Punchbag and the Mystery of the Litter Louts

by Colon Vimrinse

For All Those Watching… Who Feel Like Screaming

  But Who Just Start Laughing

  And for Charlie and Susan… and Gippa

  Punchbag and the Mystery of the Litter Louts

  “Busy, Busy, Busy, sooo much to do...

  Punchbag... I’ll be coming for you!”

  Punchbag lived on a farm. Mr. Brown’s farm. Among the rolling green hills of the lushy Upperdale. Punchbag liked living there, with Mr. Brown. In fact Punchbag thought Mr. Brown was probably the nicest man a cat could have as a pet.

  Oh yes, Punchbag is a cat by the way. A big-scruffy, mean-looking, monster of a moggy. His face is almost as round as one of Mr. Brown’s massive dinner plates that he piles up his toasted cheese and ham and pickled-onion and mayonnaise and crisps and mustard and gherkin sandwiches on each night after he’s smoked his pipe. In fact it’s like if you took a football and stuck on different bits of coloured fur, with your eyes shut, and then did some ears made out of socks, with your eyes still shut, then pushed in two big marbles… and then realised you’d forgotten to do a nose, but that it didn’t really matter because it was probably in there somewhere… then that’s sort of what Punchbag’s face looks like… if you then put it in your Mammy’s washing machine on a fast spin for a couple of days.

  However; whereas Punchy Poo’s (which is what Whitney, one of Mr. Brown’s old customers used to call him) face looks like a big, furry dinner plate, you will be pleased to hear that his body is still just your basic, standard, cat shape... on steroids. Like you’ve taken a normal cat to a House of Fun with all those splodgy mirrors, but then accidentally come home with the reflection.

  In short then… Punchbag is a pretty big cat. In fact if he was sitting at the end of your garden, being really still, you might easily mistake him for a hairy bush. Or if it was 1961, and your garden was actually Ranthambhore in Indian and Prince Phillip was there as a guest of the Maharajah, he could easily mistake him for a sleeping tiger… and blow his furry head clean off.

  And now attire, which is just a posh word grown-ups use to mean the clothes that someone wears, and not something that is used in a type of summary execution known as Necklacing… where it’s filled with petrol and forced around your chest and arms and then set on fire. In the summer months Punchbag tends to favour a smart Hawaiian shirt, nothing too garish, cut off jeans, flip-flops, and an old straw hat that his ears poke through. This keeps the sun off his head when he’s helping Mr. Brown with his crop and is comfortable enough to relax in on the terrace with a milky Baileys as the sun sinks and Mr. Brown checks the quality. Come the autumn however, when it starts turning a little colder, and Mr. Brown rigs up his irrigation system in the big barn, Punchbag plumps for dungarees, checky shirt and Rigger boots.

  And I’ve just realised that I’ve also forgotten to mention that Punchbag can walk around on his back legs and hold things in his front paws (like his milky Baileys) providing he gets a good jam on the item from either side. Obviously he can’t just pick things up with one paw, because he doesn’t have opposable thumbs like us.... and that would just be silly.

  And now my little friend, I imagine you are probably wondering just how our big old furry feline got that silly name, and also came to be living with Mr. Brown on his lovely farm. Well that is a very good question… and a very interesting story... but to tell it properly we will have to go back.

  In fact we will have to go all the way back to when Punchbag was just a tiny kitten...

  Barnsley

  Punchbag never knew his Daddy, but his Mammy used to tell Punchbag about him when he was very small and he would sit with his brothers and sisters in the back of the old midden where they’d all been born. Their Daddy had been called Barnsley and had met their mother when she was very young and didn’t have anyone to look after her.

  ‘Oooh, he was a lovely kind cat,’ said Punchbag’s Mum, ‘and ever so large. I wasn’t really much bigger than you are now, but when old Mrs. Justice died and the family sold her house I had nowhere to go and was just living out on the streets, eating stuff I found round the back of the chippy. But then one day I met Rochdale and Rotherham, they were two lovely Siamese, and they introduced me to Barnsley and he just swept me off my feet. I just couldn’t believe a lovely big cat like him would have any interest in a scraggy little cat like me, but he made me feel like a princess... and I suppose I just fell in love.’

  Unfortunately however not long after Punchbag’s Mum had become pregnant Barnsley had gone out to get her a filet-o-fish from McDonalds and never returned. Punchbag could remember her always crying at that part in the story about how he must have been run over or catnapped, along with Rochdale and Rotherham, who also hadn’t been seen since.

  Punchbag had lived in the midden with his Mammy for the first year of his young life, sometimes venturing out of the small grate at the back that led out into the lane to do his business, but never going too far, because his Mammy had warned him about how dangerous the world outside could be.

  ‘You must be very, very careful little kittens,’ she’d told them, ‘and always look both ways, because you never know when someone from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding might be in a high speed police chase… or when some Arse-Wipe American dentist might be hiding in a hedge with a bow and arrow.’

  And so Punchbag had spent the best part of his days inside the brick shithouse, suckling at his Mammy’s teats with his brothers and sisters and sleeping the hours away in the warm ash. As he’d got bigger and his Mammy’s milk had began to dry up and they’d moved on to cod balls, Punchbag started to notice that he was a little different to his brothers and sisters. It wasn’t that he was just larger, almost twice the size of all of them put together actually, but his markings were also somewhat strange.

  Whereas Punchbag’s three sisters; Joy, Teddy and Babs were a slinky grey, and his three brothers; Neil, Michael and Buzz, were a sort of black and Shiva gold; with Buzz having a beautiful white stripe down the middle of his face, Punchbag seemed to be every other colour a cat could be, with splotches of Farage-white and Viking-gingers mixing with chocolate-browns and beiges in random, blurring spatters.

  ‘But that’s what makes you all so wonderful,’ said his Mammy, when Punchbag asked her again about their different markings and sizes. ‘Every one of you is so special and beautiful... and every one of you reminds me of your Daddy in some way. You know sometimes, when I remember that beautiful, floaty night... and the funny tasting milk; it’s as if your Daddy was almost a procession of cats.’

  Of course in those days Punchbag wasn’t actually called Punchbag, which I think you’ll agree is a funny name to call a little cat, especially when his brothers and sisters had such nice and ordinary names. Oh no, in those days Punchbag was actually called Eamonn, after his Mammy had seen a lovely, friendly man on the television through Rumbelows’ window. The man had seemed ever so nice, and with a great sense of humour, and had reminded her of her ever expanding offspring as he’d wobbled across the screen.

  However shortly after the christening a solicitor’s letter had arrived at their midden stating Punchbag’s Mammy was playing to a stereotype... and so she’d changed his name to Mahamed to ensure she didn’t cause any further offence to anyone.

  As Punchbag continued to grow however, he began to venture further from the midden in search of food; his rumbling ginger belly waking him at night as his mother and brothers and sisters lay sleeping.

  On one dark night in November though, calamity was to strike...

  Peanuts!

  Punchbag squeezed himself through the midden grate to slink out into the lane and pad his way silently through the shadows in search of the bins. He prowled up the empty street, hugging the dark pools and darting from shop doorway to shop doorway. He zipped up the little cut that ran down the side of the Spastics’ Shop and along to the back of McDonalds. The church clock was just striking midnight and the heavy chimes carried on the ghostly clouds that drifted past the moon. Punchbag may have
felt a little different to his brothers and sisters because of his markings, and because he was now four times their size, but on this chilly night he was grateful for the thickness of his fur... whatever colour it might be.

  Punchbag found the dumpsters and sprang on top, with surprising agility for a moggy of his size. As usual the lid wasn’t closed properly because of all the polystyrene boxes of hamburgers and freedom fries that had been jammed inside... and this was just how Punchbag liked it. He dug in and dug out a Sweet Chilli Mayo Chicken; crispy coated chicken and lettuce, cool mayo and sweet chilli sauce in a toasted bun and wolfed it down; savouring the taste, and with the satisfaction of knowing he was also doing his bit in helping the fast food chain in its key priorities of reducing, reusing and recycling their waste… and also getting lots of delicious anti-biotics and growth hormones.

  He finished his grub and then rooted around in the corner for something to slake his thirst, finding a squashed, but still upright Mocha Iced Frappe with the straw still in it. Most of the smooth whipped cream and irresistibly drizzled rich chocolate sauce had already gone, but Punchbag calculated that this was probably a bonus, and would help to reduce the 64% of the recommended daily allowance of saturated fat the shake normally contained down to something his arteries might actually have a fighting chance with.

  Suitably sated Punchbag lay back atop the dumpster and stared up at the stars; thinking of how much he hated Professor Brian Cox. He conjured on the writings of his own favourite physicist, Nassim Haramein, and his pronouncement that, ‘Singularity is the point at the centre of your experience of the universe, that is the point of stillness from which you are observing the universe,’ and realised he still couldn’t make head nor tail of it... and should also maybe be heading home. It was turning really cold now and his Mam might be getting worried.

  Punchbag retraced his paw prints through the village, ever careful to heed his Mammy’s warnings about unannounced police chases and impotent Orthodontists. He turned back into the alley and followed it down. And then he heard the voices... and the scrape of heavy boots.

  Punchbag froze. It was just around the corner. It was coming from his lane. He slid back inside the shadow of the end house gateway and listened... holding his breath.

  ‘Down here I think Otis,’ whispered a coarse and eager voice. ‘She said she’d seen one peeking out… said it wasn’t much more than a baby. Left a message on the hotline she did.’

  ‘Then we shall have it then Brian... I mean Dad!’ came the younger, but equally excited reply. ‘Then we shall have the T.B. spreading varmint. I’ll go and get the peanuts.’

  ‘Way ahead of you son... I am commencing spreading in accordance with our Defra protocols.’

  ‘That’s excellent work Dad! I’ll get ready for when the little barstool sticks its Brian May bouffanted noggin awt again... and introduce Big Bessie.’

  ‘Oh, I’m such a jealous guy... that you get first blast. I haven’t been this excited since I first appraised the work of Albert Speer.’

  Punchbag listened to their cackling in the cold as something was scattered across the ground…

 

  And then heard the ratcheting click of something being loaded...

  Kerfuffle

  Punchbag crept around the corner, and saw the big, black H3 Hummer Alpha, part of the elite HUMMER “Performance Series” excelling in both off-road capability and interior comfort, parked opposite the midden he called home. The two men were dressed in scarlet hunting jackets, with white cravats and black top hats that matched their shiny boots. And as the moon broke cover it illuminated their straining white jodhpurs... at the front.

  Punchbag slunk unnoticed around the rear of the vehicle and slid beneath its underside, below the still warm heart of the, powerful 5.3L V8 engine that helps to make it the perfect combination of performance, power, capability and luxury in a midsize SUV. He peeked through the legs of the two men and watched in horror, as the familiar mask of his brother Buzz squinted sleepily out... into the Blunderbuss barrel levelled inches from his face.

  KaBoooom!!!!

  Shouted Punchbag at the top of his lungs... causing both men to jump into the air and the older one to defecate.

  ‘KaBoooom!!!! KaBoooom!!!! KaBoooom!!!!’

  ‘Bleeding Hell Dad,’ shouted the younger one as he landed, ‘they’re fighting back... it’s a trap!’

  ‘I said this would happen,’ shouted his Dad, rushing back to their Hummer. ‘Come on... we don’t stand a chance... let’s get out of here!’

  He jumped into the luxurious interior comfort of the mid-sized all rounder and gunned the engine, as Otis dashed around to the passenger side. Punchbag zipped out from underneath as the chunky tires spun and attempted to gain traction... while at the entrance to his midden his bewildered family began to appear rubbing their eyes.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ shouted the older man, over the scream of the grinding gears, ‘there are hundreds of them... and they’ve mutated!’

  ‘Has history taught us nothing Dad?’ shouted back his son, ‘we’ve been such fools; trying to wipe out an entire species based on prejudice and fear.’

  ‘I know son,’ shouted back his Dad, still trying to find a gear he liked. ‘There’s no way we can ever exterminate them all... and scientific evidence has shown that while bovine TB can be transmitted from badgers to cattle it can also be transmitted from cattle to badgers; and it is still not clear how big a role badgers play. God forgive me for what I’ve done! I’ve been blinded by the mass marches and flags of the Countryside Alliance... and appologise unreservedly.’

  His son leaned across and hugged him, placing his hand tenderly over his father’s boney knuckles. He held him gently as the older man wept in his arms.

  ‘Don’t worry Dad,’ he whispered, ‘we still have the foxes.’

  ‘Throw that relic away son… no not me you idiot!’ sobbed back his father, reaching across to take the Swedish toaster from his son’s lap and fling it from the window... which was open by the way.

  Punchbag crept over to his family and stood with them as they watched the spectacle unfold in its beautiful epiphany. He stretched out his forepaws, as his siblings did the same, linking over each other’s shoulders as they stood unsteadily on their back legs. And as the black, mid-sized all rounder finally engaged and sped away... Joy, Teddy and Babs began to softly sing... a beautiful version of Bob Marley’s Redemption Song... before a window at the top of the street flew open and a bloke with his hair sticking up started going mental.

  ‘Oh Mahamed,’ said his mother, when they were all safely back inside their warm midden. ‘You have saved us all... as was foretold on the night of your conception, and in that amulet I’ve been meaning to mention. I know you have always wondered why you feel so different to your brothers and sisters, beyond the fact that you are neck end five times their size, and why you feel so drawn to the teachings of Nassim Haramein and so hate Professor Brian Cox. Well now you shall learn the truth of who you really are. For you are… in fact… none other… than...’

  And just at that absolutely exact moment... when Punchbag’s Mam was about to reveal who he really was... and honestly this couldn’t have been timed any worse if someone was making it up.... the Blunderbuss gun that had been flung out of the Jeep’s window; and which had been twirling about above them, while Joy, Teddy and Babs covered track eleven from the biggest selling reggae album of all time... before being interrupted by the man with the sticky up hair screaming, ‘Is there any chance of getting any fcuking kip round these parts for Christ’s sake?!!!!’

 

  It finally returned to earth... clattering to the ground... and discharging its lethal shot...

  Dick

  ‘Oh my!’ exclaimed Punchbag’s Mammy, as they rushed to the grate and watched the man with the sticky up hair topple from his bedroom window and crash out of sight between the bins. ‘What are the chances of that happening?’

  ‘It’s actua
lly more common than you might think Mammy,’ said Michael, closing his David Icke book about the Moon Matrix, ‘with the statistics around the deaths from Celebratory Gunfire, which is also called happy fire, and which I realise isn’t exactly the same as what’s just happened, being quite disturbing. In fact there’s a very funny story about a Turkish bridegroom killing three of his relatives after firing his AK-47 into the air at his own wedding.’

  ‘Oh that’s hilarious,’ said Buzz, beginning to play act spraying bullets from a rolled up chip paper at the roof of the midden, while Joy, Babs and Teddy rolled about on the floor pretending to be in agony.

  ‘Really kittens,’ said their Mammy, trying not to laugh, ‘whatever shall I do with you all?’

  ‘Weren’t you going to be telling me some important information Mammy?’ interrupted Punchbag, as his siblings continued to writhe.

  ‘Oh of course,’ remembered his Mammy, ‘indeed I was. And it is something that you all should hear. Gather round little kittens and listen very carefully, while I explain dramatically who your brother really is.’

  Everyone gathered around their Mammy as she reached across and retrieved a small velvet pouch buried deep inside the ash pile.

  ‘Oh it’s sooo beautiful and red Mammy,’ cried Neil, who was quite effeminate.

  ‘Yes it is,’ said their Mammy, ‘as well as also holding the secret to your hero brother’s history… annnnnnnd… his destiny.’

  ‘Is it the amulet?’ cried Punchbag, so excited he could hardly breathe.

  ‘Yes!’ said his Mammy, ‘The amulet. Take it from me my son, and claim your birthright.’

  She passed the pouch across to Punchbag who accepted it with shaking paws.

  His siblings gathered in even tighter and held their breaths too, as Punchbag slowly opened the bag and peered inside. He glanced towards his mother... who smiled back inscrutably. He shook the bag... holding it above his head to peer in from beneath.

  ‘But Mum... there’s nothing in it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said his mother.

  ‘But you said there was an amulet?’ Confusion betrayed perplexion, as his siblings followed the exchange with eager eyes.

  ‘Oh right...,’ said his Mum. ‘As you may, or may not know, I sometimes get a bit muddled up with Belgians, I mean words, after that night with your Dad and that drink he poured me, and often call things by the wrong house number... I mean name... and I suspect I might have done that just before. So if it’s okay with you.... just imagine that when I said amulet earlier I really meant to say bag.’

  ‘Oh... of course,’ chorused Punchbag’s brothers and sisters together; realising their mother’s easy mistake.

  ‘Yes Mammy does sometimes do that,’ said Babs, as Punchbag punched his head with his paw. ‘It was like that time when she got mixed up and told Neil it was alright to drink that big bottle of estrogen from around the back of the Gender Reassignment Clinic... when she really meant to say, ‘Jesus Neil don’t drink that!’

  ‘Fortunately I haven’t suffered any long term effects,’ echoed Neil in support of his sister’s observations... while hunting round for somewhere to plug in his hair straighteners... and with tufts of tissue paper sticking out from between his back claws from where he’d just painted them.

  ‘But what does it all mean though Mammy?’ pleaded Punchbag. ‘What is the meaning of this empty velvet pouch?’

  ‘This amulet... I mean pouch,’ said his Mammy, ‘isn’t just any old pouch. It is in fact a piece of The Queen’s Coronation Robe, commissioned to commemorate Her Majesty’s Coronation, which took place on 2 June 1953, and which was designed by Sir Norman Hartnell, The Queen’s principal dressmaker; and with the embroidery itself taking a total of 3,500 hours to complete.’

  ‘Flippin Heck!’ exclaimed Punchbag.

  ‘Yes,’ said his Mammy, as Punchbag’s brothers and sisters almost fainted at this extraordinary information... and Neil’s fur began to smoulder as he clamped down too hard on his straighteners with his mouth open.

  ‘And...,’ continued their Mammy, ‘that’s not all. Who so ever shall be in possession of this purse, I’ve decided I’ll call it a purse by the way now, as every time I go to say pouch I keep wanting to say amulet... so if that’s okay with everyone I’ll start referring to it as a purse...?’

  Everyone nodded eagerly that they didn’t have any particular problems with their mother’s proposal and encouraged her to continue.

  ‘Yes... who so ever shall be in possession of this purse shall be identified as the rightful heir to Sir. Richard Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London’s… cat. Your Daddy left this purse by the crap box on the morning after our beautiful night together, and just before he went out to get me that filet-o-fish and never returned; stating that should I birth a boy as the seventh sprog in the litter... and who ended up being massive and able to walk around on his back legs like Dick Whittington’s cat can in the pictures... then the prophesy was fulfilled. And that on a day of my choosing, when that kitten had shown itself to be the true-blooded heir of Dick’s cat by doing something dead heroic, I should pass on the amulet, bloody hell I’m doing it again, I mean purse... and reveal to them their true identity. You are the seventh kitty of a seventh kitty my son... and the one true heir of the most famous cat in history that has ever lived!’

  ‘Waaaaaaaah!?’ Chorused Punchbag’s incredulous siblings together... and Neil’s hair ignited.

  ‘And now you must go,’ continued his mother, attempting but failing to hold back the emotion in her voice. ‘You must leave this midden and go up to London to visit the Queen.’

  Punchbag was reeling. ‘But Mam... I’m still just a little kitten... and this is all happening so fast.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said his mother, the tears now falling unbidden. ‘I know in my heart that you will be fine... because you’re massive compared to a normal cat and can also walk about on your back legs... which must be a plus. So you must go and fulfill your destiny... for there is not one moment to lose... because I’ve also just remembered that your Dad said that when I told you all this it would probably be a bit like the Da Vinci Code; full of historical and scientific inaccuracies, although still managing to successfully combine the detective thriller and conspiracy fiction genres, and that unseen forces would probably be roused and conspire to thwart your quest... and stuff.’

  ‘Oh Punchbag... we mean Mahamed,’ cried his brothers and sisters; somehow knowing exactly what to say at the same time. ‘You must go as our mother instructs, to uncover the cat that you truly are. We will never forget you our strange brother... but you can no longer reside with us in our midden... when your destiny awaits!’

  And with that they gently ushered Punchbag from the den, still reeling from his mother’s revelations.

  And still clutching at the small velvet pouch/purse/amulet/bag that had been pressed into his paws...

  The Road To Wigan Pier

  Poor Punchbag: just imagine if you suddenly discovered that you were not really who you thought you were and had to leave your lovely home. Perhaps you’ve always felt a little different and sometimes wonder if, YOU ARE ADOPTED, but unlike D.J. Nicky Campbell; who knew from an early age and so has found closure and very rarely mentions it, your Mam and Dad haven’t told you. Maybe you hear them arguing after you’ve gone to bed at night and wonder if it’s about you… realising they’ve made a huge mistake thinking they could love a child who is not their own, and what forms they need to fill in to send you back. Well that’s just how Punchbag felt.

  So poor Punchbag shuffled through the empty streets of early morning and out of the village; casting a sad and sorry reflection in the puddles on the pavement as he past. Can you say p?

  The questions tumbled inside Punchbag’s fur covered cerebrum; which is the big thinking part of your brain. Punchbag tried hard to use both sides; breaking up all this new information on the left for analysis, and then flinging it across like you would a sideways pancake if yo
u were trying to hit a small white mouse running up the blue kitchen wall that had darted out from behind the big black bread bin on the awful orange worktop and surprised you… over to the right; where it could be synthesized into a complete picture of what to do… while on his Walkman the French Armenian singer, songwriter, actor, public activist and diplomat Charles Aznavour’s unique tenor lamented his memories of Yesterday when he was young.

  Oh what was he to do? His Mammy had told him to make his way to London, where his destiny awaited. Could he really be the last lineal descendant of Dick Whittington’s cat... the most famous cat in history that had ever lived? Was the amulet-purse-pouch-bag she had pressed into his paws the dramatic proof of this... or had she simply gone insane from being repeatedly roasted? Punchbag slumped by the side of the road and checked his phone and the messages of support from his siblings; Neil’s O.M.G. gushings splattered with emoticons. He switched on data roaming and connected to the internet, knowing it would cost a fortune, while squinting and crinkling his brow as he slowly shook his head from side to side to convey dilemma.

  It was incredible! How had he missed this? There was a page on Ask Jeeves that said Dick Whittington’s cat was called Puss! The Prime Minister lived in London at Number 10 Downing Street... and his cat was called Larry! It was like his pineal gland was exploding all over again on Buzz’s home-made Ayahauska. Of course! How had he failed to make the connection before? Larry meant Laurel in Dutch and Dutch people wore wooden shoes on biscuit tins for cheese. It had been staring him in the face all along... how could he have been so blind?

  But now the veil had been lifted and the road ahead shone clear. He would indeed make his way to London... but not as he had first wrestled with in his confusion... to visit the Queen. Oh he had been such a fool he could almost laugh.

  Punchbag gazed down the busy road with a steely determination in his eyes. He looked at the sign that said London 500 Miles This Way and smiled at the endurances to come; turning with purpose to commence his mission south when...

  Suddenly a Rolls Royce Wraith, the most powerful Rolls-Royce in history, careered around the corner and skidded to a stop.

  ‘What is happening now?!’ exclaimed Punchbag in his head. ‘Can this amazing day become any crazier?’

  And yes it could. Because the passenger door of, the most technologically advanced Rolls Royce ever; with a potent 6.6 litre, twin turbo-charged V12 engine, was flung open and a load of empty champagne bottles clattered out. And leaning across from the driver’s side, laughing and hiccupping in Welsh, was none other than the former Vice-President of the European Commission... and the longest-serving leader of a Labour Party (in opposition) in British political history... LORD Neil Kinnock!

  ‘This is sooo REEM!’ exclaimed Punchbag, not entirely sure if he was using the adjective correctly... or even if it was an adjective.

  ‘Well Hello You Big-Kitty-Thingy-Ma-Jiggy!’ shouted Neil; uncorking another bottle of 1907 Heidseick Vintage, the holy grail of all champagnes, with his teeth and spraying fizz haphazardly. ‘I don’t suppose you might know the way back down to London from here would you... on the hurry up like?’

  However just as Punchbag was about to point out the London 500 Miles This Way sign... a procession of ragged, panda-eyed men swinging Davey lamps came shuffling round the corner. They limped towards the car, moaning and waving their bait-boxes with menace… like an L.S. Lowry mash-up with Jacko’s Thriller video.

  ‘Bleedin Hell!’ shouted Neil, ‘I thought I’d lost them.’

  ‘What do they want?!’ cried Punchbag, as they drew nearer, clapping their hands and stamping in time.

  ‘My bloody guts for garters!’ cackled Neil, lobbying an empty bottle at the throng.

  Punchbag watched as it spun through the air and then shattered atop their leader’s cloth cap... and whose head then fell off.

  ‘Yesss... Skill!!’ cried Neil, punching the air as Punchbag gasped.

  ‘They’re still coming,’ shouted Punchbag, watching in horror as they continued their ragged trudge; dunching past their broken leader now spinning in circles as he tried to locate his head.

  ‘Come on jump in!’ shouted Neil. ‘I need to conserve ammo, or I’ll miss out on the money from the empties.’

  And as Punchbag slid inside the luxurious interior, and Neil rocketed them away, while shouting, ‘We’re alright! We’re alright!’ like he had at that Sheffield Rally in 1992, after he was flown in on a helicopter and introduced as ‘The Next Prime Minister’… before losing to the Conservatives again eight days later... Punchbag sank back and thought of what an incredible day it had already been... and just how random and bizarre life could be.

  He was off to London... to set about the Downing Street cat with a clog.

  Londinium

  On the blistering, one handed, drive down to London Neil explained to Punchbag that he’d been in the area because he was picking up some dry cleaning from Sunlight Dry Cleaners, the region’s favourite dry cleaner, as he’d fallen in the sea again, and that he always used the North East ones because they were cheaper.

  ‘Them bloody pebbly beaches!’ he mused, indicating with his thumb to the backseat and a cellophane wrapped parcel labeled, My Other Suit. ‘And I also needed to check on the shrouds with the pockets in that me and the lads are getting made at the curtain factory in Chopwell. Bloody good quality they are as well mind!’

  ‘Is that for when you all die?’ offered Punchbag.

  ‘Aye it is,’ chuckled Neil, ‘and the lads are gonna love them. Of course the 26 Archbishops and Bishops who also sit in the House of Lords haven’t invested, but then that’s God-Botherers for you. They reckon there’s probably nothing even on the other side when you hit the big snooze button, and you’re just better off filling your boots when you’re here; however me and the lads aren’t convinced, so we’re hedging our bets. I’ve had extra big pockets made in mine... so I can take the Bolly with me!’

  ‘Getaway?’ responded Punchbag, while thumbing through the menu on his Walkman for a song he’d once liked that had gone, ‘The House of Lords must go - not be reformed, not be replaced, not be reborn in some nominated life-after-death patronage paradise, just closed down, abolished, finished,’ but giving up when he couldn’t remember who’d sang it.

  Presently... after navigating the controversial dichotomy of The Watford Gap, where they had their papers checked and Neil was tested for Ebola, they took a bit of a detour to the west, as Neil said it would be quicker... and finally arrived in the teeming metropolis.

  Punchbag climbed out as Neil shouted, ‘So I’ll maybe see you around then my old Big-Kitty-Thingy-Ma-Jiggy! And thanks for the help with the zombies. Harrods should be over there... if you want to get a carrier bag to put your bits and pieces in like.’

  Punchbag stared around in wonder… at the massive steel and glass towers that now hemmed him in on every side; butting up against the older red-brick apartment blocks with their zigzagging fire-escapes. He gasped as steam belched from the side walk, wincing at the cacophony of human traffic and honking yellow taxis... as Joey from Friends crashed past hilariously with a giant turkey on his head.

  ‘Is this definitely Brompton Road?’ asked Punchbag, turning back to look for Neil.

  But of course by this time... Neil was gone...

  New York, London, Paris, Munich

  Can you think of a song that has those places in it? I bet your Daddy can.

  And as for Punchbag, the single released by ‘M’ in 1979, a project by Robin Scott, peaking at number two, but unable to break Art Garfunkel’s 6-week stint at number one with Bright Eyes was the last thing on his mind.

  ‘Bloody Kinnock!’ he thought, pondering fruitlessly on Neil’s earlier insistence that if they took the Cunard Line’s west bound transatlantic crossing on the Queen Mary 2 from Southampton, it would be quicker than attempting the M25 in rush hour, and should bring them out just along from Fullham Broadway.

  P
unchbag hailed a cab, marveling at the buzz of the city and its incessant chatter of over 800 languages. He was in The Big Apple! How crazy was this?

  He frantically tweeted his followers and family back at the midden to tell them the incredible news, careful to accommodate his obsessive compulsive disorder of always using exactly 140 characters, with his general pedantry around contractions:

  Helped Kinnock with Zombies now in Big Apple as a result of mix up on London Orbital and general buffoonery of the man. Weather mild, Love P

  No sooner had Punchbag pressed send than a reply came back from his brother Neil asking if he could visit The Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street and get him a T shirt, and that if he had time he should also do The Sex In The City Tour; as Manhattan had been called the fifth major character in the show, alongside the fabulous foursome of Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha, and Miranda... and hash tagging with ‘U.GO.GIRLFRIEND!’

  Punchbag instructed his cab driver to take him across town to get Neil’s present and on the way booked himself a flight back to London on Virgin Atlantic as the Megabus, coach travel with a difference/new routes in Somerset, was full. He then made a quick trip to see the new World Trade Centre 7 building, the first and only steel skyscraper in the world to have collapsed due to fire, and take a selfie for Michael’s Conspiracies Album.

  He then got himself a hot dog on the East Side, which was on lock-down, had a jog around Central Park, where he politely declined the offer of unprotected sex in some bushes and having a cap popped in his ass... and headed back to Blighty on the red eye... Premium Economy!

  Enjoying, those extra few inches of space, a welcome glass of bubbly, after dinner liqueur, and a delicious meal served on china with stainless steel cutlery.

  And what a day!

  Architectural Style Georgian

  Punchbag awoke as the plane touched down at Heathrow, having managed to get some sleep after an injection the stewardess had given him that she said they kept in the back in case, via a combination of taking a sleeping pill and drinking ‘small amounts’ of wine someone allegedly attacked two cabin staff covering them in yoghurt.’

  Punchbag clicked off his Walkman, realising he must have really been out of it to have fallen asleep with the thing still playing... and just as Peter Buck’s signature distortion on REM’s ‘What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?’ fired up; however as Punchbag made to rise he knocked over his Tizer and watched in dismay as it glubbed over his crotch to turn his fur bright red. Realising this was likely to attract unwanted attention as he passed through customs he quickly changed into the shorts he’d bought for Neil to go with his T. shirt. He then disembarked and took the shuttle bus across to the main building and exited without incident. G4S waving through the giant cat in sequined hot pants walking on his back legs… as they wrestled with an old lady in a wheelchair over a tube of Colgate whilst Tasering her incontinent.

  Once outside Punchbag hailed a good old British black cab and travelled twenty yards before deciding to get out and walk when the driver provided his guesstimate for the fare to Downing Street by closing his eyes and reciting phone numbers. However as Punchbag crossed over to check on the times for the buses he was offered a lift in a Scab Cab, a wart on London’s otherwise excellent taxi service, which turned out to be much cheaper… and as it was still daytime, and most of the rapes in them happened at night, he decided to go with that; sliding into the backseat as the driver eyed him seductively.

  And finally he was off, towards the official residence of the First Lord of the Treasury... and an appointment with destiny.

  Punchbag’s taxi navigated through the capital’s teeming traffic and into the city of Westminster, driving down Whitehall and eventually stopping at the entrance to the Downing Street Cul-de-sac.

  ‘Rats!’ thought Punchbag, ‘I’d forgotten about the gates!’

  He looked with dismay at the tall black iron railings that barred entrance to the street, and which had been erected in May 1997, the morning after Labour had won the general election, after Cherie Blair had answered the door to receive a bouquet of flowers looking like a Clown having a heart attack... and which had then caused an I.R.A. window cleaning van parked up nearby to explode.

  Punchbag pondered how he could get past the diplomatic protection group officers manning the barricades to his business with the imposter currently residing in Number 10. Maybe if he got a big girl’s bicycle with a basket on the front and rode at them shouting, ‘Open the gates you f&c*ing Plebs!’ it might be enough to momentarily distract them from, sharing extreme pornographic material on their mobile phones, and shock them into subordinate compliance.

  Just as Punchbag was considering his next move however, a road sweeper approached and said they would have to move as he needed to clean that bit of gutter.

  ‘Kidcreolekandthekerflumpflumps?!’ piped up his driver as they moved off; Punchbag quickly switching his mobile to Google translate to discover he was actually enquiring as to whether Punchbag wanted to be driven around the back… via a secret alleyway which was similar to the train platform Harry Potter used for school.

  ‘Result!’ cried Punchbag, and gestured to his driver that he should indeed do just that… but in relation to the rest of his enquiry that No still meant No.

  Punchbag alighted in the back street and paid the driver, thanking him for all his help, and then assisting as he changed into his paper night-shift suit by holding the bottle and rag. He then waved him off and looked around.

  The street was deserted... reminding Punchbag of his own quiet lane all those lonely miles away... a small ache tugging on his heart strings… before he remembered that he’d only been gone a day.

  ‘Alright mate?’ came a friendly voice... seemingly from nowhere, as Punchbag scanned the empty street bewildered.

  ‘Over here...’ it continued, starting to laugh, as two grubby work boots unfolded from beneath a Ford Escort Xr3i jacked up on bricks.

  Punchbag watched as a pair of oil smeared jeans followed... and then a muscular torso and tanned arms in a capped-sleeved RUSH T. shirt.

  The man heaved himself up, using the wing of the battered car for support, waving over and smiling broadly… and then sparking up a dog-end he seemed surprised to have discovered just behind his ear. He sauntered over, rubbing his oily palms down the front of his jeans and with the roley clamped into the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I’m Davey by the way,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Davey Cam.’

  ‘Mahamed,’ replied Punchbag, feeling his paw pumping in the manly grip.

  ‘Thought you looked a little lost there,’ continued Davey, ‘just spied you out from under old Fanny,’ he indicated back over to the wreck. ‘Head gasket’s gone... poor old cow, gonna need to skim the top… but I’ll get her sorted, just need to get another Haynes manual... cos there’s so much grease on me old one I can hardly read it!’ He chuckled, and then nodded down at the second part of Neil’s present, ‘Nice hot-pants by the way! So is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘I was hoping to find Larry,’ began Punchbag, deciding he might as well cut to the chase... without going into too much detail, and while trying to ignore how much the man’s face looked like a balloon.

  ‘Larry...?’ croaked Dave... the colour suddenly draining from the latex.

  Punchbag shivered as a large black cloud drifted over, blocking out the sun and casting long shadows on the previously sunny street.

  Dave scratched nervously at his powerful triceps. ‘Uuurrggghhh!!!’ he moaned… like something awful had just run through him.

  ‘Yes Larry,’ repeated Punchbag, a little confused by the sudden change in Dave’s demeanor. ‘I think he lives here... have you any idea where I could find him?’

  Dave edged in closer, the high windows at the back of the Georgian terrace looming behind… which is important for the next bit.

  ‘He’s watching us...’ he whispered, his mouth drooping open like he was having a stroke. He disappear
ed his eyes into the top of his head... like an embolism was up next.

  ‘Eh?’ said Punchbag.

  ‘Behind us,’ tried Dave again, this time increasing the font size from 10 up to 12 to appear marginally louder. ‘Watchinnnnng… always watchinnnnnnnng,’ he continued, returning to normal size.

  Punchbag gazed past his terrified new friend... towards the large feline in the window staring down...

  And cradling a naked Nick Clegg in a gimp mask...

  Chief Mouser To The Cabinet Office

  ‘Goooo!’ pleaded Dave, his muscular arms reaching out to turn Punchbag back towards the alley. ‘He’s seen you... he’ll be coming down. Go now... while there’s still time!’

  ‘What is this… what’s going on?!’ began Punchbag, as he was tottered away by Dave’s desperate shoving. ‘But I need to see Larry...’ he tried again… just as the backdoor of Number 10 swung open… and the cat himself appeared.

  ‘David dear...’ carried the refined voice of the sturdy, brown and white tabby now filling the frame, ‘What are you doing with our guest?’

  Behind him Punchbag felt Cammo freeze; the massive strength bleeding from his chiseled guns… as they dropped helplessly to his sides… allowing Punchbag to finally turn.

  ‘It’s too late... it’s too late!’ sobbed Dave, as Punchbag stared across at Larry. ‘I told you to go, but now it’s too late. It’s all too late!’

  ‘And now who do we have here?’ continued Larry pleasantly. ‘Come along now David, bring your new playmate over so I may see him... and introduce us properly. Why young Edvard has been making cakes... and I was just about to serve our tea. Bring him over so he may join us.’

  ‘I’m sooo sorry,’ offered David, his Schwarzenegger like appendages suddenly brought to life again, but this time to propel Punchbag back across the street. ‘Why didn’t you just listen... why didn’t you just listen?’ he sobbed as he guided his return.

  ‘Oh do hurry up David!’ called Larry; their walk back over seemingly taking ages, but which allowed for David to offer more words of foreboding.

  ‘Christ almighty!’ exclaimed Larry as they eventually came level. ‘How wide was that road supposed to be? The tea’s going to be stone cold… and young Edvard has worked ever so hard on his fairy cakes. Do you like fairy cakes… Mr. Punchbag?’

  ‘Err yes... I like fairy cakes...’ began Punchbag... before suddenly realising that Punchbag wasn’t his name yet in the story.

  ‘Sorry...?’ he said, ‘but that’s not my name yet in the story. My name is...’

  ‘PUNCHBAG!’ exclaimed Larry, cutting him off. ‘Your name is Punchbag my young friend... whether you know that yet or not. And presently I will be explaining why. However first…’

  He gave an almost imperceptible flick of his whiskers towards the still sobbing Dave, and before Punchbag could even begin to fathom out just what was going on, or implement stage one of his clog plan (which had become a little redundant on account of having forgotten to bring a clog) he found himself roughly propelled inside the large back kitchen of number 10 Downing Street; where a wide oak table, already set for tea, dominated the room.

  Punchbag rubbed at his arms to get the blood going again after the crush of Dave’s Navy Seal like grip... while Dave stood sobbing to the side.

  Larry strolled around to stand in front of him; just that little bit too close, the way some teachers do... then placed a glistening curved claw to Punchbag’s lips as Punchbag made to speak.

  ‘Shuuuushhhhh...,’ he whispered softly... allowing the sound to trial away. ‘All will be revealed... in its own good time’

  ‘But...’ tried Punchbag again.

  ‘But nothing...’ continued Larry, nonchalantly swishing closed the door with an idle flick of his tail. ‘Worry not... my perplexed young friend... all shall be uncovered. However cakes first... don’t you think?’

  He clapped his paws brightly, and from a walk in pantry in the corner of the kitchen Ed Miliband appeared. He was wearing a frilly apron and dusted heavily in flour. He bustled over with a tiered platter of fairy-cakes... placing them on the table then standing back beaming with his hands on his hips like a camp superhero.

  ‘Oh how beautiful Edvard!’ exclaimed Larry. ‘My, my, my... we have been a busy little baker boy today, have we not?!’

  ‘Oooh, all they really are is just eggs and milk and flour,’ tittered Ed in grammatically incorrect coyness.

  ‘Now, now, now,’ chided back Larry, wagging a glistening claw, ‘Me thinks my little Eddyveddy is being just a taddy-waddy too modest?’

  Punchbag watched Edward bloom; fanning himself with splayed fingers... as he battled with his gag reflex.

  ‘Yes, Mary Berry and the Self-Raising Shark have nothing on our Edvard,’ continued Larry, pulling out a chair at the head of the table and indicating that his guests should do the same. ‘But enough chit-chat... please, everyone... be seated... and let us enjoy Edvard’s delicious patisseries.’

  And as bewildered as he was, Punchbag found himself taking his seat alongside the head down and still sobbing Prime Minister... and across from the fairy cake leader of the opposition as he minced around to join them.

  And as Larry leant over, from his much larger chair at the head of the table, and began to pour the tea... he raised his eyes to lock silently with Punchbag’s...

  And beam down an awful, winning smile.

  Eton Rifles

  Punchbag held his cup in both paws and sipped his tea… glancing around nervously. Beside him Dave continued to sob, folded over his own brew as if scrying for teary answers. At the head of the table Larry reclined expansively, his dewclaw raised in etiquette… appraising his guests.

  ‘This is worse than I first surmised,’ thought Punchbag, remembering the connections he’d made via Ask Jeeves after discovering that Larry meant Laurel in Dutch and that Dutch people wore wooden shoes on biscuit tins for cheese. That had been the easy bit, and obvious for anyone who was a Dan Brown fan to see. Of course it had to be a sociapathalogical brown and white tabby advising on policy in the current coalition… but now over tea and Ed’s fairy cakes the depth of the infiltration was revealed: Larry was actually running both the Government… and the Opposition.

  ‘Ha Har!’ screamed Larry, out of nowhere, crashing down his fine bone china tea cup into the saucer and smashing both to smithereens in demonstration of an unpredictable nutter. ‘I see from the way your eyes were flying about in your head just there that you’ve finally worked it out... and realised just how deep the rabbit-hole goes Neo… I mean Punchbag.’

  ‘You Monster!’ exclaimed Punchbag, deciding he’d finished his tea, and it was time to get down to business.

  ‘Monster?’ queried back Larry. ‘Monster...?! I actually like to think of myself as being more of a... Mogggggggg-ster!’

  ‘Oh that’s brilliant!’ said Ed, high fiving with Larry as Dave suddenly began rocking in his chair, yanking out his hair and screaming.

  ‘You’ll never get away with it!’ shouted Punchbag, jumping to his feet as the weight of his destiny began coursing through his veins. This is what he had come here to do, even if he had forgotten to bring the clog. He could feel the hopes of future generations bearing down… in witness of what would happen next... he thought... melodramatically.

  ‘Oh really little kitten?’ said Larry, rising to his back paws with a nonchalant shimmy to match Punchbag’s fighting stance… as Dave continued to spazz out like a good un.

  ‘You think you can stop me do you? You think...’

  ‘I’m certainly going to… ’ began Punchbag, before being cut across by a slightly peeved Larry.

  ‘Errr… that first bit was actually a rhetorical question,’ he miffed, ‘and me starting on my big speech... where I explain what I’ve been up to… so if you don’t mind?’

  Punchbag nodded to go on, without relaxing for a moment… still ready to leap into action just as soon as Larry was done… and then waving away Ed’s o
ffer of another cake to keep his strength up… and whilst trying to blot out Dave’s ongoing audition for Bedlam.

  ‘Ahem...’ continued Larry, ‘yes, as you have suspected I have indeed infiltrated all levels of the British Government and now basically run the shop. Who I actually am I’ll get to in a minute, but honestly it’s going to blow your socks off when you find out, and there’s no way you’ll ever see it coming. However before I get to that bit let me quickly outline how this all came about... and then I can do the big reveal... and then we can have the fight. You see I...’

  ‘Oh go on... have a last cake each,’ interrupted Ed before Larry could get going again. ‘Look, there’s only two left...’

  He quickly placed a fairy cake in front of them, did jazz-hands, and then sat back down.

  ‘I think I might have a go with almond flour you know next time,’ he went on, ‘because I think it might be better for your gluten intolerance Larry… and I’ve also started using Stevia as well you know… instead of sugar. You know it’s supposed to be nearly 150 times as sweet, so you hardly need any... and much better for you, especially compared to all them saccharins and stuff... I bet you couldn’t even tell that I hadn’t used proper sugar couldn’t you not… because your tongue’s thinking...’

  ‘WILL YOU SHUT THE FCUK UP!!!!’ screamed Larry, momentarily losing his psychotic cool.

  ‘God!’ preened Ed, looking to the side and folding his arms huffily, ‘Get fat and windy then... I don’t care.’

  He made an exaggerated mime of zipping his mouth closed and throwing away a key... as Larry shook his head and looked across at Punchbag. ‘This is what I’m working with by the way… and people wonder how I managed to take charge!?’

  Punchbag watched Ed then escort the still screaming Dave from the room with his arm around his shoulder. ‘Come on Pet,’ he said, ‘let’s leave them to it... we’ll go upstairs and play with Nick... you can let him out of his box.’

  Larry waited till the door had closed and then turned back to Punchbag. ‘Right...’ he sighed, ‘this time... oh and you might as well have that cake actually... while I explain this... as you’re going to cramp up if you keep standing like that waiting for me to get to the good bit. Look, I’m having mine.’

  Punchbag watched as Larry picked up his own fairy cake and began nibbling... and then did the same, but without letting down his guard for a moment with this master manipulator.

  ‘In fairness they are bloody good mind!’ chomped Larry, ‘and he’s right, you’d never know it was Stevia instead of sugar.’

  ‘You’re accent doesn’t seem as posh all of a sudden,’ said Punchbag, wondering if this was yet another devious ploy in this wizard of illusion’s cloak of deception masquerade of death power-play of destiny.’

  ‘Yeah it does keep slipping now and again,’ agreed Larry, ‘especially when I lose me rag. And I’m not actually that posh to be honest, just it goes down better around these parts. As you’ve probably noticed most of them are all toffs from fancy schools.’

  ‘Yeah I had noticed that actually,’ said Punchbag. ‘Seems a bit of a narrow pipeline they’re all spilling out of these days… doesn’t really seem to be that much separation between them anymore.’

  ‘There’s not man,’ went on Larry. ‘I mean them three supposedly running the show went to private schools with fees higher than the average annual wage... and with half the cabinet from fee-paying schools along with a third of all MPs. And that’s supposed to be a fair reflection of those they supposedly represent? And after all that, all most of them have ever done previously is been advisers or researchers for those that went before.’

  Punchbag realised that against his will he was actually nodding in agreement; as he nibbled thoughtfully on the butter cream icing of Ed’s creation... while Larry continued from atop his soap box.

  ‘I think that bloke with the giant Brillo Pad on his head said it best regarding the current residents of the Westminster Village.’

  Punchbag presumed Larry was referring to Andrew Neil, but decided not to break his flow, as at some point they were supposed to be fitting in a big fight.

  ‘Yeah old shredded wheat bonce observed, and I have to say I quite like the alliteration; that politics has again become the preserve of the privileged. And when you’re living amongst it... first as Chief Rat Catcher to the Cabinet… before shagging Gideon’s old pussy Freya and making my move… you do notice that there’s not much by way of a meritocracy regarding who rocks up. And that’s how it was so easy to take over… because none of them can really punch their weight when they get up against a proper bully... as you saw with Goebbels... I mean Campbell, and old Billionaire Blaire’s lot. I mean that idiot who’s just waltzed out covered in flour just wants to make cakes all day since he started watching The Great British Bake Off. And since I went radgie and balls to the wall psycho on old Davey’s arse and got him wetting the bed, he’s regressed into pretending he lives on a council estate and just hides out the back jobbing on with his Escort. And that’s fine by me... lets me get on with making up nutty policies then getting them to read them out.’

  ‘But why so brutal?’ gasped Punchbag, ‘why so selfish and self-destructive… perpetual fake-wars and selling off the Health Service; alongside an underclass of worker-drones on zero-hour contracts and kids no more than slaves under the guise of work-experience?!’

  ‘I know,’ cackled Larry, almost unable to contain himself, while spraying cake crumbs across the divide. ‘Bloody brilliant isn’t it? I mean am I an evil genius or what? Obviously some days it gets a bit repetitive, having to keep thinking up various bogey men the news can vomit out on a 24 hour loop to keep society continually fragmented and crapping their pants so they’ll accept this bollocks, and of course the main aim of the exercise… the erosion of their freedoms… but I generally manage it... with the help of The Sun and The Daily Mail of course. And to be honest, if you think it’s bad at the minute, then I suggest you strap in… because this is just the holding pattern. Wait till you see what’s coming down the pipeline once we really start pushing Putin’s buttons. You’ll think this is fugging Butlins. And as an evil genius that is supposed to be my day job... or my raison d’être as it were... if you’ll forgive me slipping momentarily back into ponce.’

  ‘I knew no one who had a modicum of empathy with how normal people live their lives could be behind it!’ exclaimed Punchbag, ‘selling off all the old folks’ homes alongside massive pay rises for themselves and the bankers.’

  ‘Oh now in fairness that last one wasn’t mine’ interrupted Larry. ‘I mean this lot might be saps, but they’re not stupid… and know who butters their bread; and obviously of a breed who’ll pocket anything that’s not nailed down... as you saw with the expenses scandal. So you maybe shouldn’t get too carried away and look to pin everything on me, and start forgetting just how much contempt this lot actually have for the electorate, because that’s just the nature of the beast... however the rest of the stuff you’ve been ranting on about... yeah... mostly mine.’

  ‘But why?’ cried Punchbag... gesturing with the last bit of his bun in exasperation, ‘when you could be doing so much good!’

  ‘As I said before mate, Evil Genius, you gotta do what you gotta do. And it’s not just me is it? I mean look around you... the world’s going to hell in a hand cart. I mean to paraphrase Ellner: Just look at us. Everything is backwards, everything is upside down. Doctors destroy health, lawyers destroy justice, psychiatrists destroy minds, scientists destroy truth, major media destroys information, religions destroy spirituality and governments destroy freedom... and Richard and Judy are the arbiters of holiday reading... I mean come on! If you’re gonna pick a side you might as well make it the winning one.’

  ‘Well I for one refuse to believe that all is lost!’ cried Punchbag, ‘and I believe that we can again have a British Government that is of the people and which is for the people!’

  ‘Alright bleeding Guy Fawkes #V for V
endetta,’ said Larry, ‘I suppose it’s that bit now where we have the fight... if you’ve finished your cake? Have you finished your cake? Yeah? Okay. Oh, but remind me on before the end to tell you who I am... cos honestly you are not going to believe it! Oh, and one last thing before we start, which I probably shouldn’t mention, however I’m feeling fairly confident, perhaps overly some might say, that I’ll be able to howke the living be-jeesus out of you once we get going, so I’ll let you into a little secret. You see there is actually a way of stopping me, and I suppose by definition their ilk... but I don’t see it turning up anytime soon around these parts…’

  ‘As if I’d even be interested...’ replied Punchbag, in a poor attempt at reverse psychology... and with his claws crossed behind his back.

  ‘Altruism,’ said Larry simply. ‘And I hope I don’t regret having mentioned that or anything later on.’

  And with that he threw down the little case his bun had been in, while stating definitively, ‘Okay, I’m all good now... so let’s get started,’ and flung himself at Punchbag.

  And they tumbled to the tiles in a fight for both their lives and the future democracy of the United Kingdom… P.L.C.

  Funky Junk

  They crashed and smashed around the kitchen. Knocking over welsh dressers and scattering chairs. They struggled in a death grip... gritting out their lines to move the story on.

  ‘It’s only, pant... a matter, pant, pant... of time... before (quick but unsuccessful attempt at a Kosoto Gari) I defeat... you... Punchbag... pant... via my superior strength and cunningggg Morote Seoinage! Ah bloody hell, thought I had you there. And when you are indeed, pant, pant, pant... defeated, pant... there will be no one... to stop meeeeee Sumi Otosh! Bloody Nora! I definitely thought I had you there, pant... from exploding... that nuclear warhead… I’ve hidden, pant, pant, pant... in Big Bennnnnn… RyuichiSakamotoBabooshkaBabooshkaBabooshkaYaYa!’

  Punchbag felt himself launched into the air by his tiny knackers, propelled by the completely original Judo throw that only an evil genius could invent, and which even his years of intensive training in the midden with Babs, herself a ninth dan black belt, could not have prepared him for.

  Punchbag squealed as his small testicles contracted; Larry still perfectly balanced beneath as he was propelled sideways past the cooker hood, his eyes reduced to squints whilst emitting a sound like a whistling kettle. He crashed into the cupboards opposite, tumbling to the floor amongst the broken wood and plates… as Larry walked over to appraise his beaten foe.

  ‘Nice try...’ he cackled, ‘but I really must be going… as I have a thermo nuclear device to detonate, a submarine to catch... and also need to put the Lottery on. I do hope however that this little lesson hasn’t put you completely off politics… because I could use a cat of your talents... if you would but join me on the dark side Luke, I mean Punchbag. And it’s certainly worth considering... being the dashing side-kick to an evil genius on a tropical island... against shoveling shit in a nuclear winter with the rest of the proles. Yes I could make use of a cat like you... however I’m afraid you will have to hurry... as my sub leaves Docklands, peer seven, in a little less than an hour... depending on what the traffic’s like.’

  ‘Are there any bags of peas in the freezer?’ squeaked back Punchbag.

  Principles for Men

  Punchbag lay on the floor, curled around the Birdseye Broccoli Florets that Larry had flung… the chill of the icy plastic doing little to ease the throb in his diminutive spunk bunkers.

  ‘Sorry to rush you my friend,’ continued Larry, appraising Punchbag’s rocking grimace, whilst also picking at something trifling behind his claw, ‘but I’ll be needing an answer as to whether you want to ride shotgun on my next dastardly endevour… and also have a go at driving the sub once I’ve backed it out... as the reverse is a bit funny... it’s like a sort of weird dog leg. Soooo?’

  ‘Never!’ hissed back Punchbag, now lying in a small puddle where the heat from his clappers was defrosting the florets.

  ‘Hmm...’ said Larry, in mild disappointment, tearing himself away from the appraisal of his claw. ‘Thought that might be the case... you’ve got the same look in your eye Nick had when he first rocked up... thinking that ideals might actually count for something... although in fairness, unlike Nick, you do actually have a pair of balls on you, aching though they might be. Whereas when push came to shove with Little Nicky it turned out his were detachable... and actually on a screw thread. I’ve hidden them in a box under his bed you know; just for shit and giggles... in that he could get his bollocks back if he wanted, just he never thinks to look. Says something about him, don’t you think? Well anyway, whatever... I find it mildly amusing.’

  Punchbag raised himself gingerly to his elbow, or whatever cats have, and waited for Larry to finish his bit about Nick, knowing he was bound to crow bar in something about him never needing to buy toilet roll anymore on account of just wiping his arse on his principles... and sure enough.

  ‘You know Nick never uses toilet roll anymore...?’ cast out Larry predictably, as Punchbag rolled his eyes. ‘Oh no, what he does is...’

  And this is the bit in the book my little friend where what we need is something like a flap... that we could lift to trigger a sound effect... specifically the crashing of glass and then that distinctive Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan yell... though in this case being emitted by Neil Kinnock, in baggy white under-pants... swinging in through the window on a snapped telephone line.

  ‘I can’t let you get away with it you evil Get!’ ululated Neil (in Welsh) down to one grey slip-on over two black nylon socks, as he made the apex above them... but deciding for some reason not to release and beginning to swing back out.

  ‘I’ve been haunted by the memory of abandoning those zombies for all these years… resorting to drowning myself in fizz and throwing money at Sunlight Cleaners to ease the pain... by occasionally getting my other suit dry cleaned, when most times I could have just got away with dabbing it with Sellotape to get the worst of the fluff off. But I can take it no longer! And must finally make a stand for something... just this once... before my clogs finally pop. And I have decided that since listening at the window during these last few chapters... and hearing what now passes for the British Government; and more specifically the Labour Party... that this is as good a cause as any with which to become the man I might have been. If I hadn’t set me neck on them pebbles, and collapsed on to the shingle as though hit by a sniper, toppling over in an undignified heap, and which then became the abiding image of the Labour conference... a man utterly out of his depth, shamelessly courting the media and making a complete fool of himself in the process. Well no bloody more Bonny Lad!’

  ‘I was a sort of socialist once,’ continued Neil, pursuing his return swing back towards the window, ‘and God Dam you Top Cat, or whoever you are, if I sort of won’t be again... even if it means abandoning me shroud with the pockets in.’

  ‘I’ve been kidding myself that I was happy,’ went on Neil, as his audience craned their necks to hear what he was saying as he pendulumed back outside... before swinging back in for a second time. This time doing a neat transfer over to the light fitting above the table... then dangling ungainly in a lethargic orbit as he continued with his speech.

  ‘Oh yes Laddie, I’ve had a bellyful of... and in no particular order... guilt, shame, embarrassment, humiliation, mortification, distress, chagrin, ignominy, abashment, discomfit, discomfiture, loss of respect, self esteem, discredit, odium, opprobrium, obloquy, contempt, and... well you get the general idea... however since watching that Tarzan and the Mermaids film, the last of the Tarzan movies to star Johnny Weissmuller in the title role, and the first Tarzan film since 1939 not to feature the character Boy, who was described as being away at school, I’ve decided I want to be less Neil Kinnock and more noble savage. And which is why I’m in me underpants.’

  ‘Is that it?’ offered a non plussed Larry, as Neil strained to reach the
table top with his one good slip on.

  ‘Well I’ve got a bit more to cover about what I like about Tarzan,’ went on Neil, easing gingerly onto terra firma with the assistance of the chair.

  ‘Quick as you can then,’ sighed Larry, looking over at Punchbag and shaking his head.

  ‘Right... just quickly then!’ exclaimed an excited Neil. ‘And what I’ll do is just give you the best bits about why I like him... and then you’ll be able to see why I’ve started swinging about on stuff, fighting crime and yodelling. And to save time I’ll do a list… like you would if you were condensing something off Wikipedia… so here we go:

  He’s a noble savage without character flaws or faults… and he’s Caucasian, which is always a bonus… especially if Nigel’s lot do well. He’s athletic, tall, handsome, and tanned, with long black hair and grey eyes… which you’ll just have to use your imagination with... although saying that me slip-ons are grey... are bloody hell ones come off! Emotionally, he is courageous and steadfast... maybe come back to that one… and behaves ethically in most situations, ditto, except when seeking vengeance under the motivation of grief; as when his ape mother Kala is killed in Tarzan of the Apes, or when he believes Jane has been murdered in Tarzan the Untamed. He’s deeply in love with his wife… which is just like me and Glynis, or however you spell it… and when presented with a situation where a weaker party is being preyed upon by a stronger foe, Tarzan invariably takes the side of the weaker party… hmmm… err… aye… right. And finally… as a leader… he commands respect.’

  ‘Now I never said I had them all,’ went on Neil, seemingly never to end, ‘but I’m sure you can probably get now why I really like him... and why I’ve decided to try and be more like him… and ergo why I’ve swung in here in me underpants to try and put a stop to your dastardly deeds.’

  ‘And is THAT it?!’ tried Larry again... impatience oozing from every pore.

  ‘Yes,’ said Neil. ‘That’s it. That’s us all up to speed with why I’m here, a bit of back story... and a quick synopsis regarding me Tarzan fetish. Thanks for listening.’

 

  ‘No problem,’ said Larry, before knocking Neil out with a frying pan.

  In a Galaxy Far, Far, Away… and all that

  Well. Can you believe it? I know I can’t.

  In just a few pages we’ve had Punchbag having to leave his midden and his lovely Mummy and brothers and sisters, because he suddenly discovers that he is the descendant of the most famous cat in history that has ever lived… but without any actual explanation as to what this might mean. We do know that he will eventually end up on Mr. Brown’s farm… because he was already living there in the introduction… and so any real sense of suspense was immediately lost due to such lazy construction.

  And then there’s the suggestion that

  You Are Adopted,

  which of course is super unlikely, you Silly Sausage… and definitely not something you should

  Think About All The Time.

  And then this strange man turns up and helps Punchbag get to London, via New York, which is in America… and which is in lots of other countries it shouldn’t be.

  And Neil Kinnock by the way?!

  I mean is that the 1980s on a giant mobile phone wanting their hopes and jokes back. Talk about narrowing your target audience down to just the bitter voices in your head.

  But of course the thing is not to worry my little friend if things seem a tad confusing and you’re worried

  They Will Send You Back,

  because hopefully there will be lots of other super new characters along very shortly to take your mind off it.

  And who the new ghost writers have guaranteed will be at least 5/8ths, or 62.5%, funnier.

  Annnnd Action!

  ‘Well in fairness I have actually learned something here today,’ said Larry, standing over the crumpled under-panted body of Neil lying moaning at his feet, beneath the Jamie Oliver Stainless Steel Frying Pan, offering professional results at home, and with Tefal's iconic Thermo-Spot technology, still ringing from where he’d banjo-ed him.

  ‘And what’s that you Monster?’ gritted out Punchbag, rising unsteadily in sopping wet sequined hot pants using the benches for support.

  Larry watched him wryly as he gasped against the ache in his tiny plums, but trying not to give this maniac the satisfaction of seeing just how painful his microscopic sweetbreads still were.

  ‘Twinging a tad are they?’ asked Larry... rhetorically.

  ‘Weeee...’ moaned Neil from his unconscious heap. ‘Weeee...’

  ‘Seems like our friend Tarzan might be having a bad dream,’ said Larry, poking at him dismissively with a well shod back paw. ‘However I can’t waste any more time on a character, who unless you were around during the miner’s strike, and still smarting about it, really seems to have much reason for being here. Or on a little big-kitty, who though brave... simply doesn’t know when to jump ship and get on board with The Double Deckers... I mean winning team. Because, as I said earlier, my sub will be leaving Peer 7 very shortly, just in case there’s any sort of chase sequence and you lose me in traffic... and before that I still need to pop to the Spar and put me numbers on... cos I think it might be a rollover.’

  ‘Weeee...’ moaned out Neil again... from his unconscious slump; as Punchbag wobbled around the kitchen with the assistance of the units.

  Larry watched him, shaking his head. ‘I know what you’re up to my young friend... but please don’t. Because I’ll ring your bell the same as the Ape Man’s if you try to stop me leaving by blocking the door.’

  ‘I was just going to put the kettle on,’ lied Punchbag, opening the nearest cupboard and pretending to look for tea bags. ‘I thought maybe a cup of Chamomile might be good for me nads.’

  ‘Maybe ginger...’ offered Larry, ‘or is that for your digestion. We should really ask Ed, he seems to know his way around them... but I think they’re upstairs playing shops with Nick... and anyway I need to be getting on.’

  ‘Weeee...’ moaned out Neil again, by way of set up for later.

  ‘Right,’ said Larry, ‘That’s definitely me... and I better be off... as I’ve also forgotten what it was I was going to mention in the first paragraph... so one will just have to assume it probably wasn’t that important. But nice try anyway regarding trying to stop me, however it was always going to be a lost cause, what with my Judo moves and the general unpredictable nature of this story.’

  He indicated to the still moaning Neil at his feet, ‘I mean what was the point of him swinging in here in his underpants just for me to twat him with me Tefal?!’

  Punchbag made to say something, but settled for a reluctant dink of his furry head in agreement as to why Neil Kinnock was still in the scene.

  ‘So aye,’ continued Larry, ‘I’m off to sunnier climes and to try and find a volcano I can hollow out as a lair, while I sit out the nuclear winter. You can have the government back now, for what it’s worth... I mean I don’t think I really need to do much more once I’ve made Big Ben Gan Bang... which is how I’ve had to write the text for Cheryl Cole, or whatever her surname will be when this goes out, and who is one of my minions by the way, and currently sitting up in the clock tower behind the number seven on the side that faces Pizza Hut. I’ll be texting her once I’m safely in me sub and got it backed out. Did I mention about the reverse on it... what a bugger! You’d think they’d just put the gears in the same place on all of them... but it’s bloody different every time. I mean what’s all that about?!’

  ‘Please don’t do this!’ pleaded Punchbag, looking for Ed’s Stevia to take the edge off the green tea he’d just poured, ‘if only for the sake of Cheryl’s talent and career! She’s only just done another gorgeous set of ads for L’Oreal Paris, and detonating a thermo-nuclear warhead to destroy the capital and cast Northern Europe into a nuclear winter is bound to affect ticket sales for the Girls Aloud Reunion Tour.’

  ‘Oh my naïve young kitten,�
�� chuckled Larry, ‘that is why my plan is so delicious... because Cheryl Cole, or whatever her surname will be when this goes out, is the thermo-nuclear warhead.’

  He laughed manically, by way of reminding the reader that he was still a nutjob, and then continued, ‘and when I send her that text she will simply spark up a Capstan Full Strength... and detonate her, for added volume blow-dry head upside down... Elnett drenched barnet.’

  ‘But surely Mrs. Insert Current Surname Here isn’t a willing party to all this?!’ cried Punchbag. ‘Surely Cheryl cannot know what devastation she will cause in lighting up her smoky treat?!’

  ‘No...?’ said Larry, without emphasis, ‘I think she does. Because when I last spoke to her she still had the raging hump over being accused of miming again... and also had the painters in, which as you know never helps with a balanced view on life... but whatever. The upshot is that old Chezza is up there now just waiting for her childish instructions. So if you don’t mind...?’ He made to step over the still unconscious Kinnock as Punchbag tried one last desperate plea for humanity.

  ‘Please! Larry! Listen! The world is still a good place. And I know you quoted Ellner earlier in that bit about everything being back to front… but you don’t have to make it worse. You could do so much good... with your brilliant mind. In fact it could actually be more fun than being evil... if thrills are what you’re after? What about the thrill of fighting against it? Of trying to do something knowing that it might never come to anything... but just doing it for the sake of saying bollocks! I won’t buy into this and just be one of them! Neither the apathetic masses... or the bent bastards running the game… because not only is it the right thing to do; and you only have to look inside your heart to know that... but because you choose to… because you choose to Larry!

  You choose to be kind. And you choose to be kind even though you know that it’s a cause that might be lost. But you choose to Larry... because in that is your catmanity... and without our catmanity... then we truly are all buggered. And you do this not comparative to anything else, but in demonstration of the cat that you are... and to leave your mark upon the time that you are here… a bit like Mel said in Brave Heart, Every man dies, but not every man really lives... and I’m not anti-Semitic.

  And I think that’s what Neil here has finally discovered, with his Tarzan fetish, alongside the obvious onset of dementia... the fundamental need to try… not for the money or the titles…but because it’s simply the right thing to do.’ Punchbag took another quick slug on his tea and continued before Larry could get a word in edgewise...

  ‘Even if it’s as Camus says Larry; and simply Absurd to search for meaning in the face of an unintelligible world... devoid of God and eternal truths and values... does this realisation require suicide? No. It requires revolt. We might indeed all be Sisyphus Larry… condemned to repeat forever the same meaningless task of pushing a boulder up a hill, only to see it continually roll back down again. But it is in the struggle itself that we will find the key, which is enough to fill a man’s heart… and that ultimately we must choose… and Imagine Sisyphus Happy!

  There’s always a choice Larry. Maybe everything is rubbish… but that doesn’t mean that our only option is to simply add more crap to the pile. Think of Coolio… before the embarrassment of Celebrity Big Brother and... Stand up for something or lay down with the gang! Come on Larry, what do you say? Why not text Cheryl with Big Ben No Gan Bang... and get her to come round too… and I’ll make another pot of tea, cos it’s actually bloody lovely with the Stevia in it… and there’s biscuits in the tin and… oh we live like Kings Man Larry! And have sooo much compared to so many people. Look, I’ll paraphrase Thoreau… while I sit down… as it’s startin’ to feel a bit like all the drawers are tipping out in me head… but anyway here we go:

  You didn’t go to sleep hungry or outside last night Larry… and had a choice of what clothes to wear this morning. I appreciate this might lose something in translation when it’s two cats talking… and with me in hot pants and that. Although two cats talking is maybe where you should start if you want to get into nit picking. Ha, ha… nits eh Larry? Nitzzz. It’s such a daft word eh? NIIITZZZ! You ever had nits Larry… eh? I had once… a couple of times… cos we lived in a midden… but we were happy Larry, we were… oh aye…sorry. And you hardly broke a sweat today, well apart from when you were clashing me about off the units, and have access to clean drinking water and medical care… for your nits and stuff.

  So might I suggest Lazzie..? Lazza… Lazzarooneybiscotchio... that we are incredibly wealthy… INCREDIBLY wealthy Mate...before we even start. Although obviously I’m sorry to hear about you’re nits by the way. Bud me point is though, I see a little silhouetto of a man, Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango, that we all should be a lod more gradeful for what we ave. Whad about everyone tryin that for a change! Eh? Instead of alwis jus being misberbabable about all the crap they don’t need.’

  Punchbag banged his cup down in teary eyed emphasis... before taking another quick slug and slumping back into the chair… as his face began to change colour.

  ‘Cos it’s the alwis wanning more man Lassie…is your name Labby or Labby by the way… that’s waz gez me! The alwis wanning more! Cos we’re never appy Lappy… we’re never appy! Watchin averts n’ bollocks T.V. that jus leaves you feelin empty… like it’s supposed to… and cumin away thinkin you’re missin out unless you’ve got A Pace in the Cundry with a paddock for four horses… next door to fuggin Aled Jones!

  Chrisd wiv got our ealth man Laffie! We’ve got our ealth man Mate!

  Our ELTH!!!

  Do you reeeeealise whad some people would give jus to be us man LabLab? Just to be us...ride now! In dis woderful world… in dis woderful time…?’

  ‘No.’ said Larry, simply… as Punchbag finally glazed over… and toppled to the floor.

  ‘And I suppose I should have mentioned earlier; that wasn’t green tea… by the way...’

  Hong Kong Diesel

  Towards the end of Punchbag’s plea he’d realised he was having a whitey, however as your Daddy will tell you, realising you’re having a whitey and being able to do anything about having a whitey are entirely different things.

  He’d got a hint that things might not be going so well when the ironing board in the corner had covered Bohemian Rhapsody... but had managed to momentarily keep it together by sitting down and listening to what the big cat in hot pants was saying. For the second time that day Punchbag heaved himself up from the tiles and slumped into a chair… laying his head across his paws.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ came a familiar voice from behind, ‘back in the room now are we?’

  Punchbag tried to turn, but gave up with the exertion required, settling for huffing through his fur into the table. ‘I thought you’d be gone by now... how long have I been out?’

  ‘Oh not long… not long,’ chirruped Larry, coming into view... and now channeling Biggles.

  ‘I thought you were taking the sub?’ tried Punchbag, side-on, appraising Larry’s leather helmet, white scarf and flying goggles... and while wondering whether his tongue had been replaced by half a pound of boiled ham.

  ‘Change of plan young un! Sub things now redundant, which saves all that hassle backing it out, and I’m now doing a bi-plane fly past and picking Cheryl up en route... as she’s ran out of fags. She texted before when you were giving it zeds to say she’d ate the last lot as she wuz cowld. So the upshot is I’ll get her another twenty Capstans when I put me numbers on and then she can do her hair in the plane and I can pitch her out once she sparks up. And I’m thinking that an aerial detonation might actually be more effective... Thermobaric if you will. Yes I think igniting Cheryl’s Elnett at altitude could actually be more devastating... as the blast wave should be significantly longer in duration... or am I splitting hairs?’

  Punchbag managed to raise his head just on the principal of scowling at Larry’s pun.

  ‘Y
ou look absolutely blaked by the way,’ said Larry, zipping up his jacket and stamping his shiny boots.

  Punchbag moaned… aware that saliva was oozing over his forepaws. ‘I feel absolutely slaughtered.’ He prodded at his swollen mouth, discovering he’d also lost a fang… as Larry watched him chuckling.

  ‘Yes I’m afraid one of the big pointy ones at the front flew out when you decked it… quite impressive actually... it pinged across the room like a poison dart.’ He motioned to the still unconscious Kinnock, ‘Look! It’s stuck in his head... although you probably can’t see it from there.’

  ‘Weeee...,’ moaned out Neil, to get him back into the story.

  ‘And I suppose you’re probably wondering what it was that you were banging on before?’ continued Larry, ‘...and I know I keep doing this, and that if this was in a film you’d be going nuts and thinking... ah he’s just asking for it now, why doesn’t he just get off… but I promise this is the last one... so I’ll just tell you quickly... and wrap up those bits that are still hanging... and then that’s me... and I am definitely, definitely out of here!’

  Punchbag managed another pitiful moan to encourage Larry to go on.

  ‘Yes welcome to my latest twist on Hong Kong Diesel… the Connoisseur’s Cannabis, in which I’ve managed to blend the best of its sativa properties, which are good for Dave’s depression and bed wetting, with a soupcon of Indica Crystal Extreme... or ICE, ICE Baby! Which as you know is itself a hybrid of our old friend Northern Lights. And which you can also no doubt testify should be ingested sparingly... rather than being slugged down in a hot brew like a thirsty builder. Christ! Never mind your balls getting a battering earlier, I’m surprised they never shot across the room with your fang... did you not think it tasted a bit strong?!’

  ‘I did think it was sort of interesting,’ moaned back Punchbag, as The Band of the Grenadier Guards did another number in his head with mostly drums, ‘but I just thought it must be something fancy from the Pukka range... as me Mam normally just buys the C.O.O.P. ones. I did feel quite happy for a bit... and then a bit teary and angry... and did wonder why I was marrying Camus’ Myth of Sisyphus with Coolio’s See You When You Get There... and obviously why the ironing board was covering Bohemian Rhapsody.’

  ‘Actually I thought that your bits about everyone being the change they wanted to see and then your rendition of, ‘Fill-ettes! The best a cat can get!’ or whatever it was you did on the way down... was very moving, encouraged Larry, as if Blu-Tacking a child’s painting to a fridge... upside down.

  ‘Yeah... whatever,’ moaned back Punchbag, realising that there was no way he was going to be up for any more rolling around until he got his head down for an hour.

  ‘Yes it is strong stuff... and no mistake,’ continued Larry. ‘I like to have a toke of an evening... after I’ve got them three to bed... and had a nice bath. A bit of me time... you know? I like a few puffs when I’m looking at me Alex Greys... you can get right into them on that.’

  ‘Yeah, our Buzz has got some of his pictures,’ moaned back Punchbag, ‘I think it’s what got him started with the Ayahauska, that and Aubrey Marcus rattling on about it on the Joe Rogan Podcast.’

  ‘Yeah I like listening to him as well,’ agreed Larry, ‘he has some fascinating guests on… like Wim Hof. It’s what got me into cold showers, juicing and doing kettle-bells... and also the Bullet Proof coffee… and of course Duncan Trussell is hilarious. However I’m thinking that none of this is particularly interesting, say if you just wanted a story you’d paid good money for… so maybe we should move this on... as it seems like we’re just going around in circles... and none of them seem particularly funny.’

  Punchbag nodded agreement and slumped back into his forepaws.

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Larry, ‘let’s put this lot to bed and start a new chapter... because it does seem like we’re just circling... and as there’s obviously something big coming up it might be better to start that fresh, when we can get straight into it. Let’s have one last quick cuppa... of proper tea, and I’ll put some honey in it to pull you round... and that way you can get your breath back and I can quickly do me wrap up... and then we can all get off to whatever’s coming next. And if someone was reading this it would give them the chance to have a slash or get some kip without having to fold down a virtual page.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ mumbled Punchbag...

  Just as Neil Kinnock sprang to his feet like a Ginger Ninja...

 

  Peninsula

  ‘Weeee… Weeee… We’re Alright!’ shouted Neil finally getting to do his line, and grabbing Larry around the throat.

  Punchbag propped himself up on his elbow and watched as another dramatic fight sequence ensued… having to pull his chair in twice for them to squeeze by.

  Larry clattered Neil repeatedly about the loaf with his Tefal, producing differing timbres dependent upon where he was struck; the top of his head producing an awful teeth clacking rattle, but with quite a pleasant and melodious tone from around the back.

  ‘We’re Alright! We’re Alright!’ roared Neil, his eyes crossing and dancing like graphic-equalizer lights.

  ‘So this is your moment is it Mr. Kinnock?’ gasped out Larry, between the serve and volley in this dance of death. The liver spotted digits of his under-panted adversary locked so tight around his throat that he could barely do exposition.

  ‘So this is your final fling… to take me down or die trying… after listening to Punchbag’s call to arms. And whilst all this time having pretended to be unconscious, just like Tarzan probably did in one of his films… and then suddenly springing to life just at that exact moment when I’d dropped my guard… and then grabbing me around the throat whilst yodelling out your catchphrase. And this time; no matter how hard or how many times I seem to lamp you, you somehow manage to maintain your deathly grip… with every last ounce of your bony tenacity. Thereby demonstrating both the triumph of the redemptive process and also allowing for your narrative arc to complete. Ah… you cunning Welsh Bastard!’

  Punchbag continued to watch them crashing around, pulling in his chair every time they carouselled past and nodding to Ed when he crept in and tip-toed over to the cupboard with his finger to his lips to get a packet of Jammy Dodgers.

  ‘I’ll not disturb them,’ he whispered as he crept back towards the door, ‘but if I don’t see you again, take care and it was nice to meet you.’ He held up the biscuits, ‘We’re just trying to get Nick back in his box, cos he’s starting to get a bit niggly… and I think David’s getting tired as well cos he’s started bullying him again.’ He shook his head in mock frustration and flounced out with an exasperated wave.

  Back at the fight Larry’s head had turned blue. ‘Anyway…’ he gasped, picking up the scene again after the interruption, ‘it’s probably all I’ll be able to do to even cover those bits that are still outstanding, as obviously I’m getting seven colours throttled out of me here… and this bloody Tefal is worse than useless at the minute, I mean what’s this bugger’s skull made out of? I mean I know he’s obviously thick skinned, but bleeding hell! I’ve been in nuclear test bunkers that had less insulation! I’ve actually been hitting him so long the little spot in the middle of the pan has turned red to let me know I’m up to temperature… and it’s starting to go all concave look… or is it convex? I can never remember. But basically it’s starting to resemble a Wok.’

  ‘Err… the wrapping up bit?’ tried Punchbag.

  ‘Aye, aye… give us a minute,’ responded Larry in mild agitation, continuing to banjo manically, but with seemingly little result beyond reforming his pot.

  ‘Okay… you’re right, time is obviously of the essence, and I don’t know how long I can hold out with Methuselah in his slip-on here, so I better make it quick, as honestly this really is no joke and I can hardly breathe… and try as I might with my Judo moves they just don’t seem to be having any effect whatsoever, just in case you were thinking they were suddenly
noticeable by their absence. So aye, the bits I’ve been harping on about getting around to for the last few chapters, and which now, looking back, and with the benefit of hindsight, I should have either just got out of the way there and then or just left and not even bothered with. And to be honest, were I to do this again, I would probably spend a lot less time explaining stuff and being overly dramatic, especially around describing my plans… and also maybe not put as much faith in Jamie Oliver’s signature range as my weapon of choice… but anyway… I suppose that’s all a bit redundant now, so what I’ll do is run through the bits I remember mentioning and being all cryptic about, and if there is anything you think I’ve missed just chip in… Ha, chip in… eh? Must be because of me pan! No? Whatever! Honestly I think I’m wasted here, but anyway, aye… I’ll try and answer them, though if I could just ask you to wait until the end of me summing up before you do that… and that way I won’t lose me flow or have to repeat meself… what with oxygen being at something of a premium and all that.’

  ‘Whatever’s good for you,’ encouraged Punchbag, as Larry continued to crash Neil’s cranium like the beginning of a Rank film… and Neil continued to scream, ‘We’re Alright!, We’re Alright!’ after every strike… and strangle him.

  ‘Right,’ said Larry, ‘Oh and I’ll also do the old list thing as well for ease of reference… and because you two both did it earlier… and though I wasn’t really convinced originally, when the man from Umbongo here did his… it has grown on me since, especially after yours… and I also think it provides a nice sort of symmetry with the three main characters… so in a nutshell;

  I’m not your Father or anything… so no worries there… cos obviously that one’s been done to death.

  However I am your Mother……’

  ‘My Mother!’ gasped Punchbag, almost falling off his chair… as Larry and the Lord spun past again.

  ‘I thought we agreed that I would do this as one of them lists?’ shouted back Larry over his shoulder, ‘…like you two did before. And then we’d do the questions at the end?’

  ‘But, but…,’ stuttered Punchbag.

  ‘Ah whatever,’ said Larry, ‘it’s fine, it’s fine. Although if you hadn’t interrupted and jumped in quite so early you might have noticed that I’d put a load of dots after where I said your Mother, which means I hadn’t actually finished saying what I was going to say… and if you’d let me continue I would have put an apostrophe and an s on it to show the possessive, like I am your Mother…….’s…..’

  ‘My Mother’s what? My Mother’s what?’ screamed Punchbag, this time noticing the dots and knowing that there was more to follow.

  ‘Your Mother’s sister,’ said Larry. ‘I’m your Mother’s sister. Eeee! But your face… just there! Honestly. Brilliant man! Just Brilliant! I wish I could have got a photo.’

  ‘But how?!’ exclaimed Punchbag. ‘How on earth could you be my Mother’s sister?’

  ‘Well how do you think?’ said Larry, looking a tad puzzled, whilst still on the cusp of becoming unconscious. ‘Your Mam’s Mam… your Granny Ethel… had two daughters… and one of them was your Mam, and the other one was me… her older sister.’

  ‘You’re Auntie Pauline!’ exclaimed Punchbag, the aftermath of his earlier whitey now forgotten with this incredible news.

  ‘Yes that’s me,’ said Larry, ‘and I don’t know if you can remember… but when you were really little I used to come and babysit? And I got you those titchy Adidas trainers… although you were out of them in no time. What a bloody waste of money!’

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Punchbag, his brain bouncing with questions to try and make sense of this devastating news… and knowing that choosing correctly was crucial.

  ‘Didn’t you have that big win at the bingo… and didn’t share it with Mam?’

  ‘Aw! Is she still going on about that for Christ’s sake!?’ cried Larry, stopping momentarily from chiming out the hour to let the Tefal slide in exasperation. ‘She wants to have herself a bloody day off doesn’t she…?’

  ‘But Mum said that you were both supposed to be going halfies on everything, and that it was actually her card and you were just playing it while she was at the bar?’

  ‘Bollocks! Her card…? It was my card! And anyway she’d won three weeks before and never split… and I’d paid that week with me Pools money.’

  ‘Well Mam says…’ began Punchbag, but was interrupted again by Larry as he began to fruitlessly re-gong Neil’s head.

  ‘Look Punchbag, I don’t mean to be rude about your Mam… but you know… I am her sister… and maybe know her a bit better than you do? But anyway… I think we’re perhaps getting a bit off the subject here. The fact is I’m… well I was… your Aunty Pauline… which was one of the things I was supposed to be covering in me list if you remember. And the other thing was about why you are actually called Punchbag… and we never agreed to share and it was definitely my card!

  Anyway… you’re called Punchbag because… and this is a strange one… and you’ll have to bear with me on it… but your name is basically a synecdoche, which is a sort of rhetorical trope or figure of speech… and I suppose could also be referred to as being a metaphor… in that it’s symbolic of the character you have taken on. And I can see from your eyes that you’re not following… or are you still thinking of what your Mam said about me and the Gala?’

  ‘No I’m listening,’ said Punchbag, ‘though I still have a couple of questions to say the least… but I’ll keep them till the end like you said.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Larry, ‘I’ll try and explain a bit better, though obviously it might come across a little jumpy in places due to having to continually wrestle with this Welsh Maniac as he tries to cut off me gas.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Punchbag, ‘though in fairness the name I was originally given has really all but fallen away anyway… and I’ve more or less been referred to as Punchbag throughout the story… however I would still like to know what’s behind it… so please… off you go.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Larry, ‘and just so we’re straight… your true name from here on in is indeed Punchbag. And the reason for this is because the adventures you will have, and the things that you will draw attention to, will result in you becoming a PUNCHBAG… at least for a certain type of person. And please understand that when I say Punchbag I do mean both figuratively and literally. For instance, and by way of example… your original name stirred up something of a fuss did it not?’

  ‘Well yes…’ said Punchbag, ‘but I just presumed he was simply a little fat man who took himself far too seriously… and a quick glance at his look at me, look at me website will confirm that… and that if he was that bothered about his size he should maybe stop cramming as many kets into his kite. I mean talk about first world problems! Maybe the rest of us should also be firing off Cease and Desist letters… for the banal daytime T.V. he presents with his wife. Or can we not laugh now… or only laugh at what this dumpy Irish dick finds funny?’

  ‘Err… actually,’ said Larry, still intermittently tapping at Neil’s head by way of keeping a beat, ‘that wasn’t the name I was on about, but let’s go with that one for the moment as it illustrates my point perfectly. Because to me what you’ve just said does make sense… however you’ll find you simply can’t say that, and that if you do you will indeed become said Punchbag. However I was actually meaning that other name… though I don’t really want to spoil the surprise regarding what the reaction will probably be to that one… but if you think Eamonn’s porky petulance was funny… wait till you get a load of this other lot. You’ll literally laugh your head… off!’

  ‘I have to say,’ said Punchbag, ‘that after a point I really don’t understand the fuss. Surely it’s about what you do as a person… like all the stuff I was rattling on about before when I did my big speech… and just before I had me whitey.’

  ‘And that’s exactly why you will forever be Punchbag,’ said Larry, ‘because I am afraid that
this world does not spin with the same naïve logic that you do. To use an idiom; people have agendas and have discovered that if they choose to be offended, they can cancel any further debate… and prevent people seeing what utter egocentrics and hypocrites they really are. However I do sincerely hope that you continue, because if nothing else it should certainly be interesting… in a who’s suing him now/isn’t that him on Al Jazeera T.V. being beheaded sort of way. Unfortunately though… I’m afraid that’s me… for the geriatric Ape Man here has finally found my stop cock… so if you don’t mind… I fear I must pass out.’

  And with that Larry had a turn at slumping to the tiles… leaving Lord Neil Kinnock standing over him in his underpants and one good slip-on screaming, ‘We’re Alright! We’re Alright!’

  And for the first time, in a long time… it was not only true…

  But having actually won.

  Rinse Repeat

  Punchbag listened to Larry/Aunty Pauline, now tied to a chair and conscious again after Neil’s disconnection of their gas supply; and his ongoing mitigation in relation to his earlier dastardly endeavors, as they waited for the police to arrive.

  ‘So aye in a nutshell, I would cite your four basics of Methyl, Ethyl, Propyl and Butyl… coupled with me leaky endocrine system and not thinking further than just wanting me head to stop being as itchy.’

  ‘Parabens?’ echoed Punchbag. ‘All of this has happened because of the chemicals in your anti-dandruff shampoos?’

  ‘More or less,’ continued Larry, ‘although not just the shampoos, most deodorants are full of aluminium too… so that’s been plugging up me pits as well; so I couldn’t sweat them out. And those three love their bubble baths after P.M.Q.’s… and once I’ve done them I generally get in meself. So you could probably add those to the list… regarding me extreme right wing tendencies, general meglo-mania and raging cystitis.’

  ‘I mean you’ve the lauryl-sulfate that causes the foam, but which is really just stripping the essential oils and proteins… the thanolamines knacking up the keratin, and the polyethelyne glycol bolloksing-up the scalp. And that’s before you even get to all the synthetic colours and scents. And I’ve been tipping this shite over me nut and lathering up like a good-un for years! And that’s on top of me shower gels. I mean the crap that must have been seeping into me just doesn’t bear thinking about. No wonder me estrogen went bloody haywire? Jeez! I’ve basically been luxuriating in a bloody chemical spill. I should have had orange-cones and a Haz-Chem tape around me bath. It’s enough to send anybody off the rails man. And also… much as it pains me to say it… you’re Mam was right… it was her card an all. Christ… what have I become?!’

  ‘He does have a point you know, Ma Big-Kitty-Thingy-Ma-Jiggy,’ offered Neil, sitting opposite the tightly bound Larry in his Y fronts, with what looked like tea stains on the front, and chewing on khat leaves from a gourd at his side. ‘I mean it is the biggest organ in the body… so if you are continually submerging yourself in chemicals it stands to reason some might eventually seep through. After all we are talking about a surface area of around 2 square metres, and with a thickness varying from 0.5mm on your eyelids to around 4mm on your palms and the soles of your feet… though on mine and Tarzan’s you could probably easily double that… although mines not quite as thick as his yet, obviously, as I’ve just started swinging about and stuff, and so I still need to wear me slip-ons… oh bloody hell I still need to find the not left one. I think it got snagged on the blind as I came through…. so it’s probably outside by the pots…. unless a dog’s had it away. I’ll go and have a look in a minute… once I’ve finished off this bit about how important skin is.

  So aye… getting back to it… in total skin actually accounts for around 16% of your body weight; consisting of the outer epi and inner dermis. Now what’s interesting is that the deepest cells constantly divide and push up to the surface… and then they die and fill with keratin to protect the ones beneath… however these are constantly flaking off… and so around every 30 days or so you’re basically in a completely new skin. Amazing eh?’

  ‘Incredible…,’ said Punchbag… perhaps failing to match the obvious enthusiasm of Neil, still chewing manically and continuing to present his dirty laundry.

  Punchbag glanced at the big kitchen clock and wondered how long the police would be… Scotland Yard having assured him that specialist assistance was on the way.

  ‘And what’s also interesting,’ continued Neil, ‘is that as well as your inner dermis having strong collagen fibres pierced by blood vessels; it’s also packed with hair follicles and sweat and oil glands, which play a crucial role in regulating your body temperature… because when you need to cool down… say like me and Tarzan when we’ve been swinging about fighting crocodiles and poachers and stuff… the blood vessels widen, allowing heat to escape and you sweat… buuuut… when you’re cold they narrow… and your hairs stand up to trap warm air!’

  ‘What about skin colour…?’ piped up Larry, apparently genuinely fascinated by the former European Commissioner’s specialist subject.

  ‘Well that’s a very good question Larry,’ continued Neil, as a bamboozled Punchbag watched on from the side. ‘You see that’s all to do with something called melanocytes, which are titchy cells that produce melanin, and which is a brown substance that absorbs the harmful ultraviolet rays from the sun…. and why Tarzan and Darkies in general look so swarthy and rock. However with me being Welsh and a Ginger I only have melanin in the lower layers of me epidermis and so get freckles and moles… but with wrinkles, which is all to do with collagen breaking down, I’ve…’

  Thankfully at this point the police did finally arrive… Punchbag exhaling a long sigh that the deepest infiltration of the British Establishment, since a dysfunctional German family first changed their name to Windsor, would now be someone else’s problem to sort out.

  But then realising who they’d sent.

  Hopeless Frank

  Hopeless Frank or Area Searched No Trace as he was known to his colleagues and members of the public living on his beat, and who now refused to pay that portion of their council tax that went towards his wages, and had taken to wearing pillow cases on their heads and sorting out problems Southern Style, rather than fruitlessly trying to get the lumbering oaf to come out the warm and do his job…. listened to Punchbag’s abridged account of Larry’s four years of control of the British Government, and his self-confession of intending to detonate Cheryl Cole’s hair and obliterate Northern Europe to create a nuclear winter… and decided that the best way of dealing with it would be for each party to exchange names and addresses and sign his pocket book. He then left the scene and ambled off to open a chocolate shop.

  ‘Eeeh! I am sorry man,’ said Larry, as Neil released him from his bonds and then went outside to look for his slip-on. ‘But you know if Kinnock hadn’t throttled me to within an inch of me nine lives… causing me to finally sweat out all those heavy metals and toxins and what have you… then who knows how this might have ended? I mean it just goes to show how it seeps in and creeps up. One minute you’re frothing up your bath with Matey, and the next you’re hanging out the back of George Osborne’s cat and Nick Clegg’s in a gimp mask. Eeeh! It’s insidious man!’

  ‘Soooo…. you’re okay now?!’ tried Punchbag… figuring he wasn’t penning this rubbish so might as well just go with the flow and say the words he was given.

  ‘Aye Champion son!’ replied Larry. ‘In fact I feel like a new woman… and call me Aunty. I think I’d really like it if you called me Aunty Pauline.’

  ‘Err… alright then. Aunty Pauline.’

  ‘Eeee smashing! Right, you know what I think I’m gonna do? I’m gonna knock it on the head down here and get meself away back up north. Get back up to God’s country and start doing a bit of repenting and get to work on them Castration Blowers I’ve been meaning to develop. And first thing on the list is going to be popping round and seeing your Mam… and making it up with her
. What must she think of me after all these years? You know that’s when all this probably started… looking back… where the proper selfishness first set in… after that bloody bingo win! I’m telling ya… you’ve got to keep an eye on it man Punchbag… otherwise? Well… you’ve seen what can happen.’

  ‘And what about Cheryl?’ tried Punchbag. ‘Isn’t she still sitting up there in Big Ben behind the number seven on the side that faces Pizza Hut?’

  ‘Don’t worry about Chezza,’ replied Aunty Pauline, ‘I’ll get her down on me way through… and we can go and get the Mega-Bus together and she can come back up north for a bit. She’ll probably love that… because between you and me I think she really misses it. I’m thinking me and your Mam could take her clubbing round the Big Market. Just make sure someone goes with her when she visits the bogs.’

  ‘And the submarine and the bi-plane?’

  ‘Eeee… well remembered son. I’m pleased you reminded me… because if you hadn’t mentioned them it could have let the story down a bit.’

  ‘You think…?!’

  ‘Yes I do. So what I’ll do is put the sub up on E-Bay… that bloke who owns Chelsea will probably buy it, he looks the sort… and whatever I get for it I’m going to pass straight on to your Mam. However, as for the bi-plane… well I was wondering if you might be able to fly that up to our Gordon’s for us… cos he could use it for spraying his crops… and stuff.’

  ‘Our Gordon?’ tried Punchbag.

  ‘Yeah… our Gordon… his farm is where you have to go next to continue with what is loosely passing for a plot in this story. I did originally think this was just going to be a simple comedy, with humorous characters and an eventual cheerful ending; and with the standard motif of triumphing over a few adverse circumstances and a dash of standard quest type stuff. However to be honest I’m not really sure where we are going at the minute beyond an unfunny polemic, so I was thinking if you could drop off the bi-plane to our Gordon, until something better comes along, that would be great. And you never know, something might develop while you’re doing it.’

  ‘Is it far?’ enquired Punchbag.

  ‘Not really,’ replied his Aunty, ‘it’s obviously back up north, but further out in the sticks to where me and Chezza are going… in the lushy upper dales.’

  ‘But I’m not really sure if I can fly a plane,’ tried Punchbag.

  ‘No problem,’ reassured his Aunty, ‘its dead easy, especially compared to that bloody sub and the reverse on that. All you do is just pull the stick up and down like them planes at the Pleasure Beach in Blackpool… and I’ve also got the Mike Smith helicopter app that you can put on your phone in case you come unstuck… so you’re away.’

  ‘Errrrrr….?!’ considered Punchbag.

  ‘Look,’ continued his Aunty, ‘to seal the deal you can also have me goggles and flying clobber. And you really would be doing me and our Gordon a big favour…. because he’s got his work cut out at the moment with the Sinaloa Drugs Cartel over the coveted southwest narcotics corridor from Mexico into the U.S.A. which runs across his top field. And what with him and El Chapo, their leader, never having really gotten on since El Chapo kept letting his dog do its business beside our Gordon’s gate every morning when he went for his paper. El Chapo has a caravan up there you see. Anyway our Gordon started getting a bit sick of it, I mean there’s bins and signs up on the lamp posts from the council about clearing up your dog mess, but I suppose El Chapo just thought he didn’t have to bother on account of being Mexico’s most-wanted drug trafficker… and you know what blokes are like, and one thing led to another and our Gordon ended up calling in the Juarez Cartel, cos he was mates with them from school, and there was a long and bloody battle over the two weeks the kids had off over Easter, which is all they seem to do now eh… have holidays?

  Aye, anyway, the battle eventually took the lives of around 12,000 people and you couldn’t get anyone to rent a caravan on the site, and so the local shops were complaining about losing the seasonal trade and ended up getting Mary Portas; the Queen of Shops woman in to revive the high street. I mean it’s just a little place, nice mind, and she ended up brokering a truce between the gangs, because by this time the Los Mexicles and the Artistas Asesinos Cartels had also jumped on the bandwagon and were just letting their dogs crap anywhere as well. But Mary eventually managed to get them all to see sense and did up the paper shop so stuff was displayed better, because before it was just like an Aladdin’s cave, and at the moment it’s calmed right down… however our Gordon is still a bit concerned.

  Soooo…. what I was thinking was if you dropped off the bi-plane then our Gordon could keep an eye on things better and see what’s going on by El Chapo’s caravan and whether he’s using the dog dirt bins and not cutting over the top field to traffic methamphetamines into the United States… annnd… getting back to my original thing about plot lines… you could also use the above exposition as a sort of spring board, and maybe tap into it to create a few more scrapes and japes. What do you think?’

  ‘Err… okay then,’ said Punchbag, not entirely convinced, but not wanting to rain on Aunty Pauline’s parade.

  ‘Champion!’ said Aunty Pauline. ‘Now I think I’ll go and tell them three upstairs that they’re in charge again… and that they need to start playing nice. And I thought I’d also see if old Kinnock Weissmuller wants to maybe step up and oversee the operation, now that he’s finally become the man he always could have been… if he’d only thought to strip off to his underpants 30 years ago and get off his tits on khat.’

  And with that Punchbag’s Aunty P. disappeared upstairs to inform the leaders of the coalition, and the opposition, that they were again in charge of running the country.

  And just as Lord Kinnock returned from outside and began running his other slip-on under the cold tap to remove dog chod.

  Crowd Control

  Before leaving to head back north with his former accomplice, and after getting Nick, David and Ed into their pajamas and ready for bed, and after helping Neil rig up his hammock, which he said he would need if he was going to keep an eye on them and that he couldn’t sleep in beds anymore because of his Tarzan thing, and that it was either a hammock or pulling up bushes from outside to make a nest every night… Larry explained his plans to install his Sterilisation Zappers in the doorways of ASDA and the Pound Shops of North East England.

  ‘I see it as a way to start giving back,’ explained Larry/Aunty Pauline, ‘after all the nutty shit I’ve been getting up to over the last few years… having everyone living in fear and just generally wrecking the joint.’

  ‘But what exactly are they?’ queried Punchbag… intrigued.

  ‘Well I’ve had the idea for them for a while,’ explained his Aunty… ever since we first went back up to the North East; the old Labour Heartland, after Edward took over as leader and we’d released Gordon Brown back into the wild in just his hat and a waistcoat. You see Edward was doing one of his little road shows trying to reconnect with the core voters… and buoyed up by the people of Hartlepool having elected H’Angus the Monkey as their mayor; who had campaigned on a ticket of free bananas for school kids. I mean I don’t know if you remember but Peter Mandelson used to be the M.P. up there as well… so we figured that if they’d made do with a twice disgraced Bilderberger and a massive monkey in a football strip all these years then they’d probably lap up Ed’s fae ways and giant head… and at least he wasn’t a fudge-packer.

  Anyway, in them days I obviously still pulled the strings for all the parties and so naturally liked to make sure none of them were going off-piste regarding whatever that week’s threat, threat, threat/they’re coming to get you message was and were all sticking to the script about how much we needed the bankers and a globalised economy; working for £3 peanut an hour and setting fire to your hair every time the factory Tannoy played the Macarena…that sort of thing. Anywhoo… it was while I was parked up outside ASDA in Stanley; Ed was doing a talk down the road at the c
ouncil offices in Chester le Street, but it was taking longer than it was supposed to because some of the people serving the lunch had tattoos and Ed didn’t want them in the photos, that I started watching the procession of punters coming out with their shopping trollies… and began to realise that if this was the working class then we were all crispy ducked… and no mistake!

  I mean Jesus’ younger brother Judas! Talk about your white bread eating masses. Everyone had a mobile phone surgically attached to their lugs… and gasping for breath like they’d just come out of an airlock. And with their trollies laden with so much saturated fat and empty calories it would have put Eric Pickles’ pantry to shame. They were sparking up fags like they were being sponsored, and with snotty nosed benefit entitlements stotting round their feet sucking on Greggs dummies like the concept of the two parent family had yet to be invented.

  I mean I know I’m using fairly broad brush strokes here…. and you might think I’ve got a nerve after my little adventure perpetuating the global reptilian agenda and focusing on preserving the wealth and economic supremacy of an exclusive 2%, and who still want more… but honestly… if this is what passes for the alternative… and you’re expecting this lot to form the resistance… well bloody good luck with that one! Because if they keep breeding at the rate they are, and don’t get their shit together at some fundamental level… then pop literally is going to eat itself.

  Old Orwell may have observed that Hope lies with the Proles… in that there would always be more of them than the ruling Party, and that all they needed to do was come together and realise their true potential to create change; needing only to rise up and shake themselves like a horse shaking off flies, but even he would have folded up his tent and accepted that 2 + 2 = 5 if he’d seen the dregs of humanity that shuffled out of ASDA in Stanley… while I waited for Ed to manage to glad hand a tattooed mitt without vomiting.

  Anyway… that’s when it came to me; Castration Blowers in the doorways of the shops. You know where the air conditioners are, and which keep it nice and toasty so you keep spending. You have a look next time you go in, and you’ll see there’s probably a warm air blower just above where you enter.’

  ‘And your idea is…?’ tried Punchbag, though sort of knowing what was coming… just not quite sure how.

  ‘Nut Knackers!’ announced Aunty Pauline proudly, ‘or Ovary Jammers… I haven’t quite settled on the trade name yet. Zap the Bastards with a warm gust of sterilisation as they enter to buy more shit they don’t need and Robert’s your date-rape-daddy’s brother. They can continue to shop till they drop, but when they get home and do the old Hokey Cokey while they’re waiting for their frozen pizzas to de-frost, nine months down the line I won’t be swerving into the oncoming lane trying to miss another benefit-buggy, containing some pug with a penchant for pepperoni, being shoved haphazardly into traffic by some Bint on a mobile phone. Because we are NOT talking about cures for cancer being produced here! I’ll agree that we are rattling on towards hell in a handcart… but this lot continuing to breed I can assure you is not the answer… at least for a while. This lot need to get their tits in a line and recognize the power inherent in their mass… instead of continually consuming crap and thunking out babies like the final scene in Alien… and just before Sigourney Weaver goes ape shit with a flame thrower.’

  Punchbag listened to Aunty Pauline’s entrepreneurial pitch for the Third Reich; wondering if Kinnock really had succeeded in wringing out all the right wing toxins… and also whether she’d be toning it down when she went on Dragon’s Den… but then reassessing when he remembered who the potential investors would be.

  ‘Do you not think it’s maybe a tad extreme and one sided Aunty?’ tried Punchbag, ‘because I know the demograph you are on about… however that’s not even the Working Class… because what you’re talking about is a sort of underclass, a benefit class if you will… and the type the Daily Mail love to try and convince us are the reason the economy is being drained, rather than the gazillions being siphoned off from the top by the Lizards… and that the only solution is for the aspirational middle-classes, all them Place in the Country twats and the type of people who used to go and stand in the audience at Top Gear to chortle at multi-millionaires pretending to be their mates every week, just need to pull up the ladder and also buy more shit they don’t need, but which is marketed to them as being better quality… and ergo defining them as a cut above the amoeba pool you’re going on about.

  But they’re all the same… it’s all the same. Everyone is buying shit that they don’t need and thunking out kids into an already over populated planet, and anyone with half a brain can see that a reckoning is coming due… either through nature deciding to re-tip the balance, or as our Michael keeps banging on about; by some manufactured culling strain developed by the Elite so they can have more room. However I’m not sure that just chemically cock-blocking the Gonks on the bottom shelf and doing their job for them is the answer, when it’s the whole game that’s rigged… and we should be either removing the ones who run it… or better still… realising we don’t even need to play!’

  ‘Well you’ve lost me…’ said Aunty Pauline. ‘I always thought that I was one for convoluted metaphors, but you’ve just taken the cat-biscuits, however I’ll try to work with you… though I have to say we appear to be swerving somewhat off the road in relation to the comedy angle once again.’

  Punchbag shrugged… realising he was actually embarrassed to have a speaking part in this ill informed and poorly conceived diatribe, but recognising that if he could just push on he could say his goodbyes and head off to Mr. Brown’s farm and a well earned milky Baileys.

  ‘Anyway,’ went on Aunty P., ‘it’s not like we’re ripping off their nads as they enter… and its quite painless, just a couple of puffs of subatomic ethylene oxide gently ionizing and electronically irradiating their seed trays so that nothing goes on to germinate. Because honestly Punchbag, I get your point that it’s right across the board, top and bottom, but one shelf at a time, because it’s no joke the way these Heifers are breeding… and in most cases without the means to feed and clothe their little miracles beyond said handouts from the state. Because one would assume that was a prerequisite, would you not… that you’re in a position to provide for your imprints before you start squeezing them out.

  150K you know? And that’s just a ball park figure! £150,000 is what the average cost is to raise a kid from a standing start to age 18… and that’s only dealing in empiricals. What about the nurturing and emotional investment required to create a decent and morally caring individual? There’s more thought given to buying a dog… annnd it’s taken out more… and if this lot are so desperate to plug the void in their existence, on top of the Ginsters and Sunny D seeping through the cracks… then why don’t they just adopt, and start taking up the slack of all the poor little afterthoughts that didn’t make the cut once the novelty wore off for their neighbours… because there are loads of them!’

  ‘So the solution is castration?’ offered Punchbag.

  ‘Well chemical…’ corrected his Aunty, ‘and think of it as more genetic engineering; or if you must use that word Eugenics… although that always make me think of, ‘A Great Deal on Dishwashers!’

  Punchbag waited while his Aunty paused for laughs with her Euronics: the Electrical Wholesalers joke; realising it was especially bad if it needed explaining in this way.

  ‘Christ I’m wasted here…’ continued Aunty P, ‘however I don’t know why the idea should seem so distasteful… I mean I know it’s had something of a bad press in the past,’ she continued in mild understatement (as Punchbag put his claws in his ears, squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to jaunt into another book) ‘but it may surprise you to know that forced sterilisation actually started in the good ole U.S. of A. and was only exported over to Germany and the Nazis later… and with the Rockefeller Foundation helping to develop and fund various programs; including the one Josef Mengele worked on be
fore he went to Auschwitz… which just goes to show… it’s a funny old world.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ muttered Punchbag, ‘though I don’t suppose it’s something they tend to bandy about.’

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Aunty P. for the umpteenth time, ‘getting back to my original point; whichever way you cut it the inhabitants of Jeremy Kyle’s waiting room aren’t going to do it themselves… as every All You Can Eat Buffet has taught us.’

  ‘Eh?’ tried Punchbag… perplexed.

  ‘Freewill and self-policing,’ retorted his Aunty. ‘It simply doesn’t work… when you are operating from the programming of a panicking pig… and oblivious to any concept of deferred gratification.’

  ‘Eh?’ tried Punchbag again.

  ‘Bloody hell Punchbag,’ replied his Aunty, ‘try and stay with me. Look… the gist of it is… and I’m going to segway into triune brain theory now if it’s okay with you… that there are basically three distinct areas of spongy ball sack folded inside our craniums. There’s the Limbic System, the Neocortex and the Reptilian Brain… and in a nutshell it’s the last one that this lot are operating on… and ergo what most advertising obviously plays to. You see the R-complex is the lump of brain that’s responsible for all those instinctual, reactive processes; like aggression and dominance… and which getting back to my buffet example results in plates piled higher than heads, because when it comes to all you can eat chicken wings and garlic bread there’s no bloody off switch… or any concept of just starting with a couple and going back if you’re still peckish.’

  ‘And that’s a bad thing because…?’ tried Punchbag.

  ‘Because…’ continued his Aunty, a little bemused that Punchbag didn’t seem to be joining up the dots at the same rate she had, ‘because what ends up happening is that half the scran ends up in the bin. It’s simply wanton greed… and prompted by nothing more than the opportunity to just stuff their faces… whether they actually need to or not. It’s that hoard and consume gene that seems to be simply running rampant… and I don’t see any sign of it switching off. I mean just look at their friggin tellies. Just because you can have a 60 inch plasma screen doesn’t mean you have to… especially when your living room is smaller than your old midden. No wonder the picture seems a bit blurry… they should be sat out in their bloody gardens to watch it properly!’

  ‘But that’s their choice though…’ tried Punchbag, ‘if that’s what they want to spend their dosh on… along with the Anadins for the surround sound.’

  ‘Well I’m afraid that’s where we differ my young nephew when it comes to sprogging… because self-destruction via uncontrolled gorging, whether on Foxy Bingo or Iceland Party Specials is one thing… but shitting out kids like a broken one armed bandit is another… and I’m afraid it’s time the plug was pulled… or at least bollocksed for a bit.’

  ‘So this is your premise,’ tried Punchbag, ‘Koestler’s Ghost in the Machine? The Cartesian dualist account of the mind-body relationship; in which thought is not an independent non-material entity, temporarily inhabiting and governing the body, but in the case of the Free-Buffet-Benefit-Class is simply an un-evolved atavistic emotion still pursuing primitive wants… and which can only ever end in self-destruction because of its overarching need to consume Greggs’ Sausage and Bean Melts until the zipper busts?’

  ‘In a nutshell aye,’ said Aunty Pauline.

  ‘Well when you put it like that,’ said Punchbag, ‘I have to say it’s hard not to get on board… providing you accept my earlier observation that this will only impact upon part of the problem?’

  ‘Accepted.’ said Aunty Pauline. ‘And don’t worry, I am aware of your earlier observations, and do intend addressing the set up at the top... which I will be doing in my forthcoming Bohemian Grove Bomb Night Special… however for now, might we agree to disagree, and you can get on and get that plane delivered up to our Gordon, and I can get off and start installing me Nut Crackers.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Punchbag, simply pleased the chapter was finally ending, and deciding to offer up a couple of suggestions by way of trade names to show that there were no hard feelings.

  ‘What about Gonad Gassers or Fallopian Fryers Aunty?’

  ‘Ooooh! I like that last one said Aunty P. ‘I like that last one a lot.’

  Gentlemen Start Your Engines

  Punchbag was pleasantly surprised to find that flying the bi-plane was just as easy as Aunty Pauline had described, especially with the Mike Smith helicopter app installed and stuck to the dashboard, and was also reassured by the strong bungee rope tied to his belt by the sugar puff caribiner, which meant that if he was to get into difficulty he could easily drop safely to the ground.

  He leaned back; his shiny black boots either side of the joy stick, allowing the wind to buffet his beaten brown helmet and flying goggles; cozying down inside the rich fur lining of his thick leather jacket. This really was exhilarating… the turn of the wooden prop pulling him on through the fluffy white clouds as he banked steeply and peered down from the open sided cockpit. He could just see the Mega-Bus pulling out of Victoria, and Cheryl and Aunty P. waving frantically up from the back window. He looped the loop and discharged red smoke from his exhausts to carve a massive heart against the endless sky; flicking the toggle to white and then shooting through to describe a perfect, pointed arrow… and then three huge kisses below.

  He peeled away as Cheryl squealed silently up, clapping her hands manically like an excited child on Christmas morning; perhaps unwrapping a Girl’s Aloud studio album; such as Chemistry, Tangled Up or Out of Control… before watching in horror as the bus failed to give way at the flashing lights and closing barrier of the new High Speed 2 rail link from the Midlands and exploded in a fireball with a Shinkansen Japanese Bullet Train… the driver shirtless and wearing a rising sun bandanna while screaming Tora! Tora! Tora!

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Punchbag, ‘I hope they’re all right…’ while wondering if what he’d just witnessed really was just a horrible accident, or if the driver had been deliberately trying to kill himself because he’d become lost… and realising that the shame this would bring upon his family would be unbearable: suicide in Japan being a national issue and the leading cause of death in men under 44.

  ‘What a Dick!’ thought Punchbag, as he watched the emergency services swarming to the scene, and relieved to see Aunty Pauline and Cheryl being assisted from the wreckage by a paramedic who sat them down on the back step of an American ambulance; placing tartan blankets around their shoulders and then helping Cheryl spark up a Capstan Full Strength with shaking hands.

  Punchbag circled around, looking for somewhere to land, but his Aunty Pauline gestured back, giving a stalwart thumbs up to let him know that they were the only survivors but okay, and then finding a bull-horn on the side of the ambulance, because Americans love them, and bellowing up that he should just press on to Gordon’s farm before the scene became anymore racist… and that they would catch the next bus and would be getting free sandwiches and pop for their trouble; once they’d put the driver out and buried their luggage… or the other way around.

  ‘No problem Aunty!’ replied Punchbag in coloured smoke, ‘that was a close one. I’ll give you a ring and let you know how Gordon is getting on once I arrive, but instead of waiting for the next Mega-Bus, why don’t you get a lift with the UNICEF Multi-Millionaires’ Charity Football Coach, which is stationary with the engine running over at stand number three. It says on the front it’s also going up to Newcastle, specifically St. James’ Park, the home of Le Toon Army and the French football team that play there.’

  ‘Are they still owned by billionaire businessman Mike Ashley?’ screeched back his Aunty. ‘Who caused outrage with the fans because of rebranding the stadium name to Wonga.com or Sweatshop Clobber Clothing or something?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Punchbag, still in smoke, ‘and you’ll probably also remember Aunty, that after the initial honeymoon period, where he
brought back Kevin Keegan as manager… before it all turned to wank… that it then transpired he’d been saddled with around 100 million quid of additional debt, on top of the 135 million he’d initially paid for the club, and was criticised for not conducting due diligence prior to purchase… though he said he hadn’t been able to check the books properly… because they were always in the back kitchens…?’

  ‘Yes, I think I sort of get that joke,’ replied his high volume Aunty, ‘however I thought things were turning around for Le Toon, after Alan Pardew had finally steadied the ship after a spate of unsuccessful appointments, but who has now also left after a run of bad results… and nutting that Hull City midfielder.’

  ‘Aye, sort of… John Carver is care-taker manager at the moment.’

  ‘?!’

  ‘No, me neither… however he is continuing to play the team that Pardew left him, so it’s still mostly blokes in berets on bicycles in the centre of the park, the striker can’t jump for headers because of all the onions round his neck… and the goal keeper has surrendered twice in the last three games.’

  ‘Boom! Boom!’ screamed back Aunty, like a super-amplified Basil Brush.

  ‘However, just on your original point Aunty… about the name of the stadium; St. James’ Park. You’ve probably noticed that it is spelt with the name James’ featuring one s and an apostrophe mark; however this is in contrast to the nearby street signs of St James Street and St James Terrace, which, as you know, are without the apostrophe… and furthermore, the use of one s and an apostrophe differs from the common convention of adding a second s to monosyllabic possessives ending in s.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ came the fog horning back, ‘as in the case with the well-known public space in London: St. James’s Park. And I’ve also noticed that the full stop after the St in St. James’ Park, is both included and then omitted by various sources, including the club’s own website.’

  ‘It certainly is an intriguing topic,’ scribbled Punchbag giantly on the sky, ‘and in relation to my original point, there is also the confusion an additional s causes for pronunciation… which already tends to differ dependent upon who is saying it; though the club have reiterated that the ground is named after its neighbouring streets, which don’t feature apostrophes… and asked that I stopped calling.’

  ‘How utterly fascinating,’ Klaxoned back Punchbag’s Aunty, ‘I seem to remember that a professor of applied linguistics from Newcastle University had concluded that if a second ‘s’ was added it must be pronounced in speech; and which linked in with the views of the Apostrophe Protection Society (who knew) who said if the ground was the ‘Park of St James’ then St. James’s Park was correct… and with the second‘s’ pronounced. So you can see how with all this going on Mike Ashley naturally wants to unload the club… coupled with the fact he’s been made to feel about as welcome as a smear test in Sunderland.’

  ‘Okay Aunty’, sputtered Punchbag, ‘I think I’m about to run out of coloured smoke now, so we’ll have to continue this fascinating conversation at a later date. Go and get yourselves on the UNICEF Multi-Millionaires’ Charity Coach; it looks like Robbie Williams will be driving, as I can just see him hanging off the side bungee-ing Louis Vuitton suitcases to the roof and screaming, ‘Come On!’ and ‘I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams!’ while shaking his fists sporadically. Oh now he’s ran to the back of the bus where his wife is having a baby and is video-tweeting it live, I’ll repeat that: the birth of his child! whilst doing a song and dance routine, holding up her leg and gurning. Oh he’s calmed down now and has got quite angry and taken to Twitter to complain about some pictures of him playing at the seaside with his other child appearing in a newspaper, saying he feels ‘sick and violated.’ Anyway it looks like there are a couple of spare seats beside Gordon Ramsay and pop sensation Olly Murs…who Cheryl will know from being a judge on The X Factor… so that’s good.’

  ‘OOOOKKKKAAYYYYY LOVE!!!’ screeched back his Aunty, having found another bull horn on the other side of the ambulance, which was marginally bigger than the first one (the bull horn… not the other side of the ambulance) and placing one inside the other so that the volume of her reply was so loud it caused the windows on the UNICEF Multi-Millionaires’ Charity Coach to explode.

  Punchbag gave a final wave down as the smoke from the exhausts finally puttered out and the sky writing began to diffuse... the way Michael had explained that Chemtrails don’t… and which is one of the ways Punchbag remembered you could tell them apart from Contrails.

  He made to peel away, just as Cheryl and his Aunty finally boarded… Cheryl shunting in as he’d expected alongside Olly, and knowing they would have much to talk about regarding the 2009 series of The X Factor... in which Olly had Karaoke-ed the shit out of Stevie Wonder’s, Superstition… along with lots of other songs someone else had written. He made one final loop the loop as he reminisced about that magical sixth series… recalling that in week seven Olly was actually in bottom place, alongside John & Edward, but that he had been saved by Dannii not taking the vote to Deadlock… and agreeing with Simon that the twins should actually be in an institution as they were obviously mentally ill. However when voting statistics were later released, they revealed that if Dannii had voted to save John & Edward, and not have them sectioned, it would have been Olly who would now be in care.

  ‘Oh… the irony!’ chuckled Punchbag, still spinning… and beginning to wish that this bit about the X Factor would finish, although cognisant that no mention had yet been made of the very talented Dermot O’Leary… and his amazing ability to intermittently suck through his teeth, read from an autocue… annnnnnnnnnnd... leave ludicrously long pauses when instructed by a rolling screen… in an unconvincing attempt to add suspense… or in I.T.V. speak, ‘when polishing the turd.’

  ‘Phew!’ exclaimed Punchbag, ‘that must be it by now. Okay, I can see that Cheryl and Aunty P. are safely seated and finally on their way after that awful earlier accident in which everyone was burnt to death, so let’s just hope nothing happens with the UNICEF Multi-Millionaires’ Charity Coach on its journey up to St. James’ to raise money and profiles… for the awful conditions children are living in around the world. God bless them one and all… giving up their time and talents to help others in this way… by playing football with their mates and staying in luxury hotels. I’ll be sure to watch when I get to Gordon’s and ring in and donate some money to help a little kid get some buckets to put on his feet so he can go to school, or a well… or something...’

  Punchbag wasn’t really sure what actually happened to the donations, because he normally fast forwarded through that bit, where one of the weeping Celebrities did the appeal… although as cynical Michael always said… never quite moved enough to actually give away their fortunes, or forsake their lovely careers… instead of just sticking their names to another product, like everything else they endorsed, to free themselves and their bovine fans from questioning why this awful charade repeated every year… and what type of society could collectively agree to clean their consciences by simply pledging a fiver… and texting the safe word BUCKET.

  ‘However I do hope it’s a good game though,’ thought Punchbag, ‘and that Robbie manages to inspire the England boys against the opposition… because having seen the team sheets in the T.V. Times they certainly look to be fairly tasty. And let’s just hope that there aren’t too many breaks of the little dying black kids with flies on their eyes… because after a point…it did sort of spoil the fun.’

  He zoomed away as the coach finally pulled out, taking one last glimpse at Aunty P. getting herself comfy alongside Gordon Ramsey, who appeared to be quite angry in his trade mark way of just saying fuck loads of times. The jist of this particular expletive riddled tirade being with Aunty Pauline’s earlier combining of the bull horns, resulting in a delightful light-peppering of glass fragments over his Subway Meatball Marinara Melt… and leaving it, ‘Fucking crunchy as fuck!!!’

  Thankfully Aunty Pauli
ne was able to eventually calm the pock-marked pressure cooker down, and assure him that even though there were shards about his sandwich and face… he still only bore a passing resemblance to Gordon Banks… after he’d gone through his car windscreen in the 1970’s.

  Clunk-Click…

  Significant Others

  Punchbag flew on, chuckling to himself about Aunty Pauline’s plans to temporarily emasculate the bottom rungs with her Castration Zappers… and then at some point detonate the old guard Elite at their annual works outing in Bohemian Grove, California; presuming she would be morphing back into Larry to do this, as from what Michael had told him about the place, after his infiltration of it with Alex Jones for his Dark Secrets documentary; woman weren’t really that welcome there… never mind talking cats.

  He turned up the heater and snuggled into his jacket; knowing that with the Mike Smith helicopter app’s autopilot feature there was nothing to worry about. It seemed a little shaky when it came to the landing protocols; however he’d sort that out when he got nearer. How hard could it be?

  He scooched down further; he was actually as warm as toast, and waved leisurely as an Easyjet came alongside and tried to overtake… the passengers inside panting like dogs as they peddled like buggery to stay aloft and maybe get to Malaga. Punchbag watched it buck and then pitch out of sight; presuming some of the passengers had probably passed out… or someone had flushed the toilet.

  ‘Let Mike take the strain,’ he thought, allowing his mind to wander in the warm confidence that comes with first-time flying. He pondered more on his Aunt’s proposed spring cleaning of the populace; and where he fell within it. He knew he wasn’t the benefit class, so should be safe from her tweakings providing he was careful where he shopped… and obviously so far beneath those in the shadows that Michael rattled on about as to appear as nothing more than the sheep in the fields below. But he also wasn’t the middle class… so desperate to separate themselves from what he would always consider himself to be… a working class cat. If there even was such a thing anymore… and if there was, who represented it?

  He thought about his sister Joy’s vitriol after failing to get enough nominations to become Shadow Chancellor… and her motorway-flyover-dirty-protest to smear Kennedy Scholarship Cabal of C&$ts over Ed Ball’s windscreen… which amongst other things had done nothing to help with Ed’s stutter. His mind drifted back to warm nights in the midden, and Michael’s frustrations in trying to convince Joy and the rest of his siblings that politics was a busted flush, and to see the bigger picture… after listening to David Icke for 8 hours straight at Brixton Academy… and then necking a load of speed and going on the internet. He could just hear him;

  ‘…but you can’t even get your head around it… that the table is permanently tilted and the game is historically rigged… and all hidden in plain sight... with their icons and chequer boarded floors… while the oblivious populace trundle by… still believing in their own naive definition of egalitarianism; and all the while looking up like the surfs they really are, to whoever declares they own the place; either because God has sent them, or because generations back their Granddad x100 beat seven colours of crap out of everybody else’s.

  It’s that disastrous misjudging that those who run the show must have their best interests at heart… because that seems fair. Well NEWSFLASH! They don’t do fair. Stop looking for more complicated solutions, the truth isn’t out there… it’s in front of you… but so far under your nose you have to go cross-eyed just to see it. And that’s what they rely on… that it’s too obvious. But you can smell it. You can smell the stink. Just they’ve been convincing you it’s in the midden next door… which co-incidentally generally has oil in it. But your conditioning won’t let it compute. You still refuse to believe they could be that evil…while smiling benignly… and egging you on to fight another conjured war to enhance their power and profits… and be rewarded with medals and parades… whilst losing the essence of everything you really are. Wake up my Brothers and Sisters… WAKE UP PUNCHBAG!’

  Punchbag roused sleepily, enjoying listening to Michael’s usual motor-head mishmash of stone-cutter conspiracies… and thinking the midden wasn’t quite as warm as it had been… and that it actually seemed to be raining in. And wondering why Michael was shimmering back into the open cockpit of a crop duster… tilted to the decline of a diving Stuka.

  He strained at the joystick in panic… caught in the intractable pull of Bermuda Triangle dead air… then saw what was below… beneath the dense black clouds he was screaming through. The rain pelted as lightning ricocheted from his fuselage… his plane wailing like a Jericho Trumpet as he tried to break free… from the impossible gravity… created by so many souls buying so much shit they didn’t need.

  He was crashing into ASDA in Stanley!

  Cooking Doesn’t Get Tougher Than This

  ‘WWWWRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMUUUUUUM!!!!’ went the sleek Cessna Twin-Prop: executing a daring, and very dangerous, half-barrel roll just inches beneath Punchbag’s still Stukerring bi-plane.

  There was a massive crunch as the landing gear of the Cessna engaged with Punchbag’s underside, and began to slowly force it from the death dive. Time was running out as Punchbag continued to wrestle with the controls, as the upside down plane and its heroic pilot continued to risk everything to save a fellow flyer… while in the taxi cue below a crowd of tabbing shoppers collectively agreed that gawping up was beginning to ask too much and went back to checking that their Goodfella’s Pizza boxes weren’t splitting their carrier bags.

  With only feet to spare Punchbag felt control return… as with a shunt he was brought level again. He pulled back to gain height, skimming across the top of the indoor bowls centre above the now badly outdated super store.

  ‘Whoa! Flippin Heck!’ he exclaimed, only just coming to terms with having been sheer millimeters from basting the formaldehyde turkey and other euphemisms. He glared at the app, as it stuttered back to life and informed him he had landed safely.

  ‘But where is that, almost certainly, dashing pilot?’ he thought. ‘Who saved my life by placing their own in mortal danger… and nudging me away from certain oblivion… and which wouldn’t have happened if I’d only stayed awake and remembered my sister Teddy’s advice from her time as Red 1 Team Leader with the Red Arrows… after she’d had to eject out over ALDI air-space because of the turbulence caused by their bacon lardons coming down to 69p a pack… that ‘Only Crazies Fly ASDA!’

  He thought back to Teddy explaining that this was how top pilots like Bruce Dickinson from Iron Maiden, and his dad David Dickinson of Dickinson’s Real Deal… and who had helped pen Maiden’s only UK number one to date; Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter it’s Cheap As Chips!, had stayed alive so long… piloting both Ed Force One… and filming members of the public debating whether to auction off their antiques… after a cursory chat with a giant Oompa-Loompa in a three-piece suit and reading-glasses.

  Punchbag peeled around and touched down, near where the old store and snooker place used to be before pyromania set in, swerving his vintage two seater around Joe’s Fish Stall, and narrowly missing his table of double-yoker eggs. He did a neat slalom around the pitch of the bloke who sells the bird seed without the wheat in it and then flashed on past the post office, with its trade mark queue out the door because there was only one person serving… even though it was Pensions Day and the market was on.

  ‘Christ this is bumpy!’ exclaimed Punchbag as he careered down the pedestrianised front street (which might as well have a zipper fitted it’s been dug up so many times) flashing past the excellent Mallabar’s Grocery and the forever boarded up Board School on the other side… before managing to bring the crop-duster to a stop by a pile of smouldering rubble… formerly Wong’s Chinkies.

  ‘Oooh!’ thought Punchbag, self-policing. ‘Should I even be using that word to describe the much missed takeaway?’ and reflecting on the fact that he didn’t want to
cause offense to anyone… and take their attention away from drone strikes killing kids, but then remembering that the Broadcasting Standards Commission had held that if the word Chinkies was used as the name of a type of restaurant or meal, rather than as an adjective applied to a group of people, then it carried no racist connotations.

  ‘Phew!’ said Punchbag, applying the handbrake, and musing that his hesitance in using the word was already a mute point in relation to Wongs… because in keeping with the re-designing of other shops in Stanley via combustibles… it too had been burnt to the ground. He eased out of the small cockpit and climbed down; gazing back up the painstakingly remodelled high street… which now resembled The Demilitarized Zone separating North and South Korea; the local council having managed to create both the ambience and atmosphere of the 38th Parallel for their many happy shoppers and delighted tax payers.

  ‘Alright Fella, that was a close one!’

  Punchbag turned to see none other than top chef James Martin from Saturday Kitchen walking towards him and sucking in his tummy. Behind him, parked perfectly in the middle of the traffic island, was the Cessna Twin-Prop that had been instrumental in saving Punchbag’s life only minutes before.

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Punchbag, as James stood beaming… and straining. ‘That was you! I don’t know what to say… because if you hadn’t performed that amazing barrel roll…’

  ‘Watch out!’ screamed James, diving expertly again, this time to pull Punchbag beneath his parked plane… and causing his stomach muscles to momentarily untense so that his spare tyre lipped out from beneath his shirt.

  ‘RRRRAAAAGGGHHH!!!’ Roared the endangered Amur Leopard at being thwarted in its deadly attack.

  ‘What the…?!’ exclaimed Punchbag, as James assisted him to his feet and quickly pulled his shirt straight. ‘I thought I was a big cat…what the hell was that!?’

  They stood and watched the apex predator bound off towards the Empire.

  ‘That was an Amur Leopard,’ explained James, ‘which has found unlikely protection amongst the heavily fortified fences, landmines and listening posts of this town’s main thoroughfare… along with several other endangered animal and plant species; including the extremely rare Red-Crown Crane. Look I think that’s one there… that little boy is feeding it his Greggs’ sausage roll. Oh… his Mam’s just killed it.’

  ‘A leopard!’ exclaimed Punchbag… again.

  ‘Oh yes,’ went on James, ‘there’s quite a varied biodiversity here, especially when the market’s on, so you have to keep your wits about you. That’s why I’m always patrolling. I cover the dead air space over ASDA that you got sucked into, and also do regular cross-pattern sweeps over the wider locale… especially the swamps, lakes and tidal marshes out towards South Moor. There was talk of someone spotting an Asiatic Black Bear down there you know, going through the bins at the back of where Dirty Dick’s used to be, but I think the caller was maybe just drunk… or simply trying to fit in.’

  ‘Well you’ve certainly opened my eyes to the hidden dangers of this otherwise charming front street from critically endangered big cats,’ said Punchbag, ‘as well as being forever in your debt for that amazing act of aeronautical heroism.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ replied James, ‘it’s simply what I’m here for… and just one of my many, many, passions… alongside fast cars, sorting out hospital food; after Jamie beat me to the schools… and of course Fudge and Ralph… who are my dogs by the way.’

  ‘Obviously,’ agreed Punchbag.

  ‘Anyway… if you’re okay and not too shaken up, I should maybe be getting back up top, because you literally never know what’s going to happen next when you’re assigned this beat… and we always need to have Eyes On.’

  ‘So it’s not just you then?’ queried Punchbag taking the feed line, as James began to walk slowly back towards his Cessna.

  ‘Oh no,’ said James, climbing up the short ladder and trying to squeeze back inside. ‘All the top chefs do it. We see it as a way of giving back after all the money we make from our cook books, endless T.V. shows and untold products with our names on them. We figure it’s the least we can do… and especially in areas like this with a higher per capita ratio of the smaller motability scooters… because with a top speed of only four miles per hour, and a front-basket full of chorizo, you are literally asking for it from an Amur or other related predator… and there’s so many of them about now. They’re attracted by the tons and tons and tons and tons and tons and tons of food the stores throw out everyday… but hopefully they’ll be getting some bigger bins with better lids soon… which is obviously the answer.’

  ‘Well what you do really is commendable,’ nodded Punchbag, as he watched James applying duck fat to the edges of the cockpit to ease his entry. ‘So have you all got planes then?’

  ‘Hnnnnnnnghhhh!’ strained James, before suddenly popping back inside. ‘Oh no,’ he chuckled, as his face returned to normal, ‘just the top boys… well just me really… but we take turns. And Si and Dave like to patrol on their motorbikes… and Jamie has his camper van with Gregg Wallace in the back… although Gregg keeps jumping out and lamping people if he thinks they’re looking at his bird.’

  ‘Doesn’t he normally have his carer John Turreau with him to stop that?’ puzzled Punchbag.

  ‘Yeah he used to,’ agreed James, ‘but it was lashing it down last week and the front street flooded… and suddenly gills popped out from behind John’s ears and he swam off towards Tanfalea. And we haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘I knew it!’ cried Punchbag. ‘He’s half halibut isn’t he?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ said James, ‘though it was news to us… although I think Greg always knew… and had just been helping him hide it by gelling his hair into a side-parting to distract from his trout pout. And looking back I suppose it was always a bit baffling regarding how much he seemed to know about fish, especially flounders… and how terrified he was of sea lions… but I guess it takes all sorts. Looking at the positives though… at least we’ve still got Hugh and his tractor with the big bucket on the front that he ferries the lasses about in.’

  ‘The lasses?’ tried Punchbag.

  ‘Mostly Nigela, Monica and Rustie Lee,’ said James, ‘although Delia and Marry Berry still turn out for the odd back shift… depending on what their hips are like.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know Monica,’ puzzled Punchbag.

  ‘You’ll have seen her man!’ assured James. ‘She’s the Samoan Sous-Chef who generally helps out Michel Roux Junior. Looks a bit like a psychotic Gok Wan…?’

  ‘Oh of course!’ remembered Punchbag.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a pretty good mix for our patrols,’ continued James. ‘We’re a bit like characters from a Marvel comic… or maybe even Bay Watch!’

  ‘Yeah you do remind me a bit of the Hoff actually… especially that bit where he runs and tries to…’

  ‘Eeeh… I bloody love Bay Watch me!’ shouted James, over the top of Punchbag, ‘and it is quite a good analogy for what we do… give or take the California beach lifestyle and the slow motion shots of Pamela Anderson running about with her tits flying everywhere in montages only superficially related to the plot. Yeah that’s basically us. And you could probably equate my plane to them orange float things they stot about with… in that they share them… like I do with me plane… unless its Worrall-Thompson of course… because he got it impounded last time over Tesco’s. There was bloody cheese stashed everywhere!’

  ‘Okay,’ said Punchbag, ‘I think we’ve probably done this one to death, and you obviously need to be getting back on patrol. So thanks again for saving me… and just a general massive Thank You to yourself and every other celebrity chef who is out there keeping our skies and high streets safe… alongside endorsing goose fat over beef dripping every Christmas just to be different to another celebrity chef endorsing the other product for the other supermarket… because without you all… who knows where we’d be.’

  Punc
hbag watched James burst into tears in overwhelming gratitude.

  ‘It’s all we ever wanted,’ he managed to blurt. ‘I’ll tell the guys, and I know they’ll feel the same as me, especially Phil, who’s been a bit down lately after being trapped under Fern for three days, and nobody noticing after she’d rolled over on top of him. It’s just so good to know that we are appreciated… and most of all making a difference.’

  ‘Godspeed my friend,’ whispered Punchbag as James finally roared back into the clouds.

  ‘Godspeed every cook that keeps us safe.’

  Fun Run

  With the assistance of some of the locals with thumbs, and the long beak of the lifeless Red-Crown Crane, Punchbag got the propeller started again and climbed back into the sky.

  ‘Well I’ve certainly learnt my lesson with that place,’ he thought, banking steeply to avoid the deadly vortex and electronic fog that hung invisibly over Britain’s Lowest Priced Supermarket… and which even at this distance was still causing his compass to spin wildly. ‘No wonder there have been so many unexplained disappearances,’ he mused. ‘I’ll bet that’s what happened to the U.S. Navy Avenger Torpedo-Bombers; known as The Lost Squadron, who went missing on a routine training exercise over the bus station… and with the Macbeth’s Taxis’ Search and Rescue Mission also never returning.’

  He peeled away; leaving behind the terrifying phenomena (dat daaa… da da da!) and deciding to navigate using the road below rather than rely on his still shaky instruments. He smiled down as he took a bearing from The Ultimate Snack Shack parked in the lay-by… and then noticed a convoy of his Aunty’s trucks heading back towards ASDA.

  ‘She certainly doesn’t hang about!’ said Punchbag into the wind, deciding he fancied talking for a bit rather than just thinking things in his head. ‘And she’s literally wasted no time in forming a company and getting her products out to market. And I also see she’s gone with Boner Blockers for her trade name. I like it!’

  He tilted right and brought the bi-plane about to head west; watching the higgledy rows of colliery housing begin to give way to green fields and rolling hills.

  ‘This must be the start of the Dales,’ he thought, deciding it was pointless to keep talking out loud, and really made more sense to just keep thinking stuff in his head. ‘Gordon’s farm shouldn’t be too far from here… and I can see what Aunty Pauline means about how pretty it is.’

  POTATO-POTATO-POTATO came a jerking sound from the twisting country lane below… with the stress on the P and T rather than the vowels to try and convey an engine misfiring.

  ‘That sounds exactly like an engine misfiring,’ thought Punchbag, ‘I’ll descend carefully and see if I can perhaps offer some assistance.’

  He circled down towards the tops of the trees and saw the problem… a beautiful silver Rolls Royce Corniche Convertible, with the number plate JS 247, stuttering along the otherwise empty lane… and backfiring black clouds of smoke in explosive coughs.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ shouted down Punchbag to the driver, who was wearing pink John Lennon glasses and dressed like a harmless eccentric.

  ‘If you could maybe give us a tow my friend, UghUghUghUghUgh!’ shouted back the charming old man and tireless fund raiser for charity. ‘I’m a member of the Institute of Advanced Motorists, but I think having Cyril and Leon in the back here is maybe a bit much for The Beast.’

  ‘That’s what you call your car…?’ shouted back Punchbag, while tying off a tow rope and flinging it over the side.

  ‘I certainly do as it appens!’ shouted back the life-long bachelor, national treasure, and unique adornment to British public life. ‘I know… you couldn’t make it up! Now then, now then… goodness gracious!’

  ‘Where do you need to get to?’ cried Punchbag, feeling his bi-plane take up the strain of the heavy Corniche.

  ‘We’re actually on our way up to Glen Coe,’ shouted back the Mensa affiliate and life-member of the Gypsy Council, ‘where I have a house and am Chieftain of the Lochaber Highland Games. We’ve just been round to see Margret Thatcher at Chequers, where I’ve spent many happy Christmases… however I forgot she’s dead.’

  ‘Oh yes she’s long gone,’ replied Punchbag. ‘I remember our Joy organising a street party to celebrate, on the same day as her £3.6 million funereal … because she never forgave her for snatching our milk… but a load of students turned up popping champagne bottles and shouting, ‘Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, dead, dead, dead!’ And saying she was one of the vilest abominations of our social history… but Joy ended up calling them, ‘a load of twats who weren’t even born when Thatcher was around just jumping on a bandwagon,’ then punching out a fat girl with purple hair in Doc Martins.’

  ‘Owse about that then!’ replied the former Bevan Boy, Pro-Wrestler and the first D.J.to use twin-turntables. ‘I seem to recall now, regarding that funeral, that though there were a lot of world leaders there… Barrack Obama didn’t attend.’

  ‘Do you want me to crow bar in a joke that he was probably worried about Thatcher’s daughter, Cwa-wol, making some, not intended to be racist at all, off the cuff remark like she did with Jo-Wilfried Tsonga… that he might also be half-Golliwog?’

  ‘Nah… seems pointless Clunk Click Every Trip/This Is the Age of the Train!’ sang back the lifelong friend of Prince Charles. ‘If you could maybe just get us up the road to the next children’s home that would be great… and we can take it from there.’

  ‘No problem,’ shouted back Punchbag, increasing the revs and scanning the countryside for a rest stop of their choosing, but seeing nothing beyond the rolling green fields and wobbly dry stone walls.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t see anything at the moment… do you just want me to keep towing and see where we get to?’

  ‘UghUghUghUghUgh! Goodness Gracious!’ yodelled back the former pretend hospital-porter, prodigious philanthropist, runner of over 200 marathons and informal marriage counselor to Charles and Diana in the late 1980’s. ‘Now then, now then… whatever shall we do? Just let me know if you see any signs of civilisation and we’ll trouble you no further… providing it’s either a hospital, children’s home, nut house, or the B.B.C. studios… and the hospital needs to have a morgue.’

  ‘I think you might be pushing it out here,’ called back Punchbag. ‘I’m on my way up to Gordon’s farm, which shouldn’t really be too far now, judging by how long I’ve been flying… but from what my Aunty Pauline was saying it sounded like it was in the middle of nowhere. Aren’t you in the R.A.C. or anything?’

  ‘Unfortunately not… Guys and Gals… though I am an Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, a Knight Bachelor, have a Papal Knighthood, an Honorary Doctorate from Leeds University, an Honorary Fellowship from the Royal College of Radiologists, another Honorary Doctorate from the University of Bedfordshire… am a Freeman of the Borough of Scarborough… have the Cross of Merit in the Sovereign Military Order of Malta, which is another Catholic honour for carrying out charitable works and upholding Christian values… but my favourite is being the Honorary Entertainments Officer for Broadmoor Hospital, where I have accommodation, a car parking space and house keys… after being appointed by Edwina Currie to more or less run the place UghUghUghUghUgh!’

  ‘Wow! That’s incredible! If a little long winded,’ shouted back Punchbag, suddenly noticing that one of the fatties in the back seemed to be struggling with a large pile of files; which he was dousing with lighter fluid and igniting with one of the driver’s spare cigars… however some of the papers were blowing away before they could catch.

  ‘I think your friend there might be having a bit of trouble, it’s probably the speed I’m going… I’ll slow down before anymore get lost before he can burn them.’

  ‘How’s about that then as it ‘appens,’ completed the driver from his list of catchphrases… when suddenly a terrific rumble began to shake the air.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ thought Punchbag, peering around to tr
y and find the cause of the incredible tone… as from a copse of trees nearby a denim and leather clad biker gang suddenly emerged, the chopped forks on their throbbing hogs glinting in the sun, and cruised menacingly down into the slipstream of the limping Corniche.

  Punchbag watched intrigued as they fanned out to rumble alongside the Roller.

  ‘What on earth is this all about?’ thought Punchbag.

  ‘From up here it looks like they’re forming a funeral cortege.’

  Have At It

  Punchbag watched as the pack leader produced a switchblade from his greasy denims to sever the tow rope; his bi-plane bucking hard as the drag of the Rolls was suddenly released… while in the country lane below it slowly slowed to a stop.

  Can you say s?

  ‘This doesn’t look too good,’ thought Punchbag, ‘everyone knows what biker gangs are like, and this one seems particularly menacing and tough. I’d better see what I can do to help… and with that he peeled away to land in a nearby cornfield.

  Punchbag crept back across the field to peer over the dry stone wall; thankful that the gang had failed to notice his clattering landing only yards away. He could now see them much better and quickly realised they must be related… judging from their long snouts and the silver tufts of hair sprouting from beneath their Nazi helmets. Their leader was now leaning into the Corniche, having an animated conversation with the driver… whilst the other pack members remained astride their Harleys looking doss.

  Punchbag strained to hear what was being said, but couldn’t make out much beyond the driver’s pleading UghUghUghUghUghs! It sounded like the gang was from the south and a little common (Tee Hee! Chortle!) from the way their leader said fink instead of think and plier instead of player… the way John Terry does. Punchbag scrutinised their jackets… noticing that each of them bore the same flaming death’s head insignia of a brown-faced creature with silver hair… above the initials T.W.O.F.W.

  From what Punchbag could pick up the argument seemed to be about royalties that were still owed for a gang member’s solo single, Rainmaker, released in 1976… and about Tobermory having been bummed cross-eyed in Stoke Mandeville Hospital when he went in for his tonsils.

  Punchbag listened as the volume of the dispute increased, so that he no longer needed to relay short bursts in the third person.

  ‘Wellington sends his regards you Slaaag! And it’s time you Nonces atoned for Tobo’s arse. He’ll never play the piano sitting dairn again!’

  ‘UghUghUghUghUghGoodnessGraciousNowThenNowThenGuysAndGalsAzItAppens!’ cried the platinum haired one off… now seemingly in something of a tizz.

  ‘Never mind all that you Cannnnt! We’ve been on your tail for a while now… and you just picked the wrong day to break dairn and get towed around by a big cat in a bi-plane… who finks we can’t see him hiding behind that wall.’

  Punchbag realised this was probably his cue to come out, and that his earlier landing perhaps hadn’t been as discreet as he’d thought. He climbed over into the lane, pulling straight his hot pants… and trying to look normal.

  ‘Hold on a minute there Bungo!’ cried one of the gang with a tartan scarf wrapped around a massive tattooed bicep. ‘I know this one… he’s from up my way.’

  He swung himself down from his hog and strode across. ‘I’m Cousin Cairngorm,’ he said, extending his paw, ‘and was introduced in the second book as a Highland Womble clan chief known as McWomble the Terrible, and appeared in the TV series when I visited this lot in their burrow… I forget exactly what the plot was now. Anyway you can call me Mac.’

  ‘I thought you all looked sort of familiar,’ said Punchbag, ‘just the Nazi regalia and how buff you’ve all become since the 1970’s confused me… and I thought you were just large dogs with Down’s Syndrome.’ Everybody thought this was very funny and laughed very much.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued MacWomble, ‘I’m fairly sure I know you… you’re Michael’s brother aren’t you… from the midden?’

  ‘That’s right!’ exclaimed Punchbag, ‘but how do you know our Michael?’

  ‘Oh me and Mick go way back. I give him the inside line on a lot of conspiracies… and for a while I was actually dating your sister Teddy… although I obviously never came in… cos Mick said your Mam would have had a fit if she’d known Teddy was seeing a Womble. And I was doing a lot of gear at the time… and the roids… and so was a bit hyper… you know?’

  ‘Yeah our Teddy always did like the bad lads,’ said Punchbag, ‘and I think I remember you now. Didn’t you used to have that Reliant Robin with the nitrous system fitted, and used to sit outside the midden playing Judas Priest and blaring your horn?’

  ‘Aye I did,’ shrugged McWomble, a little embarrassed. ‘I could drive it on me bike license you see. And I think that time you’re on about Teddy had packed me in, cos she said she couldn’t put up with me flying off the handle at everything… and ringing people up in the middle of the night threatening to kill them and burn their houses down. It was the roids man! And so aye, I used to sit outside thinking I could win her back… by playing Judas Priest and peeping me horn. I was in a dark place man!’

  ‘She joined the R.A.F you know?’

  ‘Getaway…?’

  ‘Actually got into the Red Arrows and was team leader for a while… until she had to bail out over ALDI and twisted her back paw… and she couldn’t really do the pedals properly after that.’

  ‘Eeeh! Well tell her I’m askin when you see her… and let her know I’ve calmed right down now… and if she ever fancies discussin old times just to give me a call… and I won’t go radgie again… cos I’m straight edge now. Anyway… what brings you up this way?’

  ‘Well I’m supposed to be taking that plane you saw me in up to Gordon’s farm… apparently it should be around here somewhere. He’s a relation of my…’

  ‘Your Aunty Pauline, aye! I remember. And believe it or not it’s actually our farm you’re looking for… Gordon just runs it for us. We have what you might call a business arrangement with him.’

  ‘Wow that’s handy,’ said Punchbag, ‘for the story I mean. Aunty P. said he was having some problems with some Mexican Drugs Cartels and thought the plane might…’

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that,’ interrupted Mac, ‘we got all that sorted out the other day. I’ll not bore you with the details; suffice to say that they’re all now using the lamp post bins for their dog dirt… and trafficking methamphetamines into the U.S.A. via Chopwell Woods, rather than across the top field.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Punchbag, ‘I was wondering how that was going to pan out.’

  ‘Hi mind speaking of your Aunty Pauline, what’s she up to now? She was always a bit of a lass you know? Eeeh I could tell you some stories about her.’

  ‘Errr…. it’s a bit of a long one,’ said Punchbag, ‘regarding Aunty Pauline… but maybe if I can get to the farm and get cleaned up I could tell you all about it later. I was just a bit concerned though about what was going to happen with these three old gents in the car… as you friend doesn’t seem too happy about something. And I didn’t want anyone having a hard time if I could help in some way.’

  ‘Aye you seem like a good lad,’ said McWomble, ‘just like your Mikey… but like you were saying about your Aunty Pauline… I’m afraid it’s a bit of a long one with these three as well… and none of ‘its’ good. But look howay over and you can meet the lads… and we’ll explain from there.’

  And with that McWomble led Punchbag across to meet the rest of his chapter, or as they were known in the motorcycling fraternity;

  The Wombles Of Facking Wimbledon.

  All In The Mind

  Having met the rest of the gang, including their charismatic leader Orinoco, and his second in command Bungo, who had been leading the confrontation, and after hearing about the exploits of the three old men in the car, Punchbag agreed that the driver and Cyril should be burnt to death inside wicker men cages in the woods.

 
‘We call this Dr. David’s Hill,’ said Bungo, taking Punchbag by surprise with how quickly he segued. ‘He was taken out here and it was made to look like suicide. Poor bugger… he was a gentle and peaceful man, just trying to do his job… but he was fed to the wolves. You know in 2006 Alastair Campbell actually autographed a copy of the Hutton report into Dr. David’s death, along with Cherie Blaire… and it was auctioned off at a Labour Party fundraiser. Can you even begin to get your head around how sick that is?! How there’s never been a reckoning for what that man and his masters did is beyond us. All those brave soldiers placed in harm’s way and sacrificed… never mind the hundreds of thousands slaughtered on the other side. And all to steal oil and control another banking system… and they just walk away… as arrogant and egotistical as ever. It’s the traits of psychopaths you know… nothing more… and nothing less.’

  ‘Maybe he did just kill himself…’ tried Punchbag; still wobbling from Bungo’s ambush.

  ‘Yeah!? And wiped every fingerprint from every item found with him,’ seethed Bungo, ‘including the open water bottle and the blister pack for the pills he supposedly swallowed… and the knife he used. Not ONE fingerprint!’

  ‘And bollocks all blood as well,’ chipped in Tomsk, deciding he’d also like to do a line. ‘And never mind the return ticket he’d booked for Iraq that morning.’

  ‘You know he’d actually said I’ll be found dead in the woods,’ continued Bungo, ‘just like Diana saying she’d be killed in a car crash… although don’t even get me started on that one.’

  ‘She was immediately embalmed you know,’ said Tomsk, just making things worse, ‘makes it impossible to tell if someone is pregnant.’

  ‘I said don’t even get me started!’ yelled Bungo, ‘because never mind the bullshit about ‘the crash’… what really demonstrates how these things are put to bed is the inquest. Just watch the documentary Unlawful Killing…’

  ‘You can’t, said Orinoco simply, ‘it’s been banned.’

  ‘Oooh!’ How does this work?’ sang back Bungo, ‘just like all the records for Dr David’s ‘suicide’ All classified and buried for the next 70 years.’ He began directing traffic, ‘Move along now, move along… nothing to see here!’

  ‘Blair’s a peace envoy now you know?’ said Punchbag, deciding that if this was to be a conspiracy rant he might as well do the straight lines to help them out… and also see whether he could get Bungo to combust, ‘and Jack Straw is heading for the Lords… although I thought that you might like him… because of his big nose and beady eyes. Might have a bit of Womble in him?’

  ‘He aint no Womble,’ said Tomsk, ‘just a coward and a cunnn...’

  ‘...so he’ll become a Lord now will he?’ interrupted Bungo, ‘the former Foreign Secretary who trotted along behind the Americans... lobbying for war... like the lap dog that he is. What must those who lost their loved ones think... when they watch these cravens move on and continue to fill their boots... while they wait for the white-wash to dry on Chilcot’s already five years late report.’

  ‘So I take it, regardless of his hooter... you’re not a fan?’ tried Punchbag, beginning to think he’d maybe misjudged the levity.

  ‘Just give me a minute...,’ confirmed Bungo irritated, ‘because some things simply won’t bend into funny. I mean are we actually the only ones with functioning memories anymore? Are we the only ones who feel like screaming every time we watch these bastards going about their day... grinning back at us and becoming richer? Are there simply no consequences for anything anymore… providing enough time passes?’

  ‘In fairness I think Alastair Campbell does say he suffers from depression,’ offered Punchbag... like he was throwing a lit match towards a bucket of petrol, ‘when he’s not tweeting or selling his books.’

  ‘F*c%**ing suffers from depression?!’ roared Bungo. ‘Christ on a buggered bike! He’s occasionally depressed! Maybe he should come and rest his weary head beneath Dr. David’s tree.’ He spat sideways in disgust. ‘Because any normal person wouldn’t be able to live with themselves… but then that’s the crux of it… isn’t it? These people aren’t normal.’

  He looked around pleading… and tearful. ‘I mean is it really just ME!!!! Has everyone else forgotten?’

  ‘We haven’t forgotten,’ said Orinoco quietly… placing a gentle paw on Bungo’s shoulder to coax him back.

  ‘We haven’t forgotten…’

  Making Good Use Of Bad Rubbish

  Having calmed Bungo down and agreeing that the last chapter was getting a bit heavy, the Wombles got back to setting fire to the two old men in their cages; Cyril melting like rancid butter… alongside the squawk of a dying yodel.

  ‘Not to get you all upset again Bungo,’ said Punchbag, maneuvering with the rest of them to stand up wind, ‘but how do you know all that stuff you were going on about before… because you seem pretty well informed… or alternatively are just a load of conspiracy nuts with internet access?’

  ‘Oh we know, said Bungo. ‘Believe me… we know.’ He looked around… and caught Orinoco’s eye… who gave a curt nod back. He turned and held Punchbag’s gaze… and then began.

  ‘We know…’ he said, ‘because that’s what we used to do… we used to work for them… when we still thought there was something to believe in… and after they cancelled our television show and the band had fallen apart. We thought it was a noble cause… and that the enemies were real… yeah they fooled us good. And we took them out. Did the wet ops… and made it look like accidents and suicides, because Wombles are tidy… and Wombles are clean. But after the towers… nothing was ever the same again. And we finally saw it for what it is.’

  ‘The Towers!’ cried Punchbag incredulous. ‘You were responsible for the twin towers?!’

  Bungo spat to the side again, ‘Yeah that was us… to our undying shame… and Fred of course.’

  ‘Fred…?’ said Punchbag.

  ‘Fred Dibnah,’ said Bungo, still shaking his head in self loathing. ‘He was like us you see… a specialist… and he was a good man. But like us never knew the true corruption and greed that really lay behind it all; how they played two sides against the middle… becoming richer and more powerful as the tragedy went down… shorting stock and buying it back. Yeah he was a good man was Fred… but now he’s gone too.’

  ‘But I thought it was planes?’ said Punchbag. Two planes flying into them… I saw it on the news… and then fires caused the collapse.’

  ‘Are you a facking Cretin?! How the fuck could two steel structures drop like that, at free fall speed, and into their own footprints? And what about Building 7… nothing even struck that… though it collapsed just the same. That one had all the paperwork in it from Enron scandal that needed to disappear, but more interesting is it was Mayor Giuliani’s emergency command centre, which had been reinforced with 15 million dollars worth of renovations to make it virtually indestructible… however on the day they decided to set up shop elsewhere… funny that. Anyway it was on the list… so Fred and the Wombles did the rest.’

  ‘I can’t believe this!’ exclaimed Punchbag, ‘our Michael always said it was an inside job and nothing held up… but we just thought he was obsessed with David Icke and was taking too much speed.’

  ‘Afraid not my old son,’ continued Bungo, ‘I’d also like to believe in the fairytale… but how can we… when we know the truth. I think a lot of people realise that the official story doesn’t fit, but have settled for that cognitive dissonance thing… where they are able to hold two seemingly contradictory thoughts at the same time… that the physics is all wrong… but to start questioning it might open up a hole so big it will swallow them. In that if a government is capable of sacrificing 3000 of its own to false flag a terrorist attack to justify an already written agenda… then what else are they capable of. So let’s all just look the other way… and hopefully have a quiet life.’

  ‘I know our Michael always said this… that the Neo Cons; Bush and Chen
ey and their ilk, had already stated in something called the Project For the New American Century… that another Pearl Harbour was required to motivate the American people into supporting a Middle East invasion to secure oil reserves… but I just thought it was all coincidence.’

  ‘So you’re one of them Coincidence Theorists?’ laughed Bungo, gently punching Punchbag’s arm, ‘there’s a lot of them about… who just think stuff happens by accident… but I’m afraid not. It’s an ongoing program, but the problem people have with believing it… is it’s over lifetimes… because that’s how these people work. Moving one gigantic chess piece at a time… even if it means they aren’t around to see the finished product. They’ve done their bit… and been rewarded for it. I mean look at Blair, he’s virtually a billionaire now. And that’s what most people don’t reckon on… they think that everything must be within a time span they can comprehend… and why they forever miss the bigger picture and settle for these easy explanations… of lone gun men and terrorists who inevitably kill themselves in their atrocities. So you never need to look any further.’

  ‘But how did you do it,’ asked Punchbag amazed, ‘surely someone would have seen you?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Bungo, ‘he was a skilled operative was Fred… and he’d dropped so many big chimneys and repaired so many church steeples he was a natural at it. And we weren’t too shabby either. We just posed as contractors and laid the thermite charges in the framework every time floors were empty… along with the squibs, which you can actually see detonating on the video as it falls… because obviously we had to undermine the steel… otherwise they would have just toppled over sideways. It’s standard demolition stuff…. and I can guarantee you’ll never see another building fall the way the towers did unless it’s via controlled demolition… just can’t happen… physics won’t allow it. There’s simply no way you can free fall something straight down and pan-caking all the way without taking out the internal structure first. And for all them Dicks that thought jet fuel burning was responsible, they maybe need to look up the melting point of steel and do the math… as our American cousins say.’

  ‘So what was Fred’s part?’ asked Punchbag.

  ‘Oh Fred, God bless him, was the man! And obviously had the big ladders and the van. In fact if you slow the footage right down… just after the first tower goes, you can just see Fred’s van in the edge of the shot. I think that’s what got him killed. We were supposed to covert up… but Fred thought it would be good advertising… of course Fred thought the towers were empty. They didn’t want any loose ends you see… and when we realised they’d taken him out… and what the true motives behind the towers were… that’s when we turned into this Sons of Anarchy set up; living off the grid and using our specialist skills to start re-tipping the balance for the ordinary citizen… which is how we came to be surveilling these three perverts.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Punchbag. ‘So much to take in… and that certainly is quite a back story you have there… and with quite a lot I have to say about the twin towers… however I suppose it’s all out there if anyone wants to put the pieces together themselves… and it’s certainly made me see the philosophical, Lancastrian steeplejack in a different… and obviously ludicrous light.’

  ‘Well it would… wouldn’t it,’ said Bungo by way of beginning to round off another conspiracy riddled chapter. ‘And that was another thing that I think maybe got Fred killed, alongside his van with the big ladders being in shot… because if you listen to the audio after the second tower drops… amongst all the screaming, hysteria and sirens… you can just hear someone with a Bolton accent saying… Did You Like That?’

  ‘Well I suppose you can’t really argue with that,’ said Punchbag, ‘and oh look, Cyril has completely melted… however there’s still some silver hair and a bit of tracksuit left in the other cage.’

  ‘Mac’ll Fix It,’ said MacWomble, striding across to poke through the bars with a stick at the last vestiges of the former wacky entertainer with the once remarkable connections to politicians and royalty.

  Punchbag watched the remnants momentarily re-ignite, and scratched his head. ‘You know this really is quite awful, when you stand back and think about what we’ve just done. I mean couldn’t we have just got them to the authorities and let them deal with it? And I also genuinely think that in relation to the story itself that even those who have stayed the course this far, and put up with the various rants and diatribes, would be forgiven for giving up here… because it’s just not funny… and actually quite sick.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know…’ said Orinoco, stooping below the smoulders of the former M.P. for Rochdale to collect the dripping goo in a bucket that he said he’d promised to a witch who made candles. ‘These are simply words on a page… in some bizarre satirical fantasy… and with no real import beyond what someone decides to give them. Granted you can be offended, which seems to be the indulgence of our time, however I’d suggest you should maybe find greater umbrage in what these bastards actually did, and that it was not only known about and covered up… but more pertinently… allowed to continue.

  And these are just the ones that come to light… and generally only once they’re dead… and like Bungo says, always the lone gun man, operating in isolation. The same bullshit they’ve been feeding us since Lee Harvey Oswald. I mean how long are people going to keep swallowing this shit?! This week’s dead pervert vilified… as the victims are compensated and patronised… and if they really kick up a stink perhaps an enquiry… but only once anyone who could actually spill the beans has also snuffed it or been bumped off. I mean watch this…. just watch what happens next… by way of demonstration.’

  And with that Orinoco hauled up the sniffling Leon in his rumply suit; still clutching at some of the files he’d been struggling with earlier. Bungo placed a large tattooed paw on his shoulder and leaned in.

  ‘Take what’s left of these and find the nearest police station.’

  ‘Of course,’ sobbed back Leon, ‘I’ll go this moment!’

  They stood and watched him hurry off down the lane.

  ‘And…3…2…1,’ chorused Orinoco and Bungo together… as Leon suddenly toppled over and died of cancer.

  ‘See!’ said Bungo.

  ‘Happens every time…’

  Now Back To Our Regular Sponsors

  Having discovered that Gordon’s farm was literally only around the corner, and that the Wombles were going there anyway to clean up, it seemed pointless to take off in the bi-plane again, so once maneuvered out of the field Punchbag puttered down the road behind the lads.

  ‘Just up here,’ shouted back Orinoco, indicating to a side-track with a leather gauntleted paw. ‘You’ll have to take it steady as it’s fairly narrow with the trees and bushes on either side, but you should be able to manage it. I’ll go ahead and let Gordon know you’re coming… otherwise he’ll probably freak out and do his 300 bit… thinking it’s the Chinese or another imaginary police raid.’

  ‘His 300 bit?’ asked Punchbag.

  ‘Oh go Orinoco,’ laughed Bungo, ‘let him see for himself… it’ll be a laugh… and we can always jump in if it goes too far.’

  ‘Yeah go on Oco!’ chorused the rest of the gang, whooping and cheering in encouragement, ‘we could do with a laugh after the roasting.’

  ‘Err…?!’ tried Punchbag, wondering just what they were building up to, but unable to help smiling himself with the obvious delight running through the group.

  ‘Okay, Okay,’ said Orinoco, now also chuckling. ‘Look we’ll tag along behind… just follow the main track up into the farmyard… and see what happens.’

  ‘Err… right,’ said Punchbag, as the crew reformed to take up their new positions… giggling. ‘But I’m not going to get shot or anything… am I?’

  ‘No…!’ laughed Orinoco and Bungo together, ‘it’ll just be funny seeing his face.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ laughed Punchbag, unable to help himself being pulled into whatever the jo
ke was, and engaging first gear to putter off over the small rise.’

  ‘He’s a shit shot anyway…’ muttered Bungo, as Punchbag’s plane disappeared.

  ‘Unless of course he’s had a drink…’ muttered back Tomsk.

  ‘What time is it by the way…?’

  They appraised their watches.

 

  ‘Yeah! He’ll definitely have had a drink…’

  The Gordon Recoil System

  Between the screams of, ‘THIS IS S