DRIVER CHARD IN BREXIT ULTIMATUM

DRIVER CHARD IN BREXIT  ULTIMATUM

Driver Chard, the diminutive but headstrong ex-President of the Duck Flat Cap Society has demanded a new kind of BREXIT, in which the districts of Harrow Weald and Belmont, which are located in the London Borough of Harrow, secede from the United Kingdom and join a customs and political union with Prussia.


Even after it has been explained to the octogenarian potentate that Prussia ceased to exist in 1918, he demands that the districts are immediately removed from all current Brexit negotiations and expediently depart the constrains of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

The elderly statements threatens that he will withdraw the payment of his council tax if his demands are not met.

He has further stated that he will refrain from his duties as a "Gentleman Imbiber and Defender of the Faith" if his ultimatum is not met in full within forty eight hours.

In an additional outburst the former trade union oligarch has indicated that he wishes Little Legs Parkes to be the premier of the new breakaway state, with the position of foreign secretary taken up by Barry the gravedigger.

However, this agreement would be subject to Little Legs Parkes changing his name to "Little Legs Metternich", and Barry the Gravedigger to "Bismarck the Gravedigger".

The remaining executive positions of the fledgling state would be decided by a "peoples vote" or plebiscite, with voting restricted to residents aged over the age of sixty.

However , the short list of acceptable candidates would consist of existing members of the Duck Flat Cap Society "Imbibing and Procrastinating" sub-committee and affiliated officers.

More to follow after an extraordinary meeting of the DFCS IP sub committee, that takes place at a secret location on a date to be confirmed.

To be continued............

R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020

2.THE MAN WHO SAT ON A HILL - PART 2

2.THE MAN WHO SAT ON A HILL - PART 2
(CONTINUATION)

As Henry followed the monk-like figure and wolf, he noticed that although it was still raining quite heavily, they were leaving no trail in the grass. Suppressing an urge to flee, Henry continued after the duo and quickened his pace so as to get closer to them.

However, each time he extended his stride and energetically increased his speed, he was unable to close the gap between himself and those he pursued.  After a short time the hooded figure stopped and turned to Henry Reaper and gestured for him to come closer.

The monk grabbed Henry by his arm and pulled him gently towards him. Pointing towards a slight dip in the hillside, he declared that within a sacred glade hidden behind the depression in the hill was an entrance to a secluded valley that had been undisturbed for centuries. This valley contained an ancient monastery that had escaped the destruction and dissolution conducted by Henry Tudor, known to history as King Henry VIII, and his conniving principle secretary and chief minister, Thomas Cromwell.

Unable to respond in a coherent manner, Henry Reaper gestured to the monk to continue towards the supposed opening in the hillside so that they may proceed to the lost monastery. The mist and damp atmosphere grew thicker and before Henry was able to draw more than a few breaths, they were standing in the bright sunlight at the head of a gentle valley dominated by a huge Romanesque monastic structure, with its gleaming towers stretching in to a cloudless sky. Various outbuildings were scattered about the complex and farm animals were abundant in the fields adjacent to the monastic complex.

Soon they were seated at a table within the scriptorium where the monk disclosed his name as Aethelwulf of Ockendon and that the monastery was the seat of a particular knowledge endowed on only a few selected clerics and churchmen. He went on to explain events that had happened during the reign of Henry Tudors father, also named Henry, who as the victor of the battle of Bosworth, had seized the throne from the Yorkist claimant, Richard Plantagenet on behalf of the Lancastrian contingent of the Royal family. After gaining the throne, Henry VII had instigated the exploration of the north Atlantic by Bristol based sailors, so as to search for the fabled north west passage and to satisfy the need for new and fresh cod fishing grounds.

Aethelwulf the monk then explained that during one of these expeditions, a number of Bristolian families were put ashore on the North American coast to the south of Newfoundland and that they helped to found a settlement that has since been hidden from history. The members of this settlement flourished, and in time after interbreeding with the local indigenous people, eventually made unexpected contact with surviving members of previous voyages from Europe. These earlier arrivals from the "old world" consisted of a contingent of Welsh monks who had fled from persecution inflicted by Anglo Norman barons who had plundered their estates and confiscated the monastic wealth for there own treasuries.

The welsh monks had travelled across the North Atlantic in small coracle like vessels and had survived the long and arduous journey by using the western isles, Iceland, Greenland and eventually the coast of Labrador and Newfoundland as stepping stones for obtaining fresh food and water. When they eventually made land fall on continental North America they were surprised to encounter the descendants of Norse explorers who had settled firstly in the more northern latitudes of Greenland and Newfoundland, and then abandoning there Vinland settlements had moved south to the more temperate climes of what was later to become New England.

Aethelwulf went on to disclosed that his ancestors were related to those who had settled in the lush forests and river valleys of the proto New England, and that he was a product of the mixing of the Welsh Monks, Norsemen, native indigenous inhabitants and Bristolians, who had come together to form a new community of nations in the new lands they now occupied.  In time, the religious faction from Wales came to control the community that flourished under there strict and religious administration.

Realising that there was no future for them unless they revoked their vow of celibacy, they took native maidens as wives and reproduced in numbers sufficient to maintain there dominance. The descendants of the adventurers from Bristol soon became the communities merchant class, trading prodigiously with the native inhabitants, and the Norse quickly established themselves in the vanguard as the protectors of the community by forming a militia to police and defend the settlement of "Ockendon".

Aethelwulf then explained that although the North American community had remained hidden from the other inhabitants of North America, and continued to flourish it the Kingdoms hidden location deep within the forested hills of Arcadia, the wish to return to their homeland in Europe eventually overcame the benefits of their local paradise, and a band of warriors and there kin folk returned to the ancient lands of Mercia to establish a new community in the Insular Isles of Britain.

The location remained hidden from the local inhabitants due to a mysterious power that emanated from a casket of relics that included a magnificent Dagger.The current leader of this Angelcynn commonwealth was Offa, who had taken his name from his illustrious ancestor and King of Mercia.

Drawing a deep breath, Aethelwulf then drew a jewel encrusted dagger from a hidden pocket in his habit, and placed it before Henry Reaper exclaiming that his and his worlds destiny would soon be revealed and that he was to take the dagger in his hands and hold it towards the sky.


To be continued...….    

1.THE MAN WHO SAT ON A HILL

1.THE MAN WHO SAT ON A HILL

Mist moved through the valley until it enveloped all it encountered, and as usual, a gentle drizzle filled the air.

The ground was becoming sodden, and drops of rainwater dripped from the abundant trees and bushes that scattered the landscape.
However, none of this prevented Henry G Reaper from sitting on the hill top as he did every day at the same spot overlooking the town below. As he surveyed the scene below his thoughts returned to that day many years ago when he first encountered the vision that had changed his life.

Although he was now approaching an age when he would no longer be able to climb to the summit of the hill, his memory of the events that day were still vivid in his mind, and he was soon deep in thought remembering that fateful day.

TIMES PAST

It was at least forty years ago that after a Saturday morning working in the towns mill as an apprentice weft threader, he had popped in to the Red Lion for half a pint of mild and a tuppenny bun. After his ale, bun and the appropriate ablutions, he took the church path out of town and started to climb the slopes of the steep passageway. Rain was falling gently but persistently and there was a light breeze.

He remembered that his hobnail boots clanked on the dry stone cobbles as he approached the church and as he glanced towards the graveyard he felt an unexplained chill and shiver down his spine. Although alarmed he quickly dismissed any feeling of  unease and continued his approach towards the stile and footpath that would take him through the church field, over the shallow but cold river Yabble by way of the antediluvian stone causeway, and on to the ancient wool packers trail that snaked up the hill and eventually down the other side on its way to the local port.

The area had become extremely wealthy during the middle ages due to the huge flocks of sheep that had wandered the hills and valleys throughout the county. The wool from the sheep was worth it weight in gold to the wealthy land owners who had ruthlessly thrown their tenants of their farms and small holdings so that the millions of sheep could wander the former yeomanry's agricultural strips of ridge and furrow and the peasants common pasture land and waste.

As Henry strode forward he was soon passing through the remnants of an abandoned village that disappeared as the villagers departed the land and the sheep took over the ancient fields. The tell tale depressions in the ground and the slightly raised level platforms of land reveal where the cottagers huts and buildings once stood, and slight linear depressions in the fields revealed where the village lanes ran throughout the settlement. Occasionally a wall of a crumbled village church would stand proud from the ground, standing testament to the earlier inhabitants of these bleak and windswept landscapes.

Henry continued along a sunken Holloway and was soon approaching the remains of an ancient cemetery. The graveyard had not been tended for centuries and most of the bodies had been exhumed and transferred to a charnel house when the land was ripped from the villagers grasp to make way for the flocks of sheep which miraculously turned the Lord of the Manors grass pastures and hill slopes to gold.

It was rumoured by many old-timers in the town below, that the ancient graveyard had included those who had perished during the numerous episodes of the Black Death or Plague that had ravished the country during the centuries that the village flourished. Indeed, an analysis of the soil would still show traces of the caustic lime that was spread over corpses that had perished from the Plague. These lime pits were often some way from an area of habitation, and this was why the graves were located further from the abandoned village than any other buildings.

Pausing a short while to glance back down the hill, Henry trudged upwards towards a small clump of trees that offered some shelter from the  rain that had started to fall more persistently. Henry was starting to notice that there was a chill in the air and for a moment a tingling sensation ran the length of his body, from head to toes, resulting in a shake of his head and the hunching of his shoulders. His hobnail boots were not waterproof and his feet were starting to feel uncomfortably wet due to a combination of leakage and sweat. The loose fitting boots were also rubbing against his toes and heels and a trickle of blood was mixing with the sweat and rain water to stain his linen socks a dark red. Sucking in his cheeks he began to breath heavily due to his quickened pace as he tried to reach the shelter of the copse before  the rain fell any harder.

Minutes later he was under the branches of a large Ash tree and washing the rain from his face with a handkerchief that he recovered from his waistcoat pocket. As he regained his composure he suddenly felt the presence of somebody or something behind him. Frozen to the spot and unable to move, his mind was flashing through various thoughts as to how he should react, because he was certain that an entity of some kind was behind his left shoulder. As if immobilised, he was at first unable to make his body respond to his brains signals. Moments later he spun his neck and head to his left and jumped back a stride as he turned to face the presence he sensed behind him.

Standing about three yards from him, only slightly obscured by the branches of a small conifer sapling, appeared to be the figures of a huge black wolf and a hooded figure with a shepherds crock in its left hand. Henry was startled by  the vision before him but as the blood began to flow back in to his limbs and his brain regain some composure, he reached out to the apparition exclaiming "who are you and where have you come from ?"

After a brief pause the entity responded by stating in a strongly accented speech that he was in the service of his lord Offa, King of the Mercian's, and that he was to lead Henry to his destiny and salvation..........

To be continued.....




 

CIDER WITH CANNEY - PART 1

CIDER WITH CANNEY - PART 1

The air was still and infused with the putrid smell if stale sweat and dry sick, and strewn about the room bodies twitched as they continued their cider induced slumber.

Newspapers partially covered the floor, the date 1983 prominent at the top of the red banner tabloids.

In North West London the early morning sun  started to penetrate the windows of the dingy ground floor apartment, and in the corner of the small room a record player continued to spin emitting an eerie screech as the blunt needle scraped the Bakelite base of the player.

Beside the record player were a couple of dozen empty litre bottles of strong cider together with scores of empty cider cans.

In the bathroom the toilet was overflowing with indescribable filth and tissue paper was scattered throughout the room, stuck to the walls, floor and ceiling.

Hanging from the light fitting was a soiled pair of boxer shorts that were embroidered in green with the initials MDC, and covered in thick puke.

On the floor of the room that was occupied by at least five inebriate sleeping and flatulating beasts was a electric kettle and dozens of cups and glasses lined with the residue of copious Irish coffees and southern comfort. The evidence lay beside the kettle with empty cartons of cream, cubes of brown sugar and empty bottles of Irish whiskey and southern comfort. Stale cigarette butts littered the room and the stench of stale tobacco was overwhelming.

The telephone began to ring and after a couple of minutes an overweight body of medium height began to slumber. In response to the incessant ringing the rotund figure rose to his feet and stumbled through the detritus and immobile bodies strewn about the room to answer the phone. As if injected with a dose of smelling salts the obese troglodyte threw down the phone and screamed out loud..

"Sue is on her way, we have to clear up !" .

The remainder of the occupants were quickly on there feet and struggling to clean the room of the nights boojar session.



To be continued......

ZOMBIE VERSUS SLOP BUCKET

ZOMBIE VERSUS SLOP BUCKET

Dr Winyard Washington Brown and Lord Loafington Barron have stunned the world by confirming the biggest mismatch in the history of the unlicensed sport of caged imbibing.

Dr Brown has chosen the Zombie as his alcoholic weapon and Lord Barron the Slop Bucket.

Due to the difference in size of the standard slop bucket and the regulation Zombie, Dr Brown will need to consume double the volume to obtain the title.

Dr Brown who obtained his title as Emeritus professor of Luther Vandross studies, and Lord Barron who is to be stripped of his ennoblement are unavailable for comment at this time but more will be divulged in due course after the event scheduled for 31August 2018.

3."MITRE BOYS ON TOUR" - MIJA MISSION PATPOSSIBLE - PART 3

3. "MITRE BOYS ON TOUR" - MIJA MISSION PATPOSSIBLE - PART 3

Having completed their ablutions, the merry band of ageing mitorians decamped to the local hostelry and started to imbibe the local ales and imported ciders. It was not long before El Mac was engaged in a one way conversation with a doppelganger, but after fifteen minutes Nigel O relived the lookalike from his embarrassment, and returned El Mac to his seat.

After a swift couple of ales, they were joined by their female counterparts who quickly decided that it was time to depart for the local citadel and an appointment with battered Mediterranean cod, mushy peas, curry sauce, brown sauce, tomato sauce, chips and cheesy chips.

Sue quickly switched her apparel to that of a chauffeur and was soon ferrying the first batch of fish fiends to the allotted restaurant in the old town of Mija. As Big Jack,Lou,The Horse, Horsess and Don Pat rearranged the tables at least three times, the first pints of cider and lager were brought to the tables. Shortly Nigel O,Sue, El Mac and Sue the chauffeur arrived at the table, enabling the food to be ordered.

Ignoring the numerous mobile phone calls requesting Sue to pick up additional party goers and other regular users of the Don Pat Taxi service, the food was soon eaten and the drinks consumed. Sue quickly replaced her drivers cap upon her head, and was soon relaying members of the still sober "A Team" back towards their luxurious accommodation and the warmth and comfort of the adjacent bar that they had imbibed in earlier. A few hardy individuals decided to walk the short distance back to the bar and soon Big Jack and the Horse were striding out at an exuberant and jaunty pace, with Lou, Mags the Horsess, Nigel O and Sue O galloping lamely some fifty strides behind. Eventually, the marching band reached the Bar where they rejoined Don Pat, Sue and El Mac.  

With the wind now blowing a at gale force, the ensemble decided to be seated within the premises and after further shuffling and moving of tables all were seated and drinking their chosen tipple. At this stage Nigel O remembered that El Mac was still outside in the storm force winds, with his remaining hair threatening to create an ad hoc Bobby Charlton comb-over. Having collected Mac from the teeth of a gale, (but not of a comb), the serious drinking could begin, and another round was ordered.

Before long the weak willed women decided that it was time for bed and retreated to their apartments for sleep and a cup of tea. Big Jack, acting as Don Pats number two, accompanied the ladies to the entrance portal and after entering the appropriate digital code the external doors to the complex opened allowing the woman to enter. Having checked that they were within the sealed complex, Big Jack returned to the awaiting brethren.

As the palm trees outside the bar bent at an acute angle due to the increased intensity of the winds, Don Pat finished his two hundredth fag of the day, and explained that the bar was about to close, as it was not yet high season in this fashionable but somewhat dry resort. So after quickly consuming a further three pints each, we returned to our bijou accommodation to continue swilling on the wind swept balcony of Don Pats Penthouse gaff.

However, the atmospheric and bodily winds were making it difficult to stay seated and so with much ill feeling it was agreed to suspend proceedings and resume in the morning.   

To be continued.......

2."MITRE BOYS ON TOUR" - MIJA MISSION PATPOSSIBLE - PART 2

2. "MITRE BOYS ON TOUR" - MIJA MISSION PATPOSSIBLE - PART 2

After running the Madrid airport marathon for seniors, Senor Don Pat and his entourage boarded the minuscule aircraft for the onward journey to his hide-out in the sun.

The "A team" attempted to settle into their seats but were interrupted by Mac trying to stuff his oversized hand luggage into the overhead lockers. After assistance from the convivial but Hispanic speaking cabin crew, Mac attempted to stash his bag on his seat and sit on it. However, his lofty perch was soon spotted by the over enthusiastic cabin crew and soon a hand to hand struggle was enacted between, Nigel O, Mac and a squeaky speaking Spanish lady-boy.

After a minute of pushing and shoving the bag was placed at the feet of Nigel O, but this was considered inappropriate by the Spanish gestapo, and soon the bag was being manhandled from the plan to be placed in the hold with the other over sized bags. Whilst this commotion was taking place, the ground staff had systematically loaded and unloaded the hold luggage on three occasions, whilst conceivably looking for contraband in Macs underpants, but eventually with a swoosh of the hands and the muttering of adios, the hold was sealed and with the elastic bands fully wound up, the miniature aircraft taxied for take-off.

After ascending in to the sky over Madrid and taking in the sights of the local sewage plant, the plane was selling a selection of beverages as the entire plane queued to relieve themselves in the only bog, which was located at the rear of the plane adjacent to Mac and close to Lou and Sue O. Soon Lou was chatting up the only octogenarian Irish hippy onboard and was soon quarreling with Sue O over who would have the honour of holding him upright whilst he waited to expel the Guinness from his system.

 Eventually, with both of our heroins having pocketed his telephone number the balsa plane was approaching the welcoming tarmac of Malaga Airport. Cabin Crew to Cross Check bellowed the intercom as the cabin crew stared at each other trying to interpret the message. Finally the message was repeated in Latin, and the crew strapped themselves in to there seats for the landing procedure.

After taxing to a halt some hundred meters from the terminal, we awaited our release which was granted after a sweaty and uncomfortable wait. We levered our aching bodies from our seats and climbed down the steep steps in to the Andalusian sun. Passing through passport control without showing any identification, we were soon met by Manuel who was to drive us to our hideout.  After a short delay of approximately forty five minutes whilst the "puffing billy's" in our group smoked a couple of dozen fags each, we were bombing down the highway towards Calla Mija and our luxurious retreat. Pat and Sue had left us at the airport so as to collect their transport and were soon drawing up at our destination just as our own chariot arrived.

After allowing Mac to get out of the boot, we collected our baggage and decamped to the accommodation so as to ready our tired bodies for the heavy night of drinking that was ahead of us. After a couple of dumps we were ready.......

To be continued...

1."MITRE BOYS ON TOUR" - MIJA MISSION PATPOSSIBLE - PART 1

1."MITRE BOYS ON TOUR" - MIJA MISSION PATPOSSIBLE - PART 1

Out of the early morning mist a strange but familiar figure emerged from his lair and gestured towards the waiting taxi.  As the figure moved towards the vehicle it became apparent that the slow moving entity was Mitre legend Paul Mac, otherwise known as Mac. His small piece of luggage was soon placed in the vehicle and he greeted the Horse and Horsess who were already aboard the chariot.

Soon the trio and their Navajo chariot driver were approaching the gates of the mighty port known as Heathrow. After eagerly disembarking from the vehicle and discharging their debt to the Navajo navigator, they were soon sampling the comforting hot fluids available within the ports edifice. A short while later they were joined by the merry quartet of Big Jack, Lou, Nigel O and Sue, who had previously heartily feasted at the nearby Artimarti residence of the former Mitre publicans.

 A few moments later the Prince of Boojar- Pat Canney, and his partner Sue were within the seething port, and after melodious and heartfelt greetings the boisterous roustabouts were soon passing through passport control to await there transport to the southern imbibing fields of Andalusia.

Having boarded their chosen mode of transport, the ensemble settled in to a soothing slumber as the fortified aircraft ascended through the turbulent sky until reaching its cruising altitude.

 Our host was soon asleep and dreaming about cold pints of cider, large bottles of red wine and a thousand and one fags.

 No sooner than becoming sleepy and comfortable in their seats, the Mitorian band of brothers were landing at Madrid, and after a small delay were disembarking for the connecting flight to Malaga and onward transportation to the fabled imbibing settlement at Cala Mija.

It was at this point that Pat decided that it was time his training for the London Marathon was utilised, and was soon sprinting through the transit terminal towards our new embarkation point. As he sucked his belly in and puffed out his rosy cheeks, his supercharged legs began to propel his body  at tremendous speed to the astonishment of all assembled. Crowds soon gathered to line his swift progress along the aisle, passing the numbered gates until portal 73 was reached without a single bead of perspiration leaking from his Olympian body.

To be continued....

POSTCARDS FROM THE FRONT - THE PEN OF LORD LOAFINGTON SMYTHE AND HORSINGTON SMYTHE

POSTCARDS FROM THE FRONT - THE PEN OF LORD LOAFINGTON SMYTHE AND HORSINGTON SMYTHE

 DEAR WIGGINS

THE LORD GOD MUST BE SAVING ME FOR A HIGHER PURPOSE GOOD FRIEND, FOR THE  VERY NIGHT BEFORE I WAS TO BOARD THE LUSITANIA THE LADY WIFE HAD AN  AWFUL ATTACK OF THE VAPOURS AND WE HAD TO CANCEL.

AS YOU'VE PROBABLY HEARD BY NOW THAT POOR VESSEL IS NO MORE AND YOURS TRULY LIVES TO TELL THE TALE.

IT IS GOOD TO KNOW YOU HAVE SURVIVED THE INITIAL LANDINGS, MINTY AND BUNTY BOTH SEND THEIR REGARDS AND MISS YOU BUNDLES, THEY ARE ALREADY PLANNING CAKES AND LEMONADE FOR YOUR HOMECOMING DEAR BOY.

I TOLD THEM YOU WOULD PROBABLY PREFER A GALLON OF ALE AND A ROSY PROSTITUTE BUT YOU KNOW MINTY.

GOD SPEED DEAR BOY, YOU ARE IN OUR THOUGHTS AND IN OUR HEARTS, HOPE THE CHOCOLATE REACHES YOU ALRIGHT.

 UNCLE RAIF.

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DEAR LORD HORSINGTON OF THE FESTERING HOOF

SOME REVIEWS JUST IN OF THE FIRST SEGMENT OF YOUR FORTHCOMING HISTORICAL NOVELLA.

  " TYPICAL IN THE WAY IT PORTRAYED US DAMN COOLIES"

   The Cleaner.

  "I COULDNT PUT IT DOWN"

   Julius Caesar

 " THE MAN WRITES AND WALKS A FINE LINE BETWEEN MADNESS  

  AND GENIUS,     

  QUITE SIMPLY SUPERB"

  King George III.

 "HE SHOULD BE PUT DOWN LIKE A COMMON PYGMY"

 Dr Henry Livingstone

 "PHONE MY LAWYER"

 Winnie Brown

JUST A FEW OF THE POSITIVE REVIEWS OF YOUR OPENING SYNOPSIS MY LORD, I WILL OF COURSE SUBMIT IT TO THE PUBLISHING PANEL WHO I AM SURE WILL BACK IT FOR PUBLICATION.

YOU CAN REST ASSURED THAT THE FULL RESOURCES OF OUR ADVERTISING DEPT WILL ENSURE THAT THIS IMPORTANT WORK REACHES ITS FULL AUDIENCE.

INDEED YOUR GRACE I HOPE ONE DAY TO SEE IT ON THE SCHOOL CURRICULUM.

PLEASE DO NOT HESITATE TO CONTACT ME IF YOU REQUIRE ANYTHING.

YOURS SINCERELY

CHARLES "BUFFY" TINGWALL

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DEAR PROFESSOR HORSINGTON.

GOOD NEWS PROF. I HAVE UNEARTHED CONCRETE PROOF OF THE EXISTENCE OF THE FISH GOD CANNIUS VODKARUS IN THE DILUVIAN SWAMP OF LESSER NEASDEN.

YOUR FAITH IN MY EXPEDITION HAS BEEN VINDICATED, IT WOULD SEEM THAT THE ANCIENT VODKA LOVING PEOPLE OF NEASDEN WORSHIPPED A BARREL BELLIED DEITY AND CALLED HIM A FISH GOD BECAUSE OF HIS VAST CONSUMPTION IN THE ANCIENT FIREWATER OF YORE.

THIS STRANGE CREATURE WAS HALF MAN HALF BELLY AND DWELT IN THE FOGGY SWAMPS OF NW10 EMERGING ONLY TO QUAFF AT THE VODKA HOLES BUBBLING FROM THE EARTHS CORE.

IT SHUNNED ORDINARY SOCIETY AND LIVED A SOLITARY EXISTENCE ONLY EMERGING AT PRIMEVIL CEREMONIES TO OFFER HIMSELF FOR WORSHIP.

WE HAVE FOUND FRAGMENTS OF ITS SHIRT WHICH IT WOULD DISCARD AT THE EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY IN A FRENZIED DANCE AROUND THE SACRIFICIAL FIRE.

IT WOULD APPEAR MY DEAR GUIDE AND MENTOR THAT EVOLUTION HAS INDEED PASSED THIS CREATURE BY.

I WILL OF COURSE BE PRESENTING THE EVIDENCE I HAVE ACCRUED AT THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF HORSEMANSHIP AT A LATER DATE, I WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED OF ANY FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.

YOUR FRIEND

SEPTIMUS DOGFONDLER

EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF ALCOHOL AND ANTIQUITIES. MA.PHD.

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DEAR EFFEE.

GOOD LUCK AS YOU RIDE INTO THE VALLEY OF THE FIVE THOUSAND, HOPE TO SEE YOU AFTER YOUR CAMPAIGN FOR SOME OF THAT NEW FANGLED "COFFEE" BEVERAGE THAT EVERYBODYS TALKING ABOUT.

ITS LOVELY HERE AS I AWAIT THE BOAT THAT IS TO TAKE ME OVER TO KRAKATOA, INDONESIA IS SO BEAUTIFUL THIS TIME OF YEAR, I CERTAINLY DONT NEED A BALACLAVA WHATEVER THAT IS.

THE NATIVES HERE SEEM RESTLESS THERE IS SOME TALK OF A VOLCANO GOD STIRRING SOMEWHERE BUT YOU KNOW WHAT THESE GODLESS HEATHENS ARE LIKE IM SURE NOTHING UNTO WARD WILL HAPPEN TO  GOD FEARING ENGLISHMEN SUCH

AS OURSELVES ALTHOUGH THERE DOES SEEM TO BE AN AWFUL LOT OF RED HOT DUST IN THE AIR AND THE SEA SEEMS TO BE BOILING.

OH WELL NEVER MIND, NOTHING A CUP OF TEA AND A PASSAGE FROM THE BIBLE SHOULDNT CURE.

LOOKING FORWARD TO HEARING OF YOUR TALES OF DERRING DO AFTER YOUR NO DOUBT SUCCESSFUL FORAY INTO THE HEART OF COSSACK COUNTRY.

YOUR  PAL 

CARRUTHERS

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DEAR BOOFERS

EXCELLENT SHOW OLD CHAP, THE MAD MARDHI NEEDS A GOOD COME-UPPANCE AND YOU'RE THE MAN FOR THE JOB.

THE CAMEL RIDE SOUNDS GOOD FUN IF A BIT WEARING ON THE OLD BO BO,A BIT LIKE SCHOOL OLD CHAP WHAT!!.

IM BEING SECONDED TO A UNIT SOMEWHERE NEAR A BLOODY PLACE CALLED ROURKES DRIFT IN BALLY BONGO BONGO LAND.

WITH A LOAD OF TAFFS, I BET YOU A DINNER AT CLARIDGES, COMPLETE WITH A BOTTLE OF 57 LAFITE. IT'LL BE ALL OVER BY THE TIME I GET THERE. JUST MY LUCK.

SEE YOU SOON OLD MAN

YOURS

CAPTAIN "KIP" CARRINGTON. DSO AND BAR.

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TURDOXIAN HIGH TREASON


LORD LOAF OF THE BOHIEMION CREED,

REPORTS HAVE REACHED ME THAT TURDOXIAN RAIDS ARE TAKING PLACE IN THE BORDER REGIONS.

DUE TO YOUR PROXIMITY TO THE AREA, YOUR THOUGHTS ON THIS GRAVE MATTER ARE URGENTLY REQUIRED. PLEASE REPORT BY RETURN.

YOURS
UNCLE BOHIEM

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DEAR UNCLE BOHEME

I HAVE RECEIVED A REPORT FROM MY RECON GROUP WHO HAVE INFORMED ME THAT A SMALL TURDOXIAN RAIDING PARTY HAS INDEED BEEN EMULATING THE MODUS OPERANDI OF THE REIVERS OF OLD.

I HAVE SENT OUT BOHEME REINFORCEMENTS TO PATROL AND DEAL WITH THE HORDE, THE VISIBLE PRESENCE OF THESE STOUT FORCES SHOULD PROVIDE THE DETERRENT REQUIRED.

I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT ANY TURDOXIANS UNFORTUNATE ENOUGH TO FIND THEMSELVES IN OUR CUSTODY WILL BE SEVERELY DEALT WITH. IE. DEATH.

YOURS

LORD LOAF OF THE QUIVERING RING.

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DEAR LOAF OF THE EVER TIGHTENING RING,

THANK YOU FOR YOUR RECENT REPORT CONFIRMING THE INCURSIONS ACROSS THE BOARDER BY THOSE INFERNAL TURDOXIAN HEATHENS. 

I TRUST THE PATROLS OF BRAVE BOHEMIEM COHORTS ARE ENJOYING SUCCESS AND BEATING THE TURDOX HOARD BACK ACROSS THE BORDERS.

WITH REGARDS THE TREATMENT OF ANY PRISONERS, I BELIEVE THAT THE BOHEIMIAN CODE OF BATTLE MUST BE UPHELD AT ALL TIMES, AND EVERY EFFORT MADE TO CHANGE THEIR TWISTED IDEOLOGY TO THAT OF THE SACRED CREED.

HOWEVER, FEEL FREE TO PUNISH SEVERELY THOSE WHO WHO ARE NOT READY TO TAKE UP THE ENLIGHTENED BATTLEAXE OF THE GREAT LORD BOHIEM OF THE THIRD MOUND AT CROXLEY GREEN.

YOURS

QUINTINIOUS CRISPUS OF THE PROLAPSED RECTUM

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DEAR QUINTINIOUS CRISPUS OF THE ENGORGED MEMBER.

MANY THANKS FOR YOUR PROMPT RESPONSE , TURDOXIAN SCUM HAVE INDEED BEEN CAPTURED BY OUR BRAVE BOHEME LEGION .

AS PER YOUR REQUEST THE HEATHEN PRISONERS ARE BEING "PERSUADED" TO ADOPT THE BOHEME WAY OF LIFE AND TO FOREGO THE TURDOXIAN RELIGION, HOWEVER THOSE WHO APPEAR TO RESIST TOO STRONGLY HAVE BEEN "DISAPPEARED" SO TO SPEAK.

I REMAIN YOUR OBEDIENT SERVANT.

LORD LOAF OF THE MOUNTING PILE.

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DEAR LORD SCROTUM,

REPORTS HAVE ONCE AGAIN REACHED ME THAT THE TURDIXIAN REBELS ARE RAVAGING THE BORDERLANDS AND ATTACKING THE BOHEMIAN PRIESTS WHO I HAVE SENT TO PREACH THE BOHEME CREED.

THESE TURDOX SCUM MUST BE EXTERMINATED AT ALL COST , AND I TRUST YOU WILL RIDE THROUGH THE NIGHT AND PROVIDE ME WITH AN UPDATED REPORT BY DAWN.

YOURS

QUINTENINUS MAXIMUS OF THE GILDED HORSE

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DEAR QUINTENINUS MAXIMUS OF THE SEPTIC TANK.

I HAVE RIDDEN THROUGH THE NIGHT AND CAN FAITHFULLY REPORT THAT OUR GALLANT FORCES HAVE REPELLED THE TURDOX SCUM BUCKETS.

IT WAS A BLOODY FARRAGO AND I LOST TWO MEN BUT HAVE SUBSEQUENTLY FOUND THEM SUNK TO THE NUTS IN A LADY SHEEP.

MY SERGEANT AT ARMS WAS SENT TO DISCIPLINE THEM BUT UNFORTUNATELY GOT AN ERECTION AND JOINED IN.

HAPPILY THE BOHEME PRIESTS ARE NOW FREE TO PREACH THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO THE LORD BOHEME.

IT WAS HUMBLING TO SEE THEM SPREAD THE WORD OF OUR LORD TO THE HEATHEN HORDES.

I REMAIN YOUR OBEDIENT SERVANT.

LORD LOAF OF THE PUNGENT HOSE.

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Dear Lord Snout Quifler,

I now am able to provide you with the name of the Naked Psychiatrist that you requested in your recent missive. His name is "Gunter Handcock" and his address is - "Pull me hard" Cottage, Queer Street, ST Ives, Cornwall. 

I hope your Quim bashing is progressing well and I am of course sorry to hear of your raging Bumhole. I do hope it is not another occurrence of that Gout thingamy Jig that you had in your old member recently.

Keep me up to date with your progress with Gunter Handcock.

Yours with sympathy
Scratchy Henderson - Horn of Quimbash and Director of Pyschoprophylaxis

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Dear Lord Snout Quifler,

Further to my recent missive, the late Lord Piggy Beauregard-Hamilton Spoondangler , Managing Director of Wangdangling for England and Wales, will be cremated at Wandsworth Brewery on Saturday, at 2.15 am. 

If you attend, please ensure you bring a torch and toilet paper. 

Yours correspondingly
Scratchy 

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DEAR SCRATCHY,

MUCH APPRECIATED FOR THE REFERRAL .

I HAVE ARRANGED AN APPOINTMENT WITH HERR HANDCOCK , HIS TELEPHONE MANNER WAS BOTH EFFICIENT AND SEXUALLY AROUSING. I CANNOT WAIT FOR HIM TO PULL ME HARD .

I WILL OF COURSE BE ATTENDING PIGGY'S FUNERAL WITH MY TRUSTY TORCH AND TOILET PAPER. I ONLY HOPE I DON'T LEAK AS I AM PRONE TO DO.

YOURS
ARCHBISHOP PRE-CUM OF BATH AND WELLS.

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BOONSPANGLING

Dear Lord Loafington of the spotted puss knot,

Your input in the above thingamajig is most definitely required. Please start by giving me your complete analysis of the recent spate of Boonspangling in Hartlepool and Gravesend.

Yours
Boothy Boddinngton Smyth of the Heath 

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LORD LOAF OF THE BOON,

DAM YOUR EARLIER RESPONSE TO MY RECENT OUTRAGE AT THE BOONSPANGLING INCIDENT AT GRAVESEND.

YOU MUST INVESTIGATE IMMEDIATELY AND SUPPLY ME WITH YOUR REPORT WITHIN 14 DAYS, OR RISK THE WRATH OF THE BOONDOCKER.

YOURS
EFFEY BEAUREGARD OF THE WHARF

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MY DEAR EFFEY OF THE WOBBLING SPONGE

AFTER MUCH UNDERCOVER RESEARCH I HAVE DISCOVERED THAT THE BOONSPANGLE VIRUS WAS TRANSMITTED TO GRAVESEND VIA AN OFF DUTY HERMAPHRODITE CALLED TOMMY CUNTCOCK WHO HAD INADVERTENTLY BEEN GIVEN A LIFT BY A LONG DISTANCE LORRY DRIVER IN EXCHANGE FOR WHAT IS KNOWN NOWADAYS AS A BLOW JOB.


THE LORRY DRIVER STOPPED AT GRAVESEND ON HIS WAY TO DOVER AND MUST HAVE PASSED ON THE DREADED BOONSPANGLE.

WE HAVE MANAGED TO CONTAIN IT WITHIN THE LOCAL AREA BUT THE HUNT GOES ON TO TRACK DOWN THE AFORE MENTIONED TOMMY CUNTCOCK.

YOURS

LORD LOAF OF THE BOON.

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THE MITRE MURDER MYSTERY (PARTS 1,2,3,AND 4)

THE MITRE MURDER MYSTERY (PARTS 1,2,3,AND 4)

PART 1 (TEDS DEAD)

It was a little after midday and the smell of stale piss pervaded the atmosphere of the dingy downstairs room. Old “Pa Bumfold” crossed his legs but failed to stop the emission flowing from his fetid soiled undergarments. 
Placing both hands on the filthy armchair he levered himself to his feet and shuffled towards the kitchen back door and the sanctuary of the brick outhouse, unfortunately situated in the back yard of the Victorian terraced property.

After a ten minute session in the putrid latrine and doing the paperwork with an old copy of the Radio Times, Pa Bumfold shuffled back in to the kitchen, where he was immediately set upon by his deranged octogenarian wife Gloria, a failed gymnast and part time exhibitionist from Kilburn. She managed to wrap here spindly legs around his neck by leaping from the kitchen table and slowly began to squeeze the life out of her befuddled husband.


A loud knock at the front door interrupted the comic grappling in the kitchen, and both made their way to the hallway and front door, where the unmistakable shadow of a policeman was viewed through the tinted glass panel in the door. 

Old Pa Bumfold, whose face was still puce from the near strangling his wife had administered, turned the latch and opened the door, fully expecting the old bill to nick him for his ungentlemanly conduct in the Mitre public house the previous night, when he had farted in the face of the opposing darts teams captain.

However, after removing his helmet, the constable explained that during recent excavations so as to facilitate the building of a new sports centre at Vale Farm, on the site of the existing open air swimming pool, they had unearthed a skeleton of a deformed dwarf like creature with missing teeth, broken wire rimmed spectacles, a curved spine and a silver bracelet on his lower arm depicting the name “Ted”. 

Furthermore, due to the boggy nature of the soil, part of the creature’s skin had been preserved and upon it was a child like tattoo describing the name “Ted” in blue ink. However, the PC also stated that unusually for such cases, the skull was missing and was presumed to have been disturbed by animals but would no doubt be found in due course.

 Old PA Bumfold and Gloria shuddered at this news as both glanced at the skull like feature on the sideboard across the other side of the lounge. The constable went on to explain that he was calling on all the properties in the vicinity of the adjacent Mitre pub, to ask if they had any knowledge of a missing person named Edward or Ted. Sobering up fast, both the geriatric Bumfold's stated that they knew of no missing people named Ted, Edward or any other name.  

The PC made a quick scribble in his notebook and made his exit. Pa Bumfold pulled a tin of old holborn from his pocket and started to role a cigarette and was soon coughing and blowing his way across the room towards the cranium shaped feature placed on the middle shelf of the dilapidated sideboard. Holding the skull like ornament in both hands he briefly smiled before placing the objet d'art back on to its plinth. 

Old Pa Bumfold scratched his head and without saying a word opened the front door and ambled towards the bus stop where after exchanging a few words with a gangling youth climbed aboard the bus, drawing hard on his  roll up and blowing filthy smoke at the peroxide clippy as she gave him his ticket.



PART 2  (THE CRIMSON WIENER)

SUDBURY TOWN

Straining to breathe the cold air, Old Pa Bumfold walked the few yards from the bus stop and entered the smoke filled drinking den known as “The Lodge”.  

He scanned the room looking for the unmistakable figure of Doctor Doyle and soon located him seated in his specially strengthened chair at the bar. With trepidation, he slowly approached the corpulent red faced doctor, his befuddled mind desperately trying to filter reality from the untrue.

He reached out his emaciated hand towards Dr Doyle but the shinny faced doctor refused to acknowledge his gesture.
The Doctor shuffled on his bar stool and turned slightly towards the foul smelling creature shuffling beside him. "Hi Pa” he retorted distastefully, in a low husky voice which was still recovering from his recent experience escaping from the clutches of his arch enemy, KarlHeinz-Brunner, in war torn Europe.

Seated to his left was his long time associated “Pope Pat” a retarded former priest and reformed alcoholic, but prone to long lapses of abstinence that lead to him being incredibly unstable and dangerous company to be with.  However, he was a lifelong friend of the Doctor and they had completed many dangerous operations in occupied Europe over the last few years.

Indeed, Pope Pat had recently saved the lives of Doctor Doyle and his South African accomplice, Ivan Terrablanche, enabling the Doctor to complete a dangerous mission to obtain the Munich Horn.
                                                         ------------------------ 

BAVARIA - (The recovery of the Munich Horn from Germany)

The light was fading fast as Doctor Doyle and Terrablanche drove over the river Isar and headed for the sanctuary of a safe house on the outskirts of Friedrichshafen. There they were to board a small fishing boat, row across lake Constance (Bodensee) to enter neutral Switzerland, and eventually fly back to the UK with the recently recovered Munich Horn.

However, as they approached the small farmhouse on the banks of Lake Constance they encountered Karl Heinz-Brunner. He was driving a large battered Mercedes which attempted to crash in to the pair as they attempted to board the fishing boat with the treasured Munich Horn.

In the fading light it was difficult to precisely locate the duo as they ran towards the dark waters of the Bodensee, but just as the battered Mercedes driven by Brunner crashed in to the overweight and wheezing Doctor, a huge bulldozer driven by Pope Pat, thundered in to action and utilising its huge metal blade blocked the speeding car, stopping it in its tracks and smashing it to smithereens.

The collision enabled the Doctor and Terrablanche to safely reach their vessel and escape to the sanctuary of the Swiss border, and subsequently fly back to England. On arrival at Croydon airport they were debriefed by the Ministry of War and handed over the fabled Munich Horn so as to be safely stored by the military authorities. 

After the successful mission to retrieve the Munich Horn, Doctor Doyle, having said farewell to Ivan Terrablanche, had lapsed in to his usual routine of overeating, over sleeping, frequenting seedy whorehouses and drinking copious amounts of alcohol in one or the other of his favourite drinking dens, the Mitre or the Lodge. 
                                                             ----------------
SUDBURY

At the Lodge, Pa Bumfold whispered in to Doctor Doyle’s ear and stood back for a response. The Doctor picked at his yellowing teeth with a cocktail stick and reaching in to his trouser pocket for a stained handkerchief, blew his nose and cleared his tortured airways.
“So you have murdered Ted” rasped the little chubby legged double agent.

Old Pa Bumfold recoiled in terror as he envisaged the clientele of the bar overhearing the conversation. However, as usual in the Lodge, nobody battered an eyelid or bothered to inquire as to the content of their sordid discussion. Even Pope Pat continued to read his yellowing copy of picture post, sipping from his huge glass of red wine, whilst engaged in small talk with the host of the establishment, Frau Grunewald.

Doyle, now grinning like a Cheshire cat, continued, “who else knows of this delicate matter?”, to which Pa responded “only the misses and you, your eminence.... , although the wife is as pissed as Pope Pat so will not remember anything, so it’s just you and me!”

“However...”, stuttered the geriatric piss stained octogenarian, “the old bill were making enquiries earlier today, but I don’t think the Rozzer got wind that the skull on the shelf was the deformed dwarf like creature known as Ted!”  

Doctor Doyle stretched his diminutive legs towards the floor and almost stumbled from his stool. Regaining his sense of gravity he slid from the reinforced steel seat and stood before old Pa Bumfold.  
The Doctor fumbled with his attire until he recovered a small red address book. The book was tattered and covered with a selection of body fluids and beer. Reaching for the wire spectacles hanging from the chain around his thick neck, he placed them upon his broad nose and pinched them in to a secure position on the ridge of the ruddy protuberance. Scanning the pages he quickly folded back a page and stared directly at old pa Bumfold. 

“The Crimson Wiener” where is it Pa? If you lead me to the location of the Wiener I can arrange for your involvement in the unfortunate murder of barman Ted to be extinguished and the blame placed at the feet of your enemies.  Perhaps one of the Artimarti clan can take the can, or maybe the Taylors, or Redheads? 

Anything can be arranged provided I have access to the “Crimson Wiener” Pa, anything you wish!  
Pa Bumfold looked at his soiled boots and shuffled uneasily from side to side. “That was a long time ago governor, and I don’t think I can locate the Crimson Wiener without upsetting a lot of the local villains who would kill to get their hands on the Crimson Wiener”. Doctor Doyle grabbed the wizened shoulders of Pa Bumfold and shook him until Pa pissed his pants leaving a putrid yellow stain on his pantaloons and a puddle on the dirty floor.

Grabbing a bar cloth from the bar and wiping the excess urine from his legs, Pa Bumfold explained that he would make enquiries towards getting the Wiener, and would start with visiting his younger former partner in crime “Big Mac”, who was involved with the earlier discovery of the artifact some twenty years earlier, and was implicated in its subsequent disappearance, and the legend that has grown about its powers. 

Although not established by science, the Crimson Wiener” was believed to have aphrodisiac powers and when immersed in a pint of cinnamon infused cider, and drunk in full without taking a breath, would induce  sexual arousal greater than that attributed to Eros and his arrows, honey, oysters and/ or a night in the bed of Frau Grunewald.  

Pa Bumfold trudged towards the Lodges door and slipped away with his mind full of terror and trepidation. A bus glided to a halt at the stop and after pulling himself on to the lower deck, and swearing at the clippie, Bumfold was soon heading towards the Swan and a meeting with “Big Mac”.

PART 3 (BIG MAC)


Old Pa Bumfold pushed the door of the Swan open and surveyed the crowded bar. His red eyes darted about the smoke filled premises as he searched for the familiar bulk of Big Mac.

Big Mac had been an associate of Bumfold's for many years, and having first met him in Wormwood Scrubs whilst doing a five year stretch for bigamy and possession of forged petrol coupons, had become a firm friend.

Big Mac had been serving three years for G.B.H and took a shine to the much older Bumfold, due to his ability to make him laugh when they shared a cell. In particular, Big Mac was particularly amused the way he described the mad antics of his debauched alcoholic wife back at the Mitre, and the way she would back flip her way across the bar floor wearing no underwear and smoking a roll-up.

Pa Bumfold moved towards the lonely figure of Big Mac who was seated at the end of the bar, quietly watching the radio as it played family favourites. He gingerly placed his withered hand on the monstrous shoulder of his compatriot and pulled up a stool beside him. Big Mac slowly twisted in his seat and acknowledged Bumfold by raising his hand and pointing towards the barman. After buying Big Mac a pint, they began discussing the weather and the lack of snow for the time of year.

However, Big Mac soon tired of this chit chat and moving forward to within an inch of Bumfold's face retorted "Dr Doyle has been in touch. I know you need the Crimson Wiener. But you can forget it.....I'm not getting involved!".

PART 4 (SWANSONG)

Big Mac and Old Pa Bumfold sat silent for twenty minutes until a mighty bout of flatulence forced Bumfold from his stool. Struggling to slide from his lofty perch, he groped for the brass foot rail with his flaying feet, whilst steadying himself with his left hand on the Bar. Just as he obtained sufficient balance to stand aside from the bar, he felt a hard blow to his arthritic shoulder, and turned towards the significant bulk and large red face of Dr Doyle.

Dr Doyle smiled at Pa Bumfold as the geriatric near cripple, broke wind, and inadvertently followed through. Dr Doyle turned his grinning face to Big Mac who had quickly averted his attention from the wireless, and was gesticulating as if to shake the Doctors hand.

Big Mac was as surprised as Bumfold to see the Doctor, as he had spoken to him on the phone only hours ago. However, he managed to maintain control of his sphincter and nonchalantly offered the wheezing Doctor Doyle a drink.

The Doctor accepted Big Macs offer of a drink, but refused a handshake, purposely placing both hands in his trouser pockets.  After taking a glug from his large Bacardi and Coke, Dr Doyle stood between the trembling Pa Bumfold and the seated Big Mac and pulled a package from his war surplus overcoat pocket. The package consisted of a scarlet handkerchief that had been tied with cord so as to secure old black and white photographs, which on inspection were taken in the Mitre public house.

However, on closer scrutiny, it was apparent that two of the photos were of a far more revealing nature and contained images of Ted the barman laying prone on the bar floor with both Old Pa Bumfold and Big Mac standing over the lifeless body. Both had implements in their hands, possibly a screwdriver and a spanner, and the darkened street viewed through the windows, together with the pub clock in the background, revealed that the time was 1.16 am.

Dr Doyle shuffled the photographs in his hands, and mentioned in an aggressive but positive manner, that he had copies and that they would find their way to Inspector Crapper at the Wembley Police station, if anything happened to him. Removing his wire spectacles from his blotched red face, and placing them in his inside coat pocket, the Doctor turned to Big Mac and explained that unless he helps recover the Crimson Wiener, there will be no alternative for him other than to hand the photographic evidence to the police, together with further information indicating where the skull of the murdered Barman could be recovered.

Turning to Pa Bumfold, Dr Doyle whispered “when you came to me earlier, did you really think I didn’t know you were involved with the murder of Ted. I have known since the day after you handed these photographs to your wife for safe keeping. She showed them to be in the Mitre, boasting that she had taken them, and for a few drinks she handed them to be together with the negatives. ”

The telephone behind the bar started to ring rhythmically and startled Big Mac and Pa Bumfold from their panic induced silence. The governor of the Swan lifted the receiver and stood back as the ranting of a hormone deficient mountain goat bawled down the line. Regaining his composure the publican scanned the bar and shouted to all and sundry as to whether a Mr Bumfold was in the house.
Knowing it could only be his wife, Bumfold gesticulated that he wasn’t there and that was sorry for the interruption. The relevant information was relayed to his deranged octogenarian wife Gloria, who slammed the phone back on to its base almost breaking the Bakelite casing.
 
Dr Doyle grabbed Big Mac by the shoulder and pulled Pa Bumfold towards his screwed up face and whispered that unless he hears from both of them by the morning regarding the whereabouts of the Crimson Wiener, they would both be receiving a knock from the old bill and be taking a short walk to the hangman’s noose shortly afterwards. So as to exaggerate his claim, he pulled a flat black cap from his pocket and placed it on his head, before turning his back on his trembling counterparts and swiftly exiting the Swan.

Big Mac and Bumfold sat with empty glasses for a few minutes until they noticed a commotion coming from the direction of the Bar Billiards table. As Big Mac ordered two further drinks, Old Pa Bumfold recognised that the fracas was centred on “Pope Pat” a retarded and defrocked former priest from Achill, an island located off the coast of County Mayo in West Ireland.

Pope Pat was supposedly a reformed alcoholic, but was prone to prolonged lapses of abstinence, and during these periods was extremely unstable and dangerous company. He was known to be an associate of Dr Doyle, and had actually previously operated on missions all over Europe with Big Mac and his accomplices.

These operations had included undercover missions to Dublin, Paris, Rome, Amsterdam, Brussels, Munich and other European destinations, together with active duty in Edinburgh, Cardiff, Bath and the Isle of White.   After a few minutes the Bar Billiard table was surrounded by drunken travellers and navies, shaking hands and hugging each other. Walking away from this melee was Pope Pat who made a direct approach to where Big Mac and Pa Bumfold were seated.

“How’s the crack, you whores” retorted the inebriate ex priest who pulling a wad of five pound notes from his britches offered all and sundry a drink.

To be continued.....