered that ‘real’ men fainting was just another hindrance to their work.
Dec had prayed in his local chapel for a little boy to carry on his Surname, which was dying out in West Wales.
Other than him, the only other Pod was spotted in Carmarthen Bay- so he felt a sense of ‘porpoise’ about the whole issue.
His wife, Blodwen was considered old, as she having their first son at the age of 40, which back then was pretty unheard of.
The idle tongues of the village doorsteps rang with rumours that the Dec was not the true Father of the child, but that the local milkman used to deliver more than milk to that Cuckold ‘Blod Pod’ around the front, with the Coal man using the back entrance too.
Although in Llareggur, the whispers had be kept quiet, as it was still legal in West Wales to use the ‘Scold’s Bridle’ to stop women from gossiping maliciously.
It was hard too for women back then, as there was precious little to do- they only had the Water Mill, the Flour Mill and the Rumour Mill to entertain them.
True, there was sewing, crocheting and of course, the Chapel twice on Sunday, but there was little else for women of the village to do- so they either became a scrubber or cleaned their front step.
Whilst having a dalliance with a gentlemen friend was bad, having a dirty threshold was worse still and considered a sin in the eyes of God.
Was it was pure coincidence that all the other desperate Housewives and Rugby Widows of the village, at 10.00am every morning (save as to Sunday of course)?.
Back in 1972, there were no mobiles, no facebook or twitter, the only way to communicate was over the garden wall whilst hanging out the washing.
Dec the Collier, continued to pace the corridor nervously, waiting for news of his child and Mother which was relayed gruffly by the Matronly Mid-wives, who seemed to hold the man responsible for getting their patients into this predicament.
This whole process reminded him of disasters at the local collieries, waiting for news of which of his Brothers-of the Dust had been taken down to the other Pit.
He knew he was obligated to ring his Father-in-Law on the payphone in the Llareggur Inn Bar to update him as to events.
They in turn would ring the Sub-Post Office in Llareggur with the news, as they were the only one in the village who had a phone and then the ‘jungle drums’ would beat and news of the labour flashed like a ‘wildfire’ from doorstep to doorstep for the women.
If he had heard the word ‘dilation’ once that day, he had heard it a hundred times.
It didn’t help his cause to continually hear how many pints of ‘Felinfoel’ Ale that he had consumed in anticipation of the big match.
He was feeling foul enough already.
Worse still was the drunken singing in the background which reminded him of a scene from John Wayne’s ‘The Quiet Man’.
“ Any news yet?” slurred his Father-in-Law in the request for the hourly update.
“ Ten minutes to go in the Second Half…he said looking at his waistcoat pocket watch …are we still up 9-3?” asked Declan getting his priorities right.
His Father-in-Law nodded which wasn’t much help when he was on the telephone.
He hadn’t got the hang of these new-fangled devices yet in Llanelli.
“ Any news your end?”
“ No… but there are two nurses in there now and both are busy with cold water and flannels!” said Dec.
Suddenly, Dec heard his name being called by the more masculine of the two midwives called Miranda.
“ You can come in now!” she ordered.
Dec said “ Got to go now….something is up or more likely down…I will ring you back shortly!” as he slammed down the receiver in haste and headed for the delivery room.
As he entered the room, he could see that his Wife was holding a little bundle of joy in her arms, all wrapped in swaddling white clothes and from the look of her demeanour, she had been through a real ordeal.
The Midwives had cleaned up all the blood and shit from the bed, so that the physical evidence of the struggle in bringing his child into the World had been hidden.
The only sign was etched on the ashen face of Mrs Blod Pod, which was masked by a smile, as she cuddled the reason for the pain that felt like pushing a coconut out of a hole the size of a walnut.
“ Declan… this is your Son… .meet Trey….!” She said proudly, smiling up first at her husband and then down at the babe in arms.
“ Trey….I wanted to call him Barry John!” said Declan.
The look from the faces of the midwives meant he was outvoted.
It was only fair after all that effort that his wife get to name him.
Even if that name reminded him of the man from the Dairy- Trevor who always seemed to call when he was in work or in the pub.
All he could think of with the shadowy figure was ‘Milk Trey’ but he didn’t want to ruin his Wife’s moment of glory- especially as he wanted to go to the match.
“ That’s for your tea!” she said nodding at the afterbirth.
He ignored the remark- even if he was starving.
“ All your Father wants to know is has he got ten little fingers and ten little toes?....as the entire pub keep singing that song!” said Declan.
“ Well, actually that’s something I wanted to talk to you about !” said Blod.
She peeled back the covers to show that the baby was in fact Male.
“ Look at the size of that thing….he takes after his Father and is definitely my child now!” boasted Declan staring down at the baby.
Hang on he thought….there are more than ten little fingers and ten little toes.
In fact there were 25 digits in total.
“That’s not normal is it?” asked Dec of the midwives- as he had only ever lived in Carmarthenshire.
“ That’s why I decided to call him Trey!” said Blod.
“ Not Jake?” stuttered the shocked Dec thinking subliminally of the Rolf Harris song.
“ No!” spat back Blod.
“ Nor Peter the Metre either because he has three feet!” continued the Wife.
“ How the Hell could this happen?” asked Dec.
“ Is God punishing me for all Triple Crown beer I have consumed on a Sabbath?” asked Dec.
“ No….Dr Ganesha has been sent for and he will explain the situation to you!” said Miranda sounding like she had bollocks.
“Rejoice Dec A Pod…. you have a healthy son …who in time will be able to run faster than
Roger Bannister!” said Miranda falling over the bedpan.
Declan was ushered into a side room so as not to disturb the bonding session between Mother and new baby.
Dr Ganesha sat him down and delivered the news. “Your son has been born with an extra leg and my assessment of how this has happened is that he must originally have been one of a conjoined twin but that the other twin did not form properly when the egg subpided but was fed by the umbilical cord and attached itself to the correctly formed twin!” said the Medic.
“Please be assured that such birth deformities, where I come from make your child special and an object of worship!”
“ But you come from Carmarthen!” said Dec still open-mouthed at the surprise.
“ In my culture, this event is a blessing and will prove to be lucky- as during his lifetime, he will be adored by thousands!” said the Doctor as if he was experiencing a premonition .
“ So he WILL get to play for the Scarlets!” said Declan taking in a huge sigh of relief.
“ I don’t know much about rugby…I am more of a cricket fan but he would make a marvellous wicket!” said Dr Ganesha smirking.
The comment was lost on Declan, who was puzzling about the effect the birth would have on HIS life.
“ But hang on….I have a more immediate problem… where am I going to nappies to fit
Dec had an even bigger problem, as he suddenly realised he had missed the closing minutes of the big game .
He rushed back into Maternity, kissed his wife on her sweaty forehead and the baby and shouted out before she had time to reply.
“ I’m off to the pub to catch the match and to wet the baby’s head!”
The look of disgust on the Midwives’ faces mirrored that of his Spouse but Declan felt that he had been through an ordeal too and needed a pint to restore the balance in his World.
Never the quickest on the uptake, Declan puzzled to himself, as he headed for the local pub with news of the new arrival.
“ What did that Doctor mean by a ‘marvellous wicket’?”
As he reached the Llareggur Arms, in complete contrast to the new arrival everyone was legless.
The Llanelli Scarlets had beaten the All Blacks touring team 9-3 and everyone was elated.
Only Dylan, the Pub owner behind the bar was sober.
“ Pint of beer please Dylan!... I have good cause to celebrate!” said the new Father proudly.
“ Sorry there’s no beer left!” replied Dylan.
“ What do you mean there’s no beer left?” asked Declan.
“ Don’t you know Llanelli beat the All Blacks 9-3!” said Dylan even more proudly.
“ Yes….but you must have some beer…..what about your cellar?” asked Declan hopefully.
“ I have run out….no pubs in Llanelli have any left….don’t you think I have rung around?” said Dylan
“ So what have you got to celebrate my new special baby….born to run on the wing for the Scarlets…not just two legs like everyone else….my son has THREE LEGS….he will be a LEGEND!” said Declan.
“ I have only one bottle of Babycham left, two packets of Leek and Onion crisps and some pork scratchings… nothing else!” declared Dylan.
“ Till is loaded mind you…mostly with IOU notes from your Father-in-Law, that he said you would settle up when you arrived!” continued Dylan.
“ Cheeky Monkey!” he said in a strong West Walian accent last used in Hinterland.
“ Well what did you expect?... this is Carmarthenshire after all !” said Dylan.
Handing over most of his weekly pay packet, Declan sipped on his Babycham, trying to look as manly as a Collier above ground could.
After all years of those of firing blanks, he had finally found one good swimmer in his family.
“ Where is he then? Asked Dylan enquiring after his Father-in-Law.
“ Ty Bach!” replied Dylan.
“ Give me those notes from the till , he might need some paper!” ordered Declan.
“ Nice Try!” said Dylan.
“ Yes….slurred one of the pub regulars…the kick was charged down by Bergiers in midfield and he ped over for the first score!” said a regular who had that afternoon changed his name to Phil Bennett.
Declan just looked at him in horror, as he had just like in the classic Likely Lads episode, ‘Benny’ had just ruined the repeat on BBC Sport for him.
He made his way through a tangle of bodies lying on the floor, that was like a scene from Georgie Best’ bedroom that Morning.
He found his Father-in-Law where all men should be, at the top of the beer garden trousers around his ankles in the outdoor toilet giving birth to offspring of his own.
Declan knocked on the rotten wooden door.
“ Bugger Off…it’s taken!” shouted back the distinctive voice of his Father-in-Law.
He knew it was him anyway by the odour and the green fumes seeping under the door.
“ Dewi….you have a new Grandson called Trey!” announced Declan proudly.
“ Are you shitting me?” came the reply.
Dewi didn’t wait to wipe, but pulled up his trousers and pants and opened the door.
He hugged his son-in-law wildly.
“This calls for a celebration!” said Dewi…” Your round!” he continued.
“ There is no beer left… you lot drank it all!” said Declan
“ All well then home time!”
As the pair walked through the village, news of the three-legged baby had already filtered through to the women of Llareggur, who didn’t raise their heads up from their doorsteps in shame, as the pair walked past.
There was no internet or social media at the time but never underestimate the power of West Walian womens’ tongues.
Forward a decade for Declan and young Trey was now ten years old.
His birth defect was largely now ignored by the village children having grown up with his deformity.
1982 ushered in a war with Argentina over the Falkland Islands, which caused a degree of concern for the village as some had relatives in the biggest Welsh-speaking community in the World, including Wales, in Patagonia.
Declan was too young to go but many of the village men had joined up, as there was little work in these parts following the closure of the local creamery due to competition from the European Union.
Declan’s colliery had been put on notice it would be on the rumoured McGregor and Thatcher Pit Closure List- as it was an uneconomic pit.
Trey however, was insulated from the rigours of the adult World, he was just your average ten year old boy with three legs.
It was however, time for the end of ‘tag’ rugby that had been invented by a Merthyr Man with an electronic tag.
It was time for contact rugby- or as Declan put it Man’s rugby.
Sizing up his son, who was smaller than average for his age, he spoke with the coach for the Scarlets youth team who suggested that he would be better placed in the pack with his special ability.
What Declan hadn’t realised was that his three-legged son was a perfect natural hooker.
Two legs to steady himself in the scrum and his middle one to hook back the ball into the pack.
Trey was an instant hit.
“Trey-mendous!” in the words of his coach.
‘Cloggau Gold’ due to its lucky strike abilities.
The Scarlets had never won so many balls against the head and having the lions’ share of possession meant they went on an unbeaten run for three entire seasons between 1982- 1985 which had not been seen in Wales for many a year.
They didn’t even need to nobble the referees for a change.
Trey was also handy in the line- out, being semi-skimmed and light with his extra leg, he could be lifted into the air just like the milking stool he had been conceived upon.
But Trey didn’t only excel at Junior Rugby, he was brilliant at athletics and his ‘Triple Jump’ broke all County records before him, with his landing in the sandpit easily identifiable.
And just like his real biological Father, he was also talented in other ‘fields’.
His speciality was spotted in Junior school and put to good use in drama and dance.
On many occasions, he had his frizzy dyed green and with brown drainpipe trousers, as he was perfect for the background as a copse of trees.
But Trey’s three limbs would not tree limbs for long, as he was destined for greater things.
Out of mighty acorns Oakwood Parks are born.
No sooner than his teacher Miss Fame had realised he could dance too, then he was invited to do the chorus line, and later the Monty Python Ministry of Silly Walks which was followed with great hilarity and eventually a handwritten invitation to join a dance troupe at the forthcoming Eisteddfod.It was then that the Cloggau Gold dance ensemble of ‘Legs & Co’ were formed and named in Trey’s honour.
It was a marvellous site for a proud Blodwen Pod, as her son danced in a production of the ‘Riverdance’ in wooden clogs of all things.
But despite his dancing and sporting accomplishments, life was not all a bed of roses for Trey.
With every growth spurt, he was costing his Mother a fortune in having to buy new shoes and as money was tight in Llareggur- in keeping with the people of Carmarthenshire- his Mother had taken to shopping in Swansea- buying a pair from Clarkes but then pinching the third right, right shoe from the white rack outside the front of the shop.
But it was much harder to swipe rugby boots and therefore Blod was delighted to have come across a single ‘golden’ Gilbert boot sticking out of a landfill tip like it was Excalibur waiting for King Arthur to come along.
It was way too big but Trey would grow into it.
Luckily for her, CCT cameras were not invented in 1985- and not used in Llanelli with the arrival of electricity until 2017.
Trey’s shoe demands were not always down to his adolescent growth.
He was also busy wearing the soles out on his bicycle.
Most children of his peer group in the early Eighties had Raleigh bikes with bold Red Indian names like Chipper and Tomahawk that had stopped selling in the rest of Britain in the 1970’s.
Regrettably due to his extra leg, Trey was unable to ride a convention bike and was forced to stick to the Penny Farthing bicycle his Father had used in the 1960’s to get to work to the Pit on.
He was now using his third leg and shoes as a braking system, much to the annoyance of his parents.
It was from this regular occurrence that an event in 1985 was to change the course of little Trey’s life.
Chasing after the pack of cyclists, as he was unable to keep up on his Penny Farthing and despite being warned by his parents to keep away from it, he foolishly decided to freewheel down ‘Dangerous Hill’ near Tumble.
He found out why the village was so called, as he accelerated downhill to speeds in excess of 60mph with only his middle leg to stop his contraption.
He may have been alright, if he hadn’t collided with that Council Workman cutting the hedgerows.
The Insurance Company refused to pay out too, as they didn’t believe the claim, as they hadn’t heard the words ‘Workman’ and ‘Council’ in the same sentence before.
Trey in the accident lost his leg and despite still having two left, he was unable to regain his balance.
It didn’t help that Declan had whilst his son was still in his hospital bed, told his son to ‘grow a pair’ and that he would now have to ‘stand on his two feet‘.
In West Wales, they were very unforgiving of people who had not suffered their own work experiences.
As Declan had been forced down the Big ‘Cloggau Pit’ since he was Fourteen to feed his Family, he had becomes harder than the seam he cut coal from.
At 13 years of age, Trey’s rugby career was over, as he joined the world of biped after the bicycle crash.
The hokey-cokey would never feel the same to him again.
But the Scarlets Junior Section did him proud.
They set aside a glass cabinet on the portakabin wall for Trey’s amputated leg with a sign which read simply:-
‘Cloggau Gold’- in memory of the ending of the Minor’s Strike 1985’.
As predicted by Dr Garnesha all those years ago, Trey had become a living Leg-End.
The man lay silently in the savannah grass of the Ngorongord valley in Tanzania.
He didn't dare breathe or move for startling the Thompson's gazelle that he had tethered to a small Acacia tree.
From his clothing, you would never have guessed that he was Welsh- only his WRU rubber wrist band on his right 'trigger' hand gave it away.
The Blackwood Dentist, Major Orion Jekyll- Hyde-Hunt, was the veteran predator of the Serengeti, as he approached his 75th Birthday intent on giving himself an early birthday present.
He wasn't using the little antelope for target practice- he was after much bigger prey.
During his 40 or so years, since he was honourably discharged from the Army, Major Hunt had spent most of his free time scouring the Dark Continent in pursuit of the 'Big Five'.
Elephant, Buffalo, Leopard, Rhinoceros and African Lion.
His house - called the 'Grange' -was filled with all kinds of 'trophies' of animal heads on his walls, mounted on wooden shields and was testament to the other love of his life- that of the 'dying' art of taxidermy.
To him there was no greater thrill of tracking his victim through the bush, shooting it and then skinning it and stuffing it and mounting it in his study wall.
He would have done that to his women to if UK Law would have allowed it.
He could not describe to an outsider, how big a man it made him feel to shoot a defenceless animal in cold blood.
It was the Major's biggest regret that he had missed the Second World War- on account of being too young- as he would have loved to have had the opportunity to shoot a man or better still a fellow Nazi.
His brain-washed army brain scanned the surrounding Serengeti Plain for signs of the pride.
He was after an African Lion which was on his 'to-do' list before he went to the 'Great White Hunter' in the sky.
The Major believed that all human life on Earth was Alien and came from a place close to the constellation of stars that he was named after.
The only Big Bang Theory that he believed in, was the big bang that came from the end of his hunting rifle.
And then he saw her.
A magnificent African Lioness of around 7 feet from head to the tip of her tail.
Just like in his native Blackwood, it was the women that did all the hard work- hunting and rearing their young- whilst the men laid around in the sun licking their own balls.
The Major didn't want to shoot this perfect evolutionary killing machine- he wanted Leo-the dominant male lion- the inappropriately named King of the Jungle (as Lions do not live in the Jungle but hunt on the open grassland of Central Africa).
The 'Mane Man' if you like- the Major had a vision of Leo, poking his head through the wall above his grey marble Louis X1Vth surround and open fire.
He knew that the lioness would have to kill the prey and then sit back while the dominant male would stroll over eat the 'lions share' of the raw meat and then leave her the leftovers for both her and the cubs.
Once again- like the Blackwood Men on a Friday Night with a kebab.
As in human life, there is a hierarchy or structure into which all animals - human or otherwise- fit- and he- Major Jekyll Hyde-Hunt complete with his high powered telescopic rifle had replaced Leo at the top of the food chain.
The Major wasn't interested in the environment or nature conservation.
He wasn't even interested in eating his prey.
He purely wanted to shoot the beast and brag to his social- climbing friends that he had the money and resources to do something they could not afford to.
When asked by his fellow Monmouth Golf Club members as to why he went to Africa to hunt- he replied arrogantly - because it was 'there'.
He even took in the severed hand of a Mountain Gorilla - an endangered species- so that he could use it as an ashtray for his Cuban cigars.
The Major was loved and loathed in equal measures by the elite golfing fraternity- most of whom secretly despised his opulence and attitude to life- but would not 'break cover' for fear of being ostracised from the 'Club'.
The Monmouth Club was an anachronism in the 21st Century with Members Rules that were a throwback to the days of the Raj in India.
Only the elite could afford its annual membership and green fees - so only the rich used it.
Back in the 21th Century, the Major used his excellent peripheral vision to spot the Head of the Pride, who was sitting in a small clearing of parched grass that he had flattened with his own body weight, casually flicking his tail at the tsetse flies that buzzed his massive bollocks.
He knew that he couldn't hit the beast at this range.
He would have to risk leaving his position and getting closer to the action.
As he did so- he could see the lioness dropping her shoulders and slowly padding forward towards the tethered gazelle- who was just beginning to pick up her scent.
It started to buck wildly and tried to pull herself free from the tree, as the lioness and the rest of the pride began to close in as one on the stricken animal.
Mercifully, the uneven contest was over very quickly, as the Lioness applied a choke hold to the little antelope's neck and the life quickly drained out of the poor creature, whose eyes were the only testament of the pain it felt in its final death throes.
Nature was both wonderful and cruel in equal measures.
The only difference is that animals hunt to eat while humans hunt just for sport.
Major Jekyll-Hyde-Hunt was just such a human.
He was regarded locally as a bit of an eccentric and a lot of a schizophrenic.
Most patients didn't return for treatment to him- as you didn't know which of the dentist's personas would turn up.
The mild mannered one or the raving lunatic one.
He was a nightmare for his nurses to work with, as he would throw instruments at them like he was a Zulu spear-chucker of the highest order at Rorke's Drift, when in his darker moods.
An Assegai from an Asshole Guy.
Yet on other occasions when Dr Jekyll was in the surgery, he could be the most caring, compassionate human being on the Planet.
Then he had patience with his patients.
But when he was in a rage -the only thing that seemed to calm him down was his love of killing innocent warm-blooded creatures.
His nurses would leave Hunting Magazines around the surgery and waiting room in an effort to distract their schizophrenic employer.
The Major, looked through his telescope lens, he could make out the lumbering shape of Leo ambling towards the dead antelope.
There was nothing more than Leo enjoyed than pawing his way through a Thompson Local.
The fact that the gazelle was still tied to the tree made it like a version of leonine swing-ball, as it batted back and for- losing body parts in each successive swing.
The Major held his head still, took a breath and held it without exhaling, as he steadied himself for the money shot.
There were lions all around and a circle of hyenas and other dogs hanging around the kill- waiting for the big cats to finish and take their 'lions share'-so they could scrap over the left-overs.
He was like Lee Harvey Oswald in that Dallas Book Depository just waiting for Jackal O to get its head out of the way so he could shoot the big guy.
As he finally got a clear shot- he lightly pressed to trigger only to hear a metallic clunk.
Something had clogged up the bullet chamber.
Orion could not believe it.
He cleaned his guns more meticulously than a baboon cleaned its red arse.
He inspected the bullet chamber and noticed that there was an obstruction.
As he pulled out the bullet- he could see the smiling face of Nelson Mandela beaming back at him.
There was a tiny African National Congress medal blocking the cylinder.
It was misshapen and bent and had scored the interior of the rifle.
How the Hell had that got there?
In an instant, he realised that last night at Base Camp, he remembered leaving his rifle unguarded for a few minutes outside whilst he used to 'Bush Telegraph' .
"I bet it was that little kid!" said the Major .
He was referring to one of the children of his 'Tour Guides' from the Masai-Mara tribe that had been hanging around his tent- the little disabled one with half a foot from stepping on a landmine- the one that he had clipped round the back of his head.
" I wished that I had hit that little Kaffe harder now!" said Orion.
Suddenly, the Major's blood ran cold.
He realised that the truck that had brought him out to this Protected Wildlife Reserve had buggered off.
What If in Post-Apartheid Africa, the tribespeople no longer had respect for their minority White Rulers and betters?
What if the same thing that happened in Zimbabwe- Rhodesia came to pass and the class structure was upset by revolution?
UDI or You Die?
It meant the same thing to a Great White Hunter with no transport or fresh water in a 300 mile radius.
Surely these people still relied on the illegal revenue that poaching brought to the tribe?
Bob Geldof and Live Aid couldn't have raised THAT much for the local economy?
All these questions started to go through the Major's head.
He appreciated that there were 'no flies on these people' but they wouldn't just leave a white man to die in the Serengeti with all these wild animals running about would they?
After all he would be missed wouldn't he?
The more questions he asked himself the worse his situation seemed.
He HAD been rude to the Guide, Boko Harram or whatever his name was...he couldn't pronounce it so why should he care what he was called.
His money too...surely they would care about that?
He remembered then he had breached his own rules.
His wallet containing his cash had been in the trouser pocket of his khaki shorts and would have been down around his ankles whilst he was distracted using the toilet.
With a ventilation gap under the door and the sides of the kharzi, any little pilfering hands- especially that a child- could have got his wallet out of the pocket.
The Major was in major trouble.
He checked his pocket for ammunition but found only around five bullets left.
He wasn't even sure if his gun would now fire in view of the damage caused by Nelson's Column.
For the first time in his privileged life, Major Jekyll-Hyde felt fear.
He was no longer the predator but was now potential prey and this new realisation brought with it a real sense of genuine terror.
Was Man the only animal intelligent enough to be scared by such a prospect or did that male Thompson's Gazelle killed by the pride early realise what was coming?
Did the animal rank the same as Major Orion Jekyll-Hyde, when it came to God's Master Plan for the Universe and would he get the blame from the Great Creator?
Either way the Buck stopped with him.
For the first time in his life- he felt insignificant.
Could he extricate himself from this life or death situation?
He knew it wouldn't be long before the predators on this vast grassland would pick up his scent- he prayed that they had not lost their fear of man and didn't view him just yet as 'prey'.
With successive holidaymakers and tourists invading this most sacred place on Earth- some of the animals associated human beings with the provision of food instead of actually being food.
But it was only a matter of time before that changed.
The Major decided he would have to be mentally tough as well as physically tough, if he was to survive this ordeal.
He looked at the hot African sun and noted its trajectory in the sky and decided his best bet was to head East towards the border with Kenya, and use the famous Mount Kilimanjaro as a guide.
He knew there were a few freshwater lakes up there in that area and that there were regular charity climbs by the Welsh Rugby Team and other Europeans - so he decided that would be his 'beacon' of hope.
He knew he would have to get rid of his scent to throw off any predators- so the first lump of elephant shit he came across, he would smear his body with as cover.
Lions were wary of elephants.
He decided he would use the long grass to stay out of sight- although it would be a risky strategy as he could just as easily stumble upon a lioness and her cubs which would mean an instant death.
But at least that would be an instant death.
His other big fear was that of standing on a poisonous snake and being bitten resulting in a slow lingering death.
He thought of how babyish some of his patients were in view of the fact they were living in their 'bubble existence' - being frightened of a small injection or a tiny filling.
Out here it was survival of the fittest and a life or death struggle with not just the elements but a lot of the deadly animals, reptiles and other critters found in the World.
He estimated that the journey at its shortest estimate would be at least a week, through some of the harshest terrain on the Planet.
Not like David Attenborough- who had all the creature comforts that the BBC could provide.
The Major cursed his luck and set off rifle in hand ready to make a great trek.
Every step could be his last - so he recced the area carefully before he moved on.
Like a commando, he would run in small bursts, take cover, watch for movement and then move on.
He estimated he had around five- six hours of sunlight left and he would try and find some cover - if possible off the ground to try and sleep.
He was aware that lions and snakes can both climb trees but the way he saw it - gravity would be his friend in that situation - and he needed all the help he could get if he would ever see Wales again alive.
Eventually, the line of tall grass stopped and the Major could see a vast plain of grass that had been grazed flat by the many herds of herbivores that inhabited this area.
Buffalo, antelope, zebras and giraffes to name but a few.
It never ceased to amaze the Major, at this living proof of Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution and the constant change in genetics and mutation that populated this landscape.
He knew that he had little option but to break cover and follow the herd to the nearest watering holes- (again like the Blackwood men) knowing full well that he would not be the only predatory creature doing the same.
In the searing heat, he pushed his safari hat down on his head - being grateful for the limited cover that the wide brim afforded his face.
In the far distance, he could see the heat hazes dancing like genies emerging from some unseen bottle.
Even the metal of his gun barrel felt 'steelworks' hot to the touch, as he slung it over his right shoulder as he began his yomp.
He knew finding fresh drinking water was his priority and also finding a receptacle he could use to carry it in.
Oh what he would give to find an empty Coca-Cola bottle or can, tossed from a visiting Wildlife fan- but there was none.
Just his luck -apart from Blackwood - it turned out to be the only place left on Earth with no litter.
He didn't like being exposed - out in the wide plain in full view of would- be- predators.
He knew he wasn't capable of outrunning them and being in his mid-seventies he couldn't 'stott'- like an antelope to show he was fit and healthy and capable of outrunning the opposition.
He knew full well that in nature it was survival of the fittest- and he was certainly not the fittest.
As he walked along as fast as his blistered feet would carry him, he noticed the giant termite mounds and an aardvark using his long tongue to get a meal in amongst the dust.
The last time he had seen a tongue that size it was attached to 'Kiss' lead singer Gene Simmons.
He marvelled at its ability to adapt to this barren terrain and the delicate ecosystem upon which it depended.
He didn't really care though- he shot it anyway- with one of the few remaining bullets- as he wondered what it tasted like.
Initially, he had missed the target by four feet- like shooting with an air-rifle with dodgy sights on a rigged Fairground booth.
He adjusted and made the appropriate allowance and hit the target right between the eyes.
He dragged the carcass to a nearby bush and began to light a fire by using two pieces of wood and rubbing them today.
The primitive peoples of the Masai Mara call them 'kaambebalongo' or 'magic sticks'.
The equally primitive people of Blackwood call them matches.
He created a wooden spit from some fallen dead branches and toasted the mammal over the fire.
The Major had to take a chance on cooking the creature- as he couldn't eat it raw- and realised that it was a risky strategy, as the smell of the meat cooking would undoubtedly draw attention which is why he had made camp under a small tree with low to high branches.
So when the inevitable predators came, he could merely climb out of danger and leave them have his leftovers.
He just hoped it wasn't a leopard or lion that fancied a piece of ant-eater- as it generally was not on their preferred menu.
Just before dusk- they came in the form of a pack of hyenas.
Each daring the others to make the first move on the Major.
Their black faces and tiny ears making these savage beasts look like soft and cuddly- when in reality they could rip apart a human in minutes.
As they are descendants of dogs - there was a silent mutual admiration for human beings which goes back to primitive times when cavemen first domesticated these canines- but the initial hesitancy and stand-off only lasts for a few minutes- especially when they are hungry.
The Major beat a hasty retreat to the upper branches - not wishing to waste any of his three remaining bullets on these wild dogs.
He grabbed a chunk of aardvark flesh and climbed as high as he could onto the few branches capable of supporting his weight.
He sat still frustrated that these scavengers would eat his dinner at his expense.
It was a similar feeling to that which he held on the subject of 'Family Allowance' payments to people who didn't want to work in his home Town.
From his safe perch, the Major looked up at the horizon and saw two long necked shadows in profile of the setting orangey-red sun - which must have been giraffes- he was surprisingly enchanted by this scene- as he remembered the one he had shot - a few years back- which he mounted and stuck through his conservatory roof- just to piss off the local Planning Department.
Life was so fragile and unpredictable- he could never have imagined this situation a week ago when he sitting in front of his hearth with an open-fire dressed in his bedroom slippers, cravat and 'Hefner' dressing-gown.
He looked in the direction of Mount Kilimanjaro and it looked mystical- the summit surrounded by low cloud.
No wonder primitive people thought mountains were home of the Gods.
He was also surprised that he could hear the sound of the American Band 'Toto' playing the song 'Africa'.
Only to realise that he had left his MP3 player on.
Like an Oscar winning film of the 1980's- Major Orion Jekyll-Hyde just wanted to be 'Out of Africa' too.
He plotted his next move- as the last of the hyenas disappeared into the bush dragging the elongated nose of the dead anteater for them to chew on later.
The Major made himself as comfortable as was possible in a tree, linked his arms and legs around the branches like a sloth, tipped his hat over his eyes and nodded off to sleep.
It had been a long and eventful day.
His subconscious mind was whirring with thoughts, and proposed survival techniques that he was trying to recall from his army days.
He knew he would have to go 'native' if he was to survive this situation.
And boy did he love soft toilet tissue paper.
The Major awoke with the first rays of the sun.
He could feel something warm and sticky hitting his face.
He brushed his hand on his cheek and realised almost immediately that it was guano or bat shit to the uninitiated.
It stank to high heaven and was coming from one of the branches high above him.
It was almost like it was deliberate- that the Universe was trying to tell him something.
Or that the bat was the reincarnation of RAF trained 'Bomber' Harris.
Sonar or radar being their speciality- being used to hit a target in the dark.
The Major as he got over the shock of where he was- realised he would have to get moving soon.
It was much cooler at this time of day -as the Mid-Day sun directly overhead would cook him like a fried egg on this unforgiving Hell hole grill.
He mentally pointed himself in the direction of Kilimanjaro, set his MP3 to the minimal sound to conserve the battery, scanned the area for danger and then climbed down the trunk of the tree towards the ground.
He could hear all sorts of animals waking up- a cacophony of sound hit his ears- as he strained to identify if the noises were friend or foe- food or killer.
The scenery hadn't change much- inedible grassland and rotten trees.
There was no sign of water.
The best he could do was lick the moisture from the night off the tree leaves, before it evaporated and pray that the tree was not a poisonous variety.
He knew giraffes ate them - so logically - he hoped they would not be toxic.
His mouth was more parched than some of his diabetic patients.
He remembered why he had become a dentist in the first place.
He was a masochist not a sadist.
He enjoyed causing OTHER people pain but did not enjoy it himself.
In short- he could give it not take it.
Perhaps that is why he loved hunting so much- he loved the Power and hurt he could inflict on little animals.
Why did his ancestors bother fighting their way to the top of the food chain otherwise?
Rifle in hand, he carefully padded his way through the short grass- keeping a wary eye out for that hyena pack that had 'dogged' him last night.
Once again he yomped his way over the plains ignoring the pain from his blistered feet.
He knew that as the morning went on, the temperature would climb, and he would have to find some cover if he was to avoid heatstroke.
The climate of Central Africa was harsh at best to a pampered safari guest- but to have to revert to behaving like Victorian Explorers - Speke, Burton and Livingstone- as he 'presumed' that it must have been intolerable to have lived in such primitive times- let alone explore this mosquito-infested continent with its multitude of poisonous plants, dangerous wild animals and unfriendly natives must have been a nightmare.
The Major kept himself mentally alert by replaying in his mind- games of golf that he had played and won at the 'Rose' in Monmouth- as if nothing else if he could convince himself that the Serengeti plain was like walking a giant golf course, then he could pretend and ignore the harshness of his situation.
For every 18 miles that he walked- he felt like they were one 'hole' closer to the 19th Hole- or Club-house - that he could take that long awaited cool drink.
Suddenly, the Major made a startling discovery that would change his situation for the better.
No - it was not a 4x4 Range Rover hidden in the long grass.
It was a dead female elephant carcass, with its tusks removed.
Most normal human beings would have been reviled by the sight, but not the Major.
He being an accomplished taxidermist saw this as an opportunity.
He surmised that it had been shot quite recently by poachers for the ivory tusks.
It was covered in flies and had been pretty much stripped by all sorts of scavengers- with this once magnificent creature that was a direct descendent of the woolly mammoth, now just part of the eco-system and another meal on the Serengeti diners menu.
The Major was surprised to see that behind the remains of the fallen creature, was her dead calf too.
He had died standing up - probably from hunger or shock at the demise of his Mother.
In any event, the Major got to work quickly on the carcass with his Swiss army knife, quickly removing the remaining innards of the baby beast and placing its skin and head out to dry in the sun.
Like the flies all around him - the Major was busy 'hatching' a plan to aid his survival.
Within half an hour- he held the complete wrinkled skin of the baby elephant and like a scene from the 'Silence of the Lambs' he proceeded to wear it- trunk and all.
Like he was wearing a pantomime costume from 'Marigolds' in Brynmawr- the sunburned dentist took cover under the cool skin.
He knew that if he could find the rest of the herd- he would stand a greater chance of survival- as the elephants would lead him to water and offer great protection from the plains predators.
Like Lord Greystoke had become Tarzan before him.
Now the Major had transformed into a Jumbo.
He tried in vain to blow down the trunk of the elephant- but he was not musically trained to play the pachyderm.
The best he could do was raise a tiny squeak.
Now given the size of an African Elephant's ears, to Sir David Attenborough it would have come as no surprise that this sound would have been heard one mile away by the orphan elephant's aunt named Nelly.
She had been searching frantically for the 'orphan-ifant' and her sister for hours.
She headed in the direction of the sound before coming crashing through the savannah and light bush only to stumble on the horrific scene.
The Dentist hidden inside the 'Babar- elephant-skin raincoat' knew it was a life or death gamble, he was playing but what choice did he have?
He had to pretend he was a distraught elephant calf and walked about on all fours- raising the front paws by the aid of two tree branches.
Nelly smelt her nephew and prodded and poked him with her tongue and trunk.
She knew something wasn't right but her proboscis senses told her it smelled just like her relative.
She was distracted by the grief of seeing her fallen sister, who less than 24 hours ago was a living, but alopecia version of a Mastodon dinosaur.
She rubbed her sisters back and tried unsuccessfully to use her trunk and lift the fallen creature.
It was like trying to raise a single Blackwood mother from her DFS Sofa during an episode of Jerry Springer-it was completely hopeless.
The Major- like an inverted elephant rider-or inside mahout- all the while shuffled about like he was vulnerable- in the hope of pricking the Cow Elephant's maternal conscience.
He had never seen an elephant cry before- not even Disney's Dumbo- he assumed that they were dumb animals, with no sense of family or emotion.
These animals were starting to get under his skin- in a strange role reversal.
Eventually Nelly gave up the ghost, indicated for 'Babar' to follow her and slowly began crashing her way through the undergrowth in the direction of the herd.
Every so often she would raise her trunk in the air and give a toot for directional advice from her siblings.
When the Major finally caught up with the elephants- he was shocked to see how massive these creatures were and how gentle and affectionate they were towards each other, especially the dominant bull elephant that he christened 'Colonel Harty'
The hard hearted hunter was softening in view of his new experiences.
He knew that if any of his new travelling companions really wanted to they could crush him underfoot or break every bone in his aging body with one clout from their muscle-bound trunks.
He attached himself to the tiny tail of his newly adopted 'Aunt Nelly' and followed closely, as the herd blazed a trail through the jungle, crashing foliage, scoffing leaves and leaving 'behind' massive green 'jungle pizzas' as they went.
Relieving themselves by scratching their wrinkled arse-skin on the bark of trees.
Being at the back of the herd, the Major didn't have the best view of the World, as he stared up at the rump of Nelly, as it waddled and swayed along to the Jungle rhythm.
With all that ageing grey skin and furrowed lines, it reminded him of Helen Mirren on that L'Oreal advert under Brooklyn Bridge.
Not so much mutton dressed as lamb - more like crows- feet walking in play-doh.
The march was nearly thirty minutes long and during that time the dentist amused himself by checking the dead calf's teeth as they went.
" You need to brush those back wisdom teeth more thoroughly and those gums look a bit enflamed...I thought you elephants never forget?" said the Major tripping back onto Mr Hyde mode.
Eventually, the herd stopped at a small watering hole near Olduugi Gorge which had a beautiful waterfall cascading down from the rocks above.
It was really refreshing, as the herd used their trunks like portable shower pipes, spraying each other communally as part of a bathing ritual.
No ticks or insects stood a chance against these pressure hoses- as they were sprayed off into the water pool.
Not on your Nelly.
The Major suddenly noticed that the once sizeable herd had started to disappear.
But where were they disappearing too?
He made his way towards his adopted Aunt who was wading through the shallow water towards the waterfall and what appeared to be on close inspection a cave beyond it.
As he followed, taking a battering from the force of the water overhead, as he did so he was instantly blinded by the darkness of the cave.
As his eyes were struggling to adjust to the new light- he decided to remove the head of the dead baby elephant in order that he could squeeze through a gap to see out the other end of the cavern.
" My oh-my-....this must be the fabled Alley Barbar's cave!" he said to himself.
His voice booming around the walls with an echo.
Head under his arm, the Major walked like the Victorian ghost of John Merrick, as he made his way through the dark recesses of the Mountain.
He was shocked to see that behind the cave was an entire secret valley filled with the remains of generations of dead elephants, hiding amongst ancient African hardwood trees.
He had stumbled upon an elephant's graveyard.
All around him were white bones and yellow tusks that had lain here undiscovered for Centuries.
There was more ebony and ivory than both of Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney's keyboards.
The Major suddenly reverted to kind.
What was the street value of this little lot?
He knew he would have to get out of this elephant costume soon otherwise he felt he would be rumbled.
His plan had worked the elephants had led him to water but also inadvertently to their version of
Nel Dorado.
As he tried in vain, to get the elephant 'wet' suit off- he struggled as he had done too good a job of sowing himself in.
Try as he might, he could get out the conventional way.
He would have to find another means.
***************************************************************************
Kenyan Poachers, Ness Kaffe and D-Caff looked down at the watering hole somewhat mystified.
They knew that the African elephant was an endangered species and were disappearing fast -but not that fast.
Where had the entire herd gone?
They couldn't have ALL drowned in that little pool.
The pair weren't necessarily bad lads but they had to feed their family somehow.
They had tried to avoid the 'gang' culture by being employed by the Kenyan Coffee Company to grow the coffee beans- but it was really hard work.
D-Caff had tried a brief foray into rap music but it didn't pay as well as Ivory poaching did.
It was a return to the days of slavery - only economic slavery this time- ruled over by the white overseers and masters who gave all the orders.
Having to 'complete' with Brazilian and Columbian coffee, also meant that they didn't get a 'Fair Trade' price for breaking their backs in the hot African sun.
They were convinced that the 'white man' was the spawn of the devil.
As the baby elephant emerged from beneath the waterfall, the pair were shocked to see what appeared to show a White Man slowing emerging from the elephants arsehole.
The pair looked at each other like it was a Ju-Ju or curse and fled back towards their battered stolen Mercedes car left behind from the Top Gear African special.
The Major struggled to get out of the wet suit.
He realised that he had done TOO good a job on sewing himself into the elephant suit and the only aperture left big enough to squeeze through was the bum of the dead creature.
He wondered what any would-be witness to the scene would make of it.
However, the Major knew he was now - give or take a deviation- at least 200 miles from any civilisation - the closest being likely to be at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro.
Now - thanks to the elephants - he had a supply of clean drinking water- all he needed to do was to find a receptacle to carry it in.
He hunted the edge of the pool, lifted some vegetation but couldn't find anything to use.
He was just about to give up and try a different tack when something caught his eye- glinting in the sun.
It was a shiny plastic water bottle containing the logo of the London Olympic Games 2012.
As he fished it out it of the water, he could see an inscription of 'Go Mo for Bo Jo' written on the side.
It had also had a mark to show it had come from the Mayor of London's Office.
How could something have travelled this far- end up in an African lake...probably Labour wasting money again on foreign junkets he assumed.
" Livingstone... I presume?" said the Major.
Whatever was the cause, he was grateful for its use.
He filled it up to the brim, sealed off the top and started in the direction of Mount Kilimanjaro.
As he left the safety of the elephant herd behind, he made a mental note of its location - should he return one day to claim the fortune in ivory- hidden in that secret valley.
The Major could see in the distance the reason why the sacred mountain was known as the 'Roof of Africa'- as its summit was shrouded in low cloud and looked like the front cover of 'The Teardrop Explodes' Album.
It was quite an impressive sight, especially as in the foreground you could see animals as far as the human eye could see, as if clinging to the shadow of this monument of nature for safety.
Stripy Zebras- like horses in black n white pyjamas, long-necked giraffes, antelopes of every description and of course- the predators who relied on these creatures to survive.
It was an eco-system with a diverse habitat that was being destroyed slowly by mankind.
The Major marvelled at the scene- and was mightily impressed at the speed of a thirsty Mo Farrah running away from a pursuing cheetah.
This land was the cradle of civilisation.
It was a shame humans had been allowed entry to the Garden of Eden - as clearly they have spoiled it.
The Major stopped dead in his tracks - as an equine creature shot across his path.
Holding a full driving licence -he was programmed by society to stop at every zebra crossing.
He was also instinctively programmed to shoot on sight too.
Whilst he aimed for its head- the bullet ended up tearing a nearby okapi a new arsehole.
It startled him, as even so called 'family animals' in the wild were potential killers too.
He was aware of the fact that the biggest 'initial' killer in Africa - after ISIS, AIDS, and HIV was in fact the hippopotamus.
They, just like crocodiles can outrun a human (Mo Farrah excepted) over a short distance, have a body weight that is the equivalent of Vanessa Feltz standing on your toes in high heeled shoes, and a powerful jaw that can snap a man in half.
The Major staggered on - as the sun blazed down on him- he now had blisters on his blisters and knew that it was only his iron will to survive that was keeping him from being the next meal on the flying vulture menu.
He was thirsty, starving and scared half to death.
Perhaps, it was karma paying the old dentist back for all of those years that -he- the 'driller killer' had caused pain and suffering to other people and defenceless animals.
But there is another saying- 'shit floats' and perhaps this was the reason that he stumbled upon a nomadic member of the Masai Mara Tribe.
It was the first time in his life that the Major looked pleased to see a fellow human being.
The tribesman known as Cowadunga was startled by the 'ghost'- as he had not seen a White Caucasian before, but had heard tales from his ancestors about the appearance of the White Man being associated with bad luck and of course slavery.
"Kanyo Iyesita Oloiborry Endira?" he asked.
Which translated to:-
" What are doing White Devil?".
Cowadunga was frightened that he was an evil spirit come to take him or his beloved cattle away.
Neither man could speak a word of each other's language.
The Major stared at the pearly white teeth of the tribesman and was impressed with his dental hygiene.
How did he keep them that clean without toothpaste or a toothbrush?
What Den-Plan was he on?
He - like all Englishmen abroad- arrogantly expected the tribesman to speak the Queens English- after all it was the language of the internet.
Cowadunga -even if he could have understood him- he wouldn't know what the internet, broadband or a toothbrush was for that matter.
He could see that the Major had a rifle over his shoulder, and he had witnessed first-hand what a bullet could do to him or his animals- so he took several steps back away from the 'Endira'.
As he did so, the Major began to follow him.
He tried to use body language - by offering him the open palm front gesture to show he meant no harm- but Cowadunga had decided he would do a 'Mo Farrah' and put as much distance between him and the 'slaver' as he could.
The Major was shocked at the speed of the tribesman.
He had never seen anything move that fast- not that is -since that time as a kid, when he stuck a red hot poker up the arse of his pet tomcat.
As Cowadunga ran, his feet disappeared in a cloud of dust like he was a modern day roadrunner bird.
The Major thought briefly about shooting him, but decided it wasn't worth wasting a precious bullet.
Instead, he just stole his lunch and headed on towards the sacred Mountain.
He was very grateful for the milky drink, cow cheese and strip of biltong that Mrs Cowadunga had packed her husband that morning.
Further on, the terrain of the ground began to change- as did the animals.
In the rocky foothills leading to Mount Kilimanjaro, the Major encountered a flange of baboons, a couple of chimpanzees and the occasional Mountain Gorilla in the descending mist.
The temperatures in the Third World began to cool to just 96 degrees in the shade.
He laboured on until he was no longer physically able to walk- looking for a safe place to bed down for the night.
Like most humans- he had an innate fear of the dark and the time just before Dawn, he found the blackest.
He looked up at the beautiful starlit sky and once again marvelled at how insignificant he was, compared to the infinite galaxy of constellations that shone down from the Heavens.
There was even a constellation named after him- not Orion the Hunter- but that of the 'Great Bear'.
Just like Jekyll-Hyde- the 'Bear' was split in two personalities:-
Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.
And just like the Welshman you could not predict which one would come out at night.
The Major made himself as comfortable as he could in a tiny Acacia tree.
If only birdwatcher Billie Oddie could see him perched up on the middle branches- he really would 'twitch'- at the sight of this unusual bird.
He felt about as comfortable as Christopher Biggins would be in a thong.
But 'Safari -so Goodie' - he had thus far by some miracle the Bore with the Twelve Bore, had survived his 'Great Trek' across South Africa and reached the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro.
He had a lot of climbing up massive stonewalls tomorrow ahead of him- so he knew he needed to preserve his strength and get some shut-eye.
As he hung his weapon over the tree branch, and then his gun too, he started to drift off.
Every so often his leg would involuntarily spasm in a hypnic jerk, as his daytime motor control of his muscles failed to switch off.
It was a residual reaction left over from mankind's primitive arboreal past to prevent him toppling out of his perch.
The time when the first African man lived in trees- just like the modern-day 'Blackwood' Dentist.
When the Major awoke at first light- he had found that his toes and fingers had instinctively curled around the branches of the acacia- with his nob acting as an anchor too.
As he rubbed the 'eye snot' from his sleepy eyes, he blinked at the new Dawn.
He left off an almighty fart- that startled the Serengeti and sent a herd of rhinoceroses into a crash.
He stretched up with his arms and yawned loudly.
He rubbed a couple of pesky ants off his neck.
He then proceeded mentally to choose the easiest pathway up the ancient grey rocks - selecting to begin his assent up a narrow ravine.
He knew that one like a sewage worker during a 69 session - one slip and he would be in the shit.
But he had precious little option.
He would climb the rocks and then discharge his gun into the air to see if he could attract attention.
He would then wave his arms around and make a stone SOS signal on the ground, in the hope someone could spot it from the air.
As he reached the narrow cleft in the rocks- he proceeded to climb it with his back pressed firmly against the other side.
He knew a few days ago, the fuller figured dentist would not have fitted the aperture, but the newly malnourished African version would.
Ursa Major was evolving into Ursa Minor.
The Big Hunter had lost so much weight- he was now the Big Hunt.
Most of his disgruntled ex-patients had called him a version of that too.
The Major knew that he simply HAD to hold out for the 70 foot 'chimney-sweep-style' climb.
The 'Great Bear' Grylls had to grow a pair, if he wanted to live to see his phoney pals at the Golf Club again and 'brag' about his latest ordeal.
He remembered his climbing technique training from the Army and of course actor Gregory Peck in 'The Guns of Navarone'.
Each foothold and handhold was important.
You didn't release one until the other three were firmly planted in position.
Like a caterpillar version of Chris Bonnington, the gravity-defying inch-worm hunchback, crawled his way up the steep sided rock- carefully selecting his holds as he went.
In that heat, human sweat could be deadly and act as an unwanted finger lubricant.
With his rounded back touching the opposite wall of the narrow crevasse, he climbed up unaided thrown the narrowest point of the gap between the rocks.
His hunchback was hurting him and he also had a lot of cramp in his leg muscles- as his 'Charlie' and his 'Charley Horse' both slowed his progress.
His rifle too slung over his back was another impediment, as it swung violently, as he tried to fight the natural elements.
Once he had passed the point of no return, the Major had a plan to place his hands and feet on opposite sides of the chasm and power himself up the rocks like a star-jumping frog, using his entire body strength and speed to rise to the top of the 'chimney'.
It was a gamble but he had no other option.
He knew it was all or nothing.
He let go of the rock and tried to 'starfish' his way up to safety.
He hoped that once there he could build his distress boulder message in the hope of being rescued.
After all the Mountain had achieved charitable status itself, with everyone from Irish Models in red stiletto heels, to Welsh Rugby Captains and even Lord Geldof of Live Aid Fame raising money by climbing its peak.
As he made it to the top of the opening, the Major was expecting to see hordes of people, walking passed in fancy dress- Bugs Bunny costumes, blue feathered ostriches or Superman outfits- but there was no one around.
He was sweating and straining, preparing himself mentally for the final grab from his X wing position, when out from a small bush came a voice.
" Allo Der" said the African Man.
As he smiled he revealed perfectly white teeth to the sun and dazzled the Major in the process.
Blinded by the Sun God Amun Ra - the Major instinctively raised his right arm to protect his eyes from the glare of the reflected sun.
This move proved fatal, as he then fell face first back down the rock-face- much quicker than he had climbed it.
As he fell he once again wondered who was doing the veneers around here.
He landed with great force face up in the gap in the rocks wedged tighter than a pair of Cyril Smith's underpants.
The African stood on the edge of the vertical drop and shouted down to the Major.
" U' allright down der Man?"
" Not really!" replied the Major.
" Who the Devil are you anyway?"
The African tossed him down a business card which he caught in his open hands.
He read the card aloud.
" Idi Amin Junior- Last Prince of Scotland Tours of Kilimanjaro- Proprietor."
" You gander?" asked the African.
" Yes...but what are you doing in Tanzania?" replied the trapped dentist- ironically performing his last ever filling.
The poor man was trapped with his head facing up - as was his rifle - both pointing skyward like a Grenadier guard on parade.
The Major knew that he was hundreds of miles away from the nearest hospital and the chance of any form of rescue was out of the question.
This cleft in the rocks would be his final resting place on Earth.
And the responsibility for this had to fall squarely on the shoulders of the exiled Dictators Son.
" Sorry about that... but my family has a habit of making people disappear!" said the African peering over the edge tentatively.
" When I heard it was Kilimanjaro ....I didn't realise I had to take the first part LITERALLY!" said the Major.
He tempted the African out of cover by deliberately speaking quietly.
" What did you say Bwana?" asked Idi.
" Is there anybody else up there with sense that could get me out of my predicament?"
" No....nobody on Der Mountain till (he looked at his booking schedule) October...one Month from now!"
At that point the taxidermist knew he was stuffed.
It was now or never if he was to tick his last box on his Bucket List.
The Major fired off his shot which went straight up in the air, just missing the African's ear as it went.
" You nearly shot me then!" he screamed back down the abyss as the bullet sailed on and on up into the air.
The Major was disappointed that he had missed his quarry despite the fact he himself had not missed his.
" One bullet left!" he cursed.
He didn't want to die slowly of dehydration of starvation.
He would save that for emergency.
But there is a saying what goes up must come down, and this equally applies to bullets.
Whilst the bullet had missed it's target on first flight- it didn't miss poor Idi on the way back - as it struck him on the back of the ostrich feathered headdress on the way back down.
He teetered on the edge for a split second then plummeted lifelessly down the chasm towards the trapped climber.
He landed with a thump which knocked the Major free but sent him to a crumpled heap on the floor.
All broken and twisted he lay unconscious and oblivious to pain- a bit like it his old patients were under the old dentists black mask of gas.
But then he came around and realised that he had more broken bones than Motorcyclist Barry Sheen.
He was in excruciating pain- like a combination of all the root canal fillings he had ever given in his life.
Like Karma balancing out all the suffering he had caused during his dental career- which secretly he had enjoyed administering.
He decided that the only way forward was to put the rifle under his chin and shoot himself.
He pointed the rifle up and after a few seconds of deliberation and silent prayer- he squeezed the trigger.
The dodgy sight and bent barrel meant it missed the dentist- only taking off the tip of his nose before hitting an innocent monkey in a tree near the rocks- sending him plummeting to his death.
"Major Mistake!" he said as he collapsed in agony- knowing that he was food for the African vultures flying close-by.
" Orion- you really are a Big Hunt!".
