I Will Contrive

                        I Will Contrive

                        The lament of the late WPC Clumpfoot

Once I was afraid, I was petrified,

                        I was dumped under a rug,

having been electrified,

                        but I learned how to use a crop,

                        I zapped your testicles a lot,

                        and I grew strong,

                        I wore a collar and a thong.

                       

And now you’re chained,

inside a bath.

I’m going to put an electric eel

in there with you for a laugh.

In your knickers you will die

In that water you will fry,

unless you find out about the cash,

then this splash will be your last.

Oh yes, yes I, I will contrive

To unburden you of your loot,

And your sex drive.

No point in trying to beg,

I’ll fry you till you’re dead.

I will contrive, I will contrive

I will contrive.

Now here I am,

somebody dead,

I need your fortune,

so I can head off to the Med.

Life’s not all it’s cracked up to be,

with death you can be free,

kill whomever you like,

with no responsibility.

Oh yes, yes I, I will contrive

To unburden you of your loot,

And your sex drive.

No point in trying to beg,

I’ll fry you till you’re dead.

I will contrive, I will contrive

I will contrive.

Noel Edmonds in: Build Your Own British Motorway Service Station

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With The Fondules

Smales and Swagger

In

‘With The Fondules’

Part 6

Warning: These continuing erotic explorations of elderly couple Penny Smales and Gerald Swagger are not intended for a younger audience. Please do not read if easily offended or aroused.

Recap for the slow of study:

Penny and Gerald are a wealthy, elderly couple. They have recently been told that an experimental and vigorous sex life will extend life in a fun and exciting way.

Manacled to the bed, with a porn mag attached to his head via a coat hanger, Gerald needs a wee wee quite badly now.

Local butcher, Harold Snout is searching in the house for hidden loot. His associate, Dibbler has been electrocuted by a deadly killer electric eel and has completely disappeared in a puff of smoke. Unlikely? OK, let’s carry on.

The lights come up, the smoke clears, and a party is visible down stage centre. These are Reverend Mough, Inspector Nikkers and Constables Ample, Burk and Cruntey.

Already the three constables are lined up as if on parade, while Mough walks around the stage muttering strange incantations and waving a thurible that belches smoke.

Mough: Bell, book and candle, bell book and candle…..

Nikkers: Right, men, fall in, fall in for inspection and briefs. Don’t snigger, Cruntey, that’s not the police way.

Nikkers paces up and down the line of policemen, arms behind his back in a military fashion, snapping, scowling, barking orders.

Cruntey: Sorry, sir, it’s when you said briefs. Sounded a bit dirty, sir.

Nikkers: Dirty? Don’t be puerile, Cruntey. There’s nothing dirty about briefs. This is a serious situation involving the murder your esteemed colleague, WPC Clumpfoot.

Cruntey: Yes sir. Actually sir, we was having a talk about that sir, in the Panda, and it turns out that none of us actually liked the WPC very much sir. She was a bit fat and sweaty sir.

Nikkers: Sweaty?

Cruntey: Yes sir. In fact, sir, me, Ample and Burk drew the short straws, sir.

Nikkers: That is no way to speak of a fellow officer, Cruntey, especially one that has just died a horrible death in pursuit of her duties.

Ample: To be fair to Cruntey, sir, she was pretty sweaty.

Burk: And fat, sir.

Mough: Bell, book and candle, bell book and candle, holy martyrs, ill will and tempest…

Nikkers: All right, I admit she was a bit heavily boned. She told me she had problems with her glands. Well, we can’t help problems with glands, can we? We all get problems with glands.

Cruntey: She had problems with helpings, sir, not glands.

Nikkers: Helpings?

Burk: Yes, double apple dumplings and custard, sir, in the police canteen on a Tuesday.

Ample: And steamed plum duff sir. She was a devil for steamed plum duff.

Burk: Liked a sausage, too, sir. Always one for a spare sausage, if a spare sausage was to be had, sir.

Cruntey: And you wasn’t the one pushing her arse around on the police assault course during Friday training, sir.

Ample: Terrible bloody job, that, sir, shoving her through those tunnel entrances, sir. Always getting herself stuck up the entrance, she was. Winnie the Poo Poo, that’s what the lads called her.

Cruntey: In fact, sir, me and the boys was wondering if we could abandon search and go home and watch the match, if you don’t mind?

Nikkers: Who’s playing? (pause) Shut up! No, you can’t go home and abandon search, you can abandon hope, that’s what, of watching the bloody match. If I’ve got to be here then so have you. This could be a serious police matter. Now, let’s see those truncheons!

Nikkers paces down the line, inspecting. When he gets to Cruntey, he notices the truncheon is somewhat limp and is actually a rolled up copy of The Dandy. Mough continues his mutterings and incantations, occasionally singing hymnal snatches.

Nikkers: Cruntey! Explain your truncheon. It is not at the correct level of active duty stiffness.

Cruntey: I regret to inform you I have misappropriated my standard issue police truncheon in the line of duty, sir, and was forced to replace it with a home made, rolled up newspaper truncheon.

Nikkers: Is that the police staffroom issue of The Beano?

Cruntey: No, The Dandy, sir.

Nikkers: Good idea, Cruntey. That’s the sort of improvised thinking that made Britain great.

Nikkers stands to one side and puffs out his chest.

Nikkers: On the order, fall out and find the murderer….

Mough: Bell, book and candle, our Lord we beseech you, preserve the fruit, preserve the fruit…

Nikkers: Shut up, Mough!

Mough: Oh, I say!

Nikkers: Squad…wait for it, wait for it…fall out and find-the-murderer!

Ample, Burk and Cruntey do a synchronised left term and double match around the stage in a precise line up until they disappear out of the door upstage centre. They blow police whistles and wave their truncheons in synchronised threatening gestures. The whistles fade into the distance as they depart.

Nikkers continues to pace then looks reluctantly at the carpet shrouded body of WPC Clumpfoot. Mough continues to belch smoke, mutter and eventually joins the Inspector in contemplation.

Nikkers: Terrible business, this, Reverend, to lose ones beloved colleague in this shocking way.

Mough: Oh yes. I was just saying to Top-It-Up-Ted, at the petrol station, Ted, I said, murder most foul, Ted, murder most foul.

Nikkers: Yes, Reverend.

Mough: Well, Up-The-Pipe-Pete said he’d never seen a murder that ended in a good way. He’d seen plenty, but none that boded well, Inspector.

Nikkers: I see.

Mough: Oh – I feel your pain, Inspector, I feel your pain. However, if you’ll pardon the pun, I have grave news for you. From Him up there. He tells me there is evil afoot. I said the same to Top-Shelf-Tess, evil in that house, Tess, I said, ancient evil, stirring and awakening.

Nikkers: What? Evil?  Who told you, God or Top-Shelf-Tess?

Mough: (taking a swig from a hip flask) Mmmm. Well. It might have been Bend-Over-Ben I suppose, but it comes to the same thing. Oo…yes. I can feel the presence of Beelzebub and his all his smiteful hordes here. We’ll have to have an exorcism, Inspector. Bell, book and candle, bell book and candle….no doubt about it. We’ll have to clean out the spirits from the house.

Nikkers: Oh, stop it. Evil spirits? Don’t be a fool, man.

At the moment that Mough starts to mutter about evil spirits and such like, in the dungeon next door, a hideous apparition enters and it mysteriously illuminates in supernatural light…Gerald, ignorant of the doings next door, is now seen in a sharper silhouette, the porn magazine still attached to his head. The apparition starts to approach him menacingly, making various ghostly noises, clanking chains and so forth. He twists in fear, still manacled to the bed.

This, of course, can only be seen by the audience.

Mough waves his incense vigorously then reaches down as if to remove the rug from the corpse on the floor, muttering all the time.

Nikkers: (horrified) No! That’s a crime scene!

Mough: (offering the hip flask) Pardon me, I’m sure. I was only going to see if there was an evil spirit in there. You seem a bid edgy, Inspector. Would you like a communion wine, holy water spritzer?

Nikkers: Not when I’m on duty, thank you. Can you hear something? Clanking chains, unholy wailing, blood curdling screams, that sort of thing?

Mough: Oh, I say. I think I can, Inspector.

The ghost continues its menacing in the dungeon next door. It starts to examine various dangerous looking instruments of sexual torture and these it variously prods and pokes at Gerald with, who screams and writhes, pulling at his chains.

Next door’s menacing is obscured, however, by the approaching sound of booted double marching feet and synchronised police whistles. Still in single file, but now with Portions and Nitley sandwiched between them, cuffed, gagged, protesting and being  truncheoned in time to the marching, Ample, Burk and Cruntey reappear. They march triumphantly back to the Inspector.

Cruntey: We have found and apprehended the murderers, sir. One was on the toilet and the other was by the telephone.

Nikkers: Excellent work, Constable Cruntey. Evil spirits, indeed. A simple whodunit, padre.

Mough: (wafting smoke at the murder party) Bell, book and candle….pour forth to thy God… Tell me, Constable Cruntey, what were they doing? Were they engaged in vile summoning up the devil rites?

Cruntey: Oh, yes, sir. Yes they were. He (pointing at Nitley) was engaged in a suspicious use of the telephone and he (pointing at Portions) was making an unholy stink on the pot. It was very suspicious, very suspicious indeed. It wasn’t rights, it was wrongs, sir.

Nikkers: Well let’s hear what they have to say for themselves before we charge them and take them down the station.

Cruntey painfully removes masking tape from the mouths of Nitley and Portions. The menacing in the dungeon continues apace.

Portions: I protest. I wasn’t summoning up the devil. I was merely using the lavatory. This oaf broke down the door, barged in, stole my toilet paper and dragged me off. I hadn’t even finished!

Cruntey: It’s very easy for him to say that now, but you weren’t there. There was a thick smell of sulphur, sir.

Mough: Oh, my word!

Nitley: All I was doing was phoning the Prime Minister to tell him I might be late for the damned vote.

Cruntey: Did you hear that? Condemned by his own mouth, sir. Damned boat. The boat that crosses the river into the underworld, sir.

Mough: I certainly did. Let us exorcise these poor, lost souls.

Cruntey: Exercise? I think a truncheoning might be better, sir. We’ll not beat a confession out of them by making them do sit ups and jogging on the spot.

Nikkers: He has a point there. I have never exacted a satisfactory confession from a suspect by asking him to jog on the spot, Mough.

Nitley: Shut up, the pair of you. We’re not devil worshippers or murderers. I phoned you in the first place.

Portions: Yes. There’s a perfectly simple explanation to all of this, if you’ll allow me.

Nikkers: Here. Aren’t you that Doctor Hilary Portions, off the telly? Broken hearts mended, black heads removed and foot fungus powder sold at a knock down price?

Portions: I don’t have to advertise ‘Clearafoot’ you know, I only do it because it’s a safe, proven method of birth control…yes, yes I am.

Nikkers: (indicating Portions’ hair) My wife says that’s a wig.

Portions: Does she. Well it isn’t. I just style it that why because my fans say it suits me.

Nikkers: Which fans are those, then?

Portions: Pass me that remote control, Inspector.

Portions struggles free and seizes the remote control which he presses decisively. The bed swivels into the room containing a terrified Gerald, still struggling against the manacles, still with the porn mag attached, shaking from left to right in terror.

Gerald: Portions! Thank God!

Portions: Never mind that, Swagger, can you verify to all present that I am not a murderer?

Gerald: No! No! Death stalks the house! It will have its revenge!

Portions: You bastard!

Nikkers: Constables! Seize this man and his accomplice.

Mough: Wait, Inspector. I think there’s more. Speak. Tell us what you have seen.

Gerald: I’ve seen a ghost. A terrible spirit. An agent of the devil who swears that none of us will leave this house alive. A ghost. A fucking ghost!

Mough: You see? I told you. Now, who’s for a bit of holy water?

Please Please Fondule Me

Smales and Swagger

In

‘Please Please Fondule Me’

Part 5

Warning: These continuing erotic explorations of elderly couple Penny Smales and Gerald Swagger are not intended for a younger audience. Please do not read if easily offended or aroused.

Recap for the slow of study:

Penny and Gerald are a wealthy, elderly couple. They have recently been told that an experimental and vigorous sex life will extend life in a fun and exciting way.

Gerald is still manacled to the bed. Poor Sod. And now he has a porno mag attached to his forehead with a coathanger.

MP for Firkbury, Corbin Nitley has insisted that Doctor Hilary Portions call the police to report that WPC Clumpfoot has been electrocuted, stripped and now lies decomposing under a rug in the living room. They have gone off to find a telephone for the purpose of.

Meanwhile….

The stage is now momentarily empty, except for the tin bath that fizzles and sparks occasionally. Then we see, through the door stage right, a fishing rod. This has a large boot attached to the end of it and it extends across the stage towards the tin bath. The boot descends into the water. Nothing happens.

The owner of the fishing rod, Harold Snout, now enters followed by his butcher’s mate Dibbler. Both are dressed in butcher’s aprons. Snout’s looks like it might have blood on it. As he enters, he reels the boot in and makes to cast it into the corner, its usefulness over. The boot swings into Dibbler’s face.

Dibbler: Ow! Why did you do that, Mr Snout?

Snout: Quiet, Dibbler. Take that boot out of your face and put it down over there. Shut your noise and listen. You’re making more racket than the famous Amazon squawking bird.

Dibbler: Sorry, Mr Snout. I can’t hear anything. Can you?

Snout: Only the sound of your filthy, heavy breathing, Dibbler.

Dibbler: Sorry, Mr Snout. But why did we have the boot in the first place?

Snout: Because, bird brain, it was a decoy. If we heard anyone reacting to the boot on the fishing line along the lines of ‘Oh look! A boot on a fishing line!’ we’d know that certain parties were still awake, wouldn’t we? Then we could leg it.

Dibbler: What, like the famous Amazon squawking birds?

Snout: No, not them. I mean pensioners who carry on committing those acts of filth and degradation.

Dibbler: Then whack them in the face with the boot?

Snout: Good thinking, Dibbler.

Dibbler: But what if they’d caught the boot, yanked it hard and pulled us into the room, though? What would we do then?

Snout: What those two? Well, we would’ve improvised. Used our wits and intelligence, Dibbler. You could have said something like: ‘Oh look, there’s my lost boot. How did it get here? Here’s your reward for returning it as promised.’

Dibbler: I see. But I haven’t lost my boot, Mr Snout.

Snout: (irritated) I’ll give you the boot in a minute, Dibbler. Shut up. I need to think. Now, nobody’s home. Good. That Mrs Smales and Mr Swagger have buggered off to bed, the perverts.

Dibbler: I’ve got a funny feeling in my stomach, Mr Snout. Like we’re being watched.

Snout: That’s just nerves. When you’ve been on as many black ops as I have, Dibbler, you soon get used to it. Here. You didn’t eat any of that bacon did you?

Dibbler: No, Mr Snout. I only ate the bacon that you gave me. I didn’t touch none of that bacon you put aside for Mrs Smales with the sleeping powder on it.

Snout: They’ll be out for hours. It’ll give us plenty of time to find the loot and scarper.

Dibbler: Where shall we look?

Snout: I don’t know yet, do I, Dibbler?

Snout sits down thoughtfully on one of the coffee table chairs and pats his pockets looking for his cigarettes. Dibbler sits on an adjacent seat and puts his legs on the table.

Dibbler: (sniggering) Are you looking for your snout, Mr Snout?

Snout: Yes I am, Dibbler, thank you, and I’ve told you before if you make that joke again I’ll give you a thick ear.

Dibbler: That’s cruelty to workers, Mr Snout, I’ll have the union on you.

Snout: Are you a member of the union, Dibbler?

Dibbler: No, Mr Snout, you wouldn’t let me join.

Snout: (clipping him round the ear) Then take that, you moron.

Ignoring the protesting Dibbler, Snout lights his fag and parks his boots on the table, calmly surveying the room and taking a deep drag.

Snout: Course, when I was inside, you understand, it was perfectly acceptable to call it snout. With a name like Snout, it could be very confusing for the cons. The screws would ask for snout and they’d be given me instead. You know, in a ‘where’s the snout, Snout’ sort of a way.

Dibbler: Must have made life a bit confusing for you, Mr Snout.

Snout: Yes, I was in a right state by the end of it. They didn’t know whether to give me a suck or a blow.

Dibbler: Mr Snout?

Snout: Yes, Dibbler?

Dibbler: I’ve been meaning to ask you…how do you know there’s loot here, anyway?

Snout: (emphatically) Course there’s loot here, Dibbler, those two are loaded. How else can you explain their comings and goings? Television celebrities, honourable members, the clergy: always around here in a constant state of arousal. Why do you think? They all want to get their snouts in the trough and cream off a bit of the action. And do you ever see them two down the bank?

Dibbler: No.

Snout: That means that somewhere in this house is wads of lovely loot. Well with those two out for the count, we’ve got plenty of time to search, bag it up and have it away. Clever trick of mine. Lace their bacon with sleeping potion then give it an hour.

(Snout stubs his cigarette out into the palm of his hand, then gets up)

Dibbler: Do you believe all those stories about dirty deeds, Mr Snout? I mean, once you get to your age nothing much happens in the trouser department does it?

Snout: You cheeky git. What do you mean my age? I’m not so old I can’t cut the mustard you know? Right, Dibbler. We’ll split up. You have a good poke around in here. Leave no stone unturned. I’ll hunt around through the rest of the house. Don’t make too much noise and leave the porn alone.

Dibbler: What if we don’t find nothing?

Snout: Well, we’ll drug those two buggers again and have another look next week, won’t we.

Dibbler: I’m scared, Mr Snout. I keep feeling all this is going to end in disaster for us.

Snout: Don’t be such a fanny, Dibbler. What can possibly go wrong?

Snout exits upstage centre, leaving Dibbler on his own. Dibbler starts to poke around.

He looks in various drawers, pulling out and playing with sexual toys of various shapes and sizes – dildos, vibrators, condoms, porn DVDs,  electronic stuff, Some of which he pockets.

He finds the remote control to the bed. Bored, he collects a small armful of sexy stuff and, armed with the remote, he points it at the television, expecting porn to come on. He wriggles salaciously as though he might start to pleasure himself and unzips his trousers in a most suggestive way.

He points the remote at the TV and presses. As he does, the bed rotates so that Gerald is in the room and he is in the dungeon. The dungeon is darkened but what he sees is shocking. Dibbler screams and presses again, the bed rotates back. He is back in the living quarters

Dibbler: (loudly and in fear) Oh my God, what was that? Mr Snout! Mr Snout!

Dibbler jumps off the seat and immediately trips over WPC Clumpfoot’s corpse. He tears the rug off and screams loudly clutching torn bra, stockings and panties. He runs around the room in panic, dropping the shredded clothes

Dibbler: Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, a dead body, a dead body, I touched a dead body. What’s on my hands? The maniacs, the perverted maniacs! Shit, shit, shit….Mr Snout! Mr Snout! Must wash my hands…must wash my hands!

Seeing the tin bath, Dibbler plunges his hands into it. There is a flash, a sizzle and smoke as before. Dibbler lets out a blood curdling scream, falls next to WPC Clumpfoot and the lights go down once again.

For a Pair of Duff Duff Duffs

For a Pair of Duff Duff Duffs

You’re leaving the square before I even knew you came.

They pronounce in the paper it won’t be the same.

Thousands of fans whirlpool sinkfulls of tears

build gravity enough to suck in the years.

Public radio, a tongue tied quality drama stutterer,

a serious issues, diseases, ratings mutterer,

trails of soap, wretched exits, pills and rope.

They cry for you, there is no longer hope.

Tacky wipes carry on at eyes till they’re clean

and recovered, from antics of an old drama queen.

Tasteful tributes and unforgettable lines:

‘Get out of my pub, you cow, that bedroom was mine.

You’ll regret every evil, little thing you’ve done

Now take yer mitts off my tits and my bum.

I couldn’t care less, you bitch, I don’t give a fig,

I’m dressed in my widow’s weave and dancing a jig.’

You’ve covered up now; and they’ll lay you to rest

and who remembers you once bared a breast,

or whipped off your bra in front of the teacher;

tickled the fancies of the King and the preacher?

Those millions and millions will weep while they’re scoffing

then they’ll carry you off in a fake cardboard coffin.

Who will gape and gawp until they’ve witnessed enough

to the thud and the thump of the duff, duff duff duffs?

The 92

The 92

92 is a definite; a dangerous number decided Amaya as she counted the Swan Vestas once again, pushing them idly with her finger on the café table until there was a shape, order from chaos.

The door of the café pushed open; a distinguished and greying man flashed his teeth in greeting, flicked open a copy of ‘I’ and scanned the sports pages. He glanced up and his voice sang: ‘Good morning.’

Amaya crammed the matches back into the box, spilling several and pulled out her mobile, impatiently waiting for connection. Her lipped curled in agitation. She gripped the device and spoke. ‘Yes. Fifteen pounds. Yes…yes…yes. That’s right, fifteen,’ she snarled then arose; her metal chair was flung back against the counter. Pulling on her threadbare fur, picking up a dirty metal canister, she flounced for the door, tossed her tousled maroon locks and caught the gaze of the ‘I’ reader.

‘Have a nice day, sweetheart,’ she smiled and was gone, into the gale that greeted her from the street.

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

‘Detritus and decay, where have you been, child? My impatience to be gone knows no bounds. We must away. Project 92 cannot fail. I am dependent on the proclivities of a feckless wastrel. Closer, come closer. Attend me.’

Amaya stared with a mixture of fear and contempt at the screaming visage of Don Giovanni, shuddering at his spittle of invective. The frail figure of her father glowered in return, illuminated by the furnace of the grinding engines he guarded. Rapidly beckoning with his hand, she approached him. ‘You have it?’ he growled. ‘You have the merchandise?’

‘Yes father. It was not easy. To submit to such acts of shame and degradation.’

‘It matters not.’ raged Giovanni, ‘All that matters to me now is Project 92, to bring the venture to its conclusion. Blood and thunder! Degradation? It is I who must suffer, this body, this aching shell, unfit for purpose…’

‘But father, to make this money I was forced to delve into the skips, scavenge for salvage, polish, sell…the scent of decay, father, it lingers on the body. Even today, a handsome man looked at me with love. I, unfamiliar to such affection, could not return his gaze.’ Amaya’s head dropped from her father’s eyes in recollection and sadness. She felt for the 92 in her pocket. They burned.

‘Enough prattle, child. Your duty is to me. Come. I cannot endure much longer.’ Giovanni’s frail hands were shaking but his eyes sparked like coals; his veins bulged and throbbed.

Amaya swallowed. ‘No’.

‘What? You defy me? Pass me my stick that I may thrash you. Give me that diesel.’

‘No,’ repeated Amaya. She now chose her words with complete control. ‘No. Project 92 will fail. I had time in that town, to think. And I think me…freedom.’

‘Freedom? Failure? You blaspheme!’ Giovanni’s voice softened and his eyes narrowed in cunning. He spoke gently, soothingly, his palms upwards in supplication. ‘Amaya. My daughter. Give me the fuel. We can forget this act of defiance. Begin anew. It is what your mother, God rest her soul, would wish.’

Amaya was unmoved and sensed the shackles slipping from her shoulders. ‘Project 92? What a stupid, stupid plan.’ She spat, contemptuously. ‘Dim-witted. Like you, father. To reach all 92 football grounds in the league…by canal boat? Only an imbecile could make that a goal in life. Goal - hah. What you won’t be seeing this Saturday. To think that I assisted you all these years.’ Her voice held a terrible timbre.

‘Give me that fuel! We can still reach Molineux by three o clock.’ pleaded Giovanni, falling to the deck in terror.

‘There isn’t even a canal near Wolverhampton, idiot.’ Amaya concluded, holding 92 matches aloft in one hand and the canister of diesel in the other.

‘But, but…you and I, we can push the boat to the ground, as in the old days!’ begged Giovanni. ‘Remember remember…’

‘The fifth of November? Do you see what I have here, father?’ Amaya coldly shook the box of 92, pinning her prostrate father to the deck with a stare crueler than the winter’s wind.

‘No. Not Swan Vestas. I fucking hate Swan Vestas.  The most unreliable of all matches, you chose deliberately child. You wound me. You break my heart.’

           

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

Amaya pulled her furs more closely around her as she glanced back at the conflagration. 92 was a dangerous number to be sure. She smiled inwardly. Yes 92 matches…to end all matches.

She shrugged. She had a date to keep.

Fondules!

Smales and Swagger

In

‘Fondules!’

Part 4

Warning: These continuing erotic explorations of elderly couple Penny Smales and Gerald Swagger are not intended for a younger audience. Please do not read if easily offended or aroused.

Recap for the slow of study:

Penny and Gerald are a wealthy, elderly couple. They have recently been told that an experimental and vigorous sex life will extend life in a fun and exciting way.

Gerald is still manacled to the bed.

Local TV celebrity doctor Hilary Portions has somehow managed to get WPC Clumpfoot killed via a tin bath, keys to handcuffs and an unexpected killer electric eel.

The constable’s body lies still in front of them on the hard parquet flooring. As for the electric eel? It retires malevolently to the bottom of the tin bath, ready to strike again.

Gerald: You’ve killed her, you stupid twat! What are we going to do now?

Both men stare into the tin bath, then to the prone constable in horror. Portions whips out his stethoscope and kneels down beside the prone body

Portions: I’d better check her chest, Swagger, just to be on the safe side, you know. Avert your eyes will you? Professionalism and all that.

Gerald: (rattling manacles): Avert my eyes? How am I supposed to do that?

Portions: Good point. I tell you what, have you got a blindfold?

Gerald: You are not blindfolding me. Stay away, you pervert.

Portions: And a camera? I may need to take some pictures. Just for the boys down the lab, nothing dirty, nothing sordid.

Portions begins to unbutton the WPC’s tunic in a manner that could suggest more than just a professional interest. However he soon looks up with a disappointed

Gerald: What’s the problem?

Portions: I’m having trouble undoing this bra, Swagger. It’s a devil of a job.

Gerald: Maybe it’s a police issue undergarment.

Portions: Of course. Extra security, police bra. That must be it. All sorts of fiendishly clever locks and clasps, designed to offer added protection from the unwanted attentions of the horny young station constables. It’s no good; I’ll have to use my surgeon’s scissors.

Gerald: (sceptically) Surgeon’s scissors?

He busies himself with scissors, a camera and stethoscope whilst Gerald rattles his chains in frustration and looks appalled.

Portions: Yes. Definitely dead.

Gerald: Are you sure? Why don’t you take another half an hour to be on the safe side?

Portions: Of course I’m sure. I’m a Doctor.

Gerald: Yes, so you say, but I’ll I ever see you do is talk on morning TV about hair loss, bikini lines and penile warts. Are you qualified in death?

Portions: How dare you impugn my reputation like that? I don’t have to work for ‘Sunshine’ you know, it’s my public duty. I’m issuing a death certificate.

Portions produces some paper, scribbles on it and waves it across the corpse waiting for the ink to dry.

Portions: There. You can’t get much deader than that, Swagger.

Gerald: What are we going to do now? Call the police?

Portions: No. I’m going to stuff this in her helmet and hide the body under that rug for now, whilst we figure out our next move.

Gerald: Our next move? Don’t involve me in your fuckery, Portions. Release me now!

Portions: Shut up, I think I can hear something.

Portions and Gerald listen intently. Nothing. Portions begins to drag the heavy female body upstage. Some of the loosened clothing snags itself on furniture, causing the job to be more difficult than it should be. Exasperated, Portions starts to unhitch clothing then stuffs cut up bra pieces up the corpse’s skirt and down the unbuttoned uniform.

At last, reaching the rug, he starts to conceal the body underneath it as best he can. From the doorway, stage right, a loud cough ostentatiously interrupts his activities. Portions immediately rises and stands in front of the lumpy carpet doing his best to conceal it.

Nitley: Mr Swagger! Mr Swagger! Goodness me, Mr Swagger what are you doing manacled to that bed?

Gerald: Oh, Mr Nitley. I had forgotten that Mrs Smales had arranged for you to pop in this morning. As you can see, she is not at home. She popped out for some bacon.

Nitley: Bacon?

Gerald: Yes, unfortunately the previous bacon had become soiled by my penis.

Nitley: Penis?

Gerald: Ah…yes. Somehow it had been tied to my penis with rubber bands at the instructions of Doctor Portions.

Nitley: Portions?

Gerald: Ah…Look perhaps you had better come back tomorrow.

Nitley: Can’t do that old chap, I’ve driven a considerable distance to be here. All the way from Parliament, don’t you know? Had to miss a vote. Whip and all that. I can’t think what the PM will say if all I come back with is a cock and bull story about soiled bacon portions.

Gerald: No, not bacon portions, Doctor Portions. Over there. Look.

Nitley looks over to where Portions stands, statuesque. He looks back to Gerald, then his gaze returns to Portions, who grins disarmingly and waves.

Portions: Hello!

Nitley frowns for a second, perhaps, then recognition floods his face and not in a good way.

Nitley: Aren’t you that celebrity doctor, Hilary Portions, on the telly? Boils, pimples, broken hearts and so on?

Gerald: That’s the one. It’s on account of his expertise that I find myself like some cut price Jesus with a cock that smells of scampi flavoured fries.

Nitley: Well don’t just stand there you medical imbecile, help me release Mr Swagger.

Gerald: (indicating the tin bath) He can’t, on account of the keys being at the bottom of that tin bath, guarded by an extremely jealous…

Nitley is now looking short-sightedly in the tin bath, which is still on the bed beside Gerald, and is putting his hand into it as if to get the keys.

Nitley: Seems to be full of dead fish.

Gerald: No! Don’t!

There is a loud bang, a flash and smoke as before. When it clears, Nitley is prone on the floor in pretty much the same place as WPC Clumpfoot before him.

Gerald: Oh fucking hell. You’ve killed another one, Portions.

Portions: And what’s even worse is that I don’t think he’ll fit under the rug.

Portion kneels once more beside the new corpse as Gerald  watches sardonically. There is less fussing with clothes this time. He produces another death certificate and his pen.

Gerald: No camera needed this time?

Portions: (ignoring him) Yes. Definitely deceased.

Nitley: (opening his eyes, confused and pointing) Fuckwit!

Gerald: I thought you said he’d snuffed it.

Nitley: (looking at Portions, shouting) Television twat!

Portions: I thought he had, Swagger.

Nitley: Panty sniffing, boil lancing, bastard!

Portions: I think he’s delirious.

Gerald: No. He seems to be making perfect sense.

Nitley: (getting to his feet and shredding the death certificate) Why didn’t you tell me the tin bath was wired to a live terminal, Portions?

Nitley doesn’t wait for a reply but pushes Portions in the chest. The doctor stumbles backwards, trips over the carpet shrouded body of WPC Clumpfoot and falls to the floor.

Portions: No need for that, is there?

Nitley: (noticing the body) What’s this? A body? Are you concealing a dead person, Portions?

Gerald: Yes he is, Minister, he is.

Nitley: You conniving devil.

Portions: Not actually concealing it, sir, just – ah, making it ready for transportation. In point of fact I was just about to call the police when you arrived.

Nitley: Were you. Well in that case, let’s both call them, in case of further misunderstandings. Come with me. We’ll be back in a jiffy, Mr Swagger.

Nitley marches Portions off stage through the door leading into the other rooms off the house. Gerald remains fastened and groans in despair, calling after them.

Gerald: (looking hopefully at the tin bath) Will somebody please release me? I’ve been here ages. I need a wee wee.

Portions reappears at the door, and hurries downstage, presses the remote control and Gerald’s bed swivels back into the dungeon.

Nitley: (offstage) Portions!

Portions: (to the swivelling bed and then in answer to the shout) Sorry old chap. Coming!

The Beatles: the Beatles ARE The Camp Family. Record Review.

Hard To Find Records Presents:

THE BEATLES

THE BEATLES ARE THE CAMP FAMILY:

PUTTING THE WESTERN BACK INTO THE COUNTRY.

Old Beatles Joke: In 1973, Ringo enjoyed several hit records. In 1974 he bought some more and enjoyed those too.

But in 1975….one of the most popular groups in the world, The Beatles, attempted to bury their differences and reunited for one last time together in those famous studios at Abbey Road to record their final legacy to the world.

They laid down the fourteen tracks for their final, and some would argue, least popular album ‘The Camp Family: Putting the Western back into the Country.’

It’s easy to be cutting in retrospect but it’s fair to say that it wasn’t the most inspired idea they’d ever had. This LP became about as popular as mozerella left for several days on the back seat of a Skoda in the Sahara desert.

Unsurprisingly it was Paul who was most enthusiastic about the new album. Temporarily disbanding his ‘supergroup’ Wings for a long weekend, in order to spend some quality time with boy friend John, it was he who suggested a camping trip to the Blue Ridged Mountains of Virginia inspired by his enjoyment of some episodes of ‘The Virginian’ he’d watched with his long term spouse, Linda, in between recording sessions for the ‘Venus and Mars’ long player.

In later interviews he explained his decision in his endearingly thick scouse accent: ‘I watched some episodes of The Virginian with Linda which inspired me.’

In a state of excitement he had telephoned John and was encouraged by his confession that he had now become hopelessly addicted to Marlboro Cigarettes and would love to, as he put it, ‘Come to Marlboro country, come to where the flavour is.’

By now both men were thoroughly stimulated and determined to reunite the greatest band ever to come from Woolton. Summoning George and Ringo by rubbing their magic lamps, in a puff, all four decamped from England only to set up camp in the vicinity of the aforementioned mountains at a place called ‘Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet’ with only the hard earth for a bed and the light of flickering candles to compose by.

Paul instantly conjured up an exciting title for their new Magnus Opus: ‘The Virginian’. However, John – somewhat reasonably – suggested that this title had already been used and proffered ‘Marlboro County - Where the Flavour Is.’ It was an inauspicious start.

Latterly, in interviews, Paul explained the dilemma in his charmingly broad scouse accent: ‘I suggested ‘The Virginian’, but John said that was shit.’

Things looked grim, but ever the peace maker, George quickly stepped up to the plate. ‘Gee guys,’ he proffered, ‘like, we’re a family and we’re camping. How about ‘The Camp Family’? It was a very tense moment. Paul and John, it’s reported, glowered at the embers. But suddenly their faces cracked into cheeky Liverpudlian grins and George knew that disaster had been averted. The Beatles were ‘The Camp Family’. They set to creating tunes straight away.

Creating the record, as is well documented, was far from easy, as they were constantly and incessantly interrupted by Ringo. ‘I like my beans with ketchup, George, how come we ain’t got no ketchup?’

‘Christ!’ exploded George, ‘Whatever we ain’t got, that’s what you want! I could live my life so easy if it wasn’t for you! What’s that you got there? Is it another mouse? Give it to me! I’m a throwin’ it into that there brush! I ain’t doing it for meanness, that mouse ain’t fresh!’

‘Tell me about the rabbits, George.’

John and Paul knew they were up against it. The first two tunes ‘No Ketchup on my Beans Blues’ and ‘Mouse Ain’t Coming Home’ were complete non starters musically speaking. But by an astounding stroke of luck, in the very next tent to theirs, was none other than Dolly Parton, Tammy Wynette and Willy Nelson. The rest, as they say, is history. If you want to know any more, look it up on Wikipedia for Christ’s sake.

Released on the budget K Tel record label, ‘The Beatles are The Camp Family’ bombed, selling less well than the Buttoneer and Brushomatic. It was propping up the bargain bins next to the pick n mix in Woolworths just in time for Christmas.

Ironically it is now as rare as Woolworths, Buttoneers and Brushomatics. If you see one, post it to me, will you? Thanks.

Amelie

Amelie

Amelie, Amelie with

your thighs of liquid honey,

Andy’s gone and sacked you

and now you’re on less money.

Your bitten lips and anxious smiles;

slams that came and went.

Andy huffed, puffed and

banged his balls until he was spent.

Fretting by the base line

in your amply filled jumper,

He saw he wasn’t winning and thought:

‘No good, I’ll have to dump her.’

Amelie, now come to me,

And let us play mixed doubles.

Show me how to serve down your tee

and sooth away your troubles.

I may not toss my balls

quite as high as Nishikori,

but let me approach you at the net

and shoot you with my volley.

Amelie, I’ll me make you smile;

on the ground we will lay,

Any surface suits me, I don’t mind,

hard court, grass or clay.

I’ll tease you with my groundstrokes,

let me feather you with my slice.

Drop my shot, serve out wide,

and take you to paradise.

Fondules For Sale

Smales and Swagger

In

‘Fondules For Sale’

Part 3

Warning: These continuing erotic explorations of elderly couple Penny Smales and Gerald Swagger are not intended for a younger audience. Please do not read if easily offended or aroused.

Recap for the slow of study:

Penny and Gerald are a wealthy, elderly couple. They have recently been told that an experimental and vigorous sex life will extend life in a fun and exciting way. They have been experimenting with bondage and aphrodisiac food stuffs. While Penny pops to the butchers to get some cleaner bacon, Gerald is left manacled to the bed.

In the meantime, GP and TV Personality, Doctor Hilary Portions, has popped in with a tin bath full of Japanese Doctor Kiss Fish in order that Gerald’s penis can be cleaned in a therapeutic way and, in order to overcome reluctance on Gerald’s part, has manacled himself to the bed frame alongside him. As both dangle their dongles into the water, Gerald notices a gigantic conger eel curled up in the corner of the bath beginning to stir.

Gerald looks down to the bottom of the tin bath. His face suddenly goes from worried to panic. He nudges Portions with his shoulder and nods at the bath frantically.

Gerald: Keep still, Portions, keep still. Make as little movement as a nasally congested pensioner stuck in the middle lane of a traffic jam who has had the misfortune to have been transported to the South Pole and has become frozen solid.

Portions: But why, man, why?

Gerald: Because, unless I’m very much mistaken that’s a conger eel in the corner down there.

Portions: Oh stop it, Swagger. That’s no conger eel down there.

Gerald: It isn’t?

Portions: Of course not. During my career as a celebrity television doctor I’ve seen plenty of conger eels demonstrated in front of the waking viewing public by Attenborough, Bellamy and Mr Tumble.

Gerald: Ah.

Portions: No. In my opinion, that’s a killer electric eel.

Gerald: Fuck.

Portions: Really? Is this predicament – ah, turning you on?

Gerald: No it bloody isn’t. I’ve got my fucking knob in a bucket full of highly conductive water with an electric eel in the bottom. Giving you a quickie is the last thing on my mind. Don’t move. Stop twitching.

Portions: I can’t help it, I can’t help it! I think it’s the danger, Swagger.

Gerald: Wait. That gives me an idea. If we both tell each other our filthy, most sexual, dirty, fantasies, perhaps the…arousal will…lift us out of dangerous waters, so to speak.

Portions: Raise the portcullis and salute the flag, you mean?

Gerald: Yes, yes, that’s the idea. You begin, I can’t think of anything, Portions.

Portions: Neither can I. You’ll have to do it. Quick. That eel is starting to charge itself up.

Gerald: Ah, erm…I know…that girl off morning TV with the big knockers, stripping in a field. She takes off her top and bounds towards us, flinging her bra into the wheat…she bends over and shouts: ‘take me, big boy, take me…’

Portions: (staring down with surprise) Good grief. It’s starting to work, it’s starting to work…I’m almost clear of the water now…

Gerald: Me too, Portions! Your turn. Keep it going.

Portions: Er…er…Judy Finegan!

Gerald: (horrified) Oh no. What did you say that for? It’s going down again, it’s going down!

Portions: Oh my God, now all I can think of is Keith Chegwin standing naked in a tub of fast setting cement, Swagger.

Gerald: The eel is on the move. Help! Help!

At the moment the two men start screaming and rattling their bonds in panic, the door opens stage left and into the fray enters the middle aged, uniformed Police Constable Clumpfoot. He stares, bemused, at the sight of the two naked men before him then reaches for and takes out a notebook and pencil from his pocket. He rubs his eyes as if scarcely able to believe what he can see, stolidly ignoring their cries for help.

Clumpfoot: Now then, now then, what’s all this, then? What’s going on here?

Portions: Help, constable, help! Don’t just stand there.

Clumpfoot: All in good time, sir, all in good time. I was called on account of there being complaints of noises and an affray in this here area, sir. I’ll need to take down the particulars, sir, if you don’t mind.

Gerald: Never mind that, officer, we are in danger of our lives! Release us!

Portions: Please, Constable, please - I definitely felt a shock just then!

Clumpfoot: (licking his pencil) I think that the general public will all be in for a shock, sir, when they see this sort of filth going on. This is a respectable area, sir, if you don’t mind. Now can you kindly explain how you came to be in this predicament and why you was calling out in such a profane manner, sir? Here…aren’t you that Doctor Hilary off Sunshine Television?

Portions: Yes I am, constable, and if you don’t release me this instant I will do another expose of corruption in the Met.

Clumpfoot grumpily starts to obey. He replaces his notebook agonisingly slowly and produces a set of keys from a pocket, limps over to the terrified men and starts to pick the lock of Portion’s cuffs.

Clumpfoot: My missus don’t like you. She says your hair looks like a thatched cottage after a hurricane. All the straw gone missing with only a few bits left patching up the timber, she says.

Portions: Does she?

Clumpfoot: Yes she does, sir. Says the only things you know anything about is pimples, warts and boils, sir.

Portions: I see.

Clumpfoot: If you come on, sir, she turns over to the other side.

Portions: (finally released) Good for her.

With a contemptuous glare, Portions leaps off the bed. He picks up and replaces his trousers as Clumpfoot moves to Gerald’s cuffs. Gerald is still sweating with fear as the constable dithers with his keys, looking into the tin bath, portions watching on anxiously.

Clumpfoot: That’s a tiddler.

Gerald: It is cold, constable…

Clumpfoot: No, that electric eel. I saw a much bigger one on television yesterday, fighting with Mr Tumble. You do have a big cock, sir.

Portions: (nudging the constable impatiently) Hurry, man!

The nudge causes the constable to drop his keys into the tin bath. There is a loud splash.

Clumpfoot: Now look what you’ve gone and made me done, sir!

The constable looks dismayed at Portions, then into the murk of the tin bath. He reaches in to fish the set of keys out. As he does so there is a loud electric sizzle, a flash, some smoke and Constable Clumpfoot is knocked to the floor where he lies, motionless, helmet akimbo.

Gerald: Oh my God!

Portions: (bending down and doing professional doctorish activities, then looking up solemnly) He’s dead!

Gerald: You’ve killed him, you stupid twat! What are we going to do now?

Both men stare into the tin bath, then to the prone constable in horror…