Thursday, April 27, 2006

The Y-Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Five.

Wow, it is almost impossible to keep up with the scandal and sleaze pumping out from the British government at the moment. I just hope this story is finished before the real Tinny blabber is finished off for good. Here is the next part. Have fun.

The Y-Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Five.

Wolf Mildew glanced at his watch for the fifteenth time in so many minutes. At least another two hours before Secret Agent Dilly Slapper would report in with the results from the evening at the Blabbers residence. He stood up, wandered over to the bar and asked in sign language to the spotty faced minimum paid Polish bar keeper for a pint of ale. Watching the English illiterate immigrant confusingly enter 2.5 million pounds for the drink into the till, Wolf mulled over what could happen to Dilly. He realised that sending her to look for the SPIN that would help him crack the Tinny Blabber Code could cost her more than not appearing on I’m a Celebrity, get me out of here!, but her very life.

Dilly was entering the lioness’s den. Besides the danger of been caught searching for the code, if anyone found out exactly why Dilly wanted so desperately to go into the jungle and be watched by millions of no life gawkers, Mildew knew that she would be attired in an orange jump suit at Guantanamo Bay faster than you could invade Iraq.
Taking his pint, he returned to his table in the dark recess of the Nags Give Head main lounge and glanced again at his watch. Nothing to do but stick it out and get shit faced whilst he waited.


“Hey Dilly, over here Babe,” “Dilly, look this way Doll,” “Bonkit, get out the fucking way, I can’t get a good shot of Dilly!” The press fought each other for the best positions to photograph the hottest celebrity couple since Achilles was raped by Lara Croft.
Snatching up Bonkit’s white cane, she pretended to lash it across his shoulders as the flashes from hundreds of cameras lit up the front of the Prime Ministers tax payers supported residence, 10 Conning Street. A tad under six foot in her £260 Christian Dior Jaden shoes, the forty three year old looked magnificent. Divhead Bonkit M.P., her chaperone for the night, resembled a disoriented London Bridge tramp looking for a cheap bottle of red rotgut wine to guzzle.

“Hi fellas, grab a load of this.” Dilly parted the pure white silk Armani top she wore to expose a pair of stunning bra less breasts to the delighted photographers. “I got to go Darlings, make sure I’m on the front page tomorrow, ” with that she strode over to the grinning Constable standing guard in front of the most famous bed-sit terraced house in the world. Before he had a chance to knock on the door, Slapper’s taloned right hand shot out and grabbed the hapless policeman’s genitals and gave them a quick squeeze. The shocked man reacted by jerking his head back and crashing his helmet loudly on the door, Dilly released him. Winking she said,
“Now that’s what I call the long knob of the law, good for knocking.”

As the door opened. exposing the silhouetted frame of Cherry Blabber, attired in a Karl Largerfeld creation of a mock Roman centurion uniform, the television camera crews, news reporters and paparazzi beat a hasty panic stricken retreat.
“Hello, I’m Cherry Blabber, you must Silly Slapper?” The prime minister’s wife, the most dangerous women in Britain, offered her left hand to Dilly. One-nil to you bitch, thought Dilly, I’ll get ya for that you cow.
“Why hello, so pleased to meet you Chillie, its Dilly actually.” Taking the proffered hand, Dilly bent on one knee and kissed the large diamond wedding ring, imperceptibly removed it with her teeth and swallowed the five carat perfect Kimberly Blue as she stood up again.

“Where’s Divhead? Cherry gargled the question through her forced boomerang wide grin. The shot with the Chillie had been well aimed. This meant war.
“Divvie? Darling, where are you?” Cherry Blabber crooned in an off key Beatles based harmony. “I don’t think Gobby Browneye will be pleased your dog is shitting on his door step, Divhead! He might blame it on us. Get in here now before he finds out,” she added, as she watched in horrified amazement as Bonkits new guide dog bared its teeth, bulged its eyes, curved its back with stiffened tail in a hook, shuffled on its taunt haunches and parked a huge coil in front of Number 11. The pile steamed slightly in the early spring’s evening air.
After the nut crushed Constable finally guided the bewildered Cabinet member through the door of Number 10, Dilly was being shown the paintings hanging on the corridors walls by Mrs Blabber.

“Do you recognise any of the paintings, my dear? I am not really sure if the reading material of The Sun or Daily Sport does a section on the arts and culture.”
Dilly was stunned, but she didn’t show it. This didn’t look good. There must have been at least 50 paintings in her immediate line of vision. How the hell was she going to find the right one?
“Yeah, that’s your husband screaming his head off on Westminster Bridge, after he found out there were no WMDs, by Edvard Munch.” Pointing to the next, Dilly went on, “that’s your husband as a drunken bearded tramp after hacking his ear off whilst shaving, by Vincent van Gogh.” Starting to really enjoy herself, as she watched Cherry’s body language resemble a tuning fork freshly whacked,
“and this, I recall, is you; after you fell in naked into a large vat of crushed blue grapes whilst visiting the ex Prime Minister Bellyscrotums villa in Italy, by Picasso, and this is…Fuck me stupid sweet Zombies of death!” Dilly couldn’t believe her eyes. This was too easy!

“I’ll just get Divhead into the dining room. Please feel free to follow.” More an order than a request as Cherry fetched the M.P. for Druggies and Dossers, who was confusingly chatting to the hat rack, whilst his new dog wrapped up its disturbed toiletry by cocking it’s leg and pissing into the umbrella stand made from a hollowed out African elephant foot.
Cherry gave the cross bred, Greatmaltpoo, (Great Dane/ Maltese miniature poodle,) a quick punt with the point of her free Italian shoes. That elephant foot was a present from Prince Flashy. He had shot the starved monster himself with a pellet gun on his girlfriend’s father’s Safari park in Zimbabwe. Flashy was cute, he had said he reckoned the beast died of lead poisoning in the end, after he fired 60 thousand pellets into the tethered, thirst deranged animal over a period of six drunken debauchery days celebrating his promotion as a Butlin’s Holiday camp new second lieutenant.
Dilly stared at the De Vinci masterpiece, The Last Supper. She giggled; it was certainly the last one she was going to be having here. The masterpiece, or rather, a brilliant copy was perfect in every detail except the faces. Two were done in the same original oils but it was Tinny Blabbers face instead of Jesus, and Cherry’s face replaced the disciple seated directly to his left.
“Sweet Mary,” Dilly whispered to herself, “this is fucking too much, there bonkers!” Looking closer, she noticed all the other disciples had small cut out replaceable photographs of the latest cabinets’ members faces stuck on with Blue-Tack. Judas carried a perfectly angled picture of the Chancellor, Gobby Browneye.
“The SPIN must be behind this one,” she muttered.

“What will my dear? Hallelujah, praise the lord, I’m Tinny, I am so…hallelujah..pleased to meet you, praise the lord, hallelujah!”
Slapper jumped back as the apparition approached her. Tinny Blabber was attired in a shimmering gold caftan, red Chinese made flip flops and a plastic crown of thorns.
“Oh, hi, nothing at all, so pleased to meet you, Divvie thinks so much of you. Even cries out your name in his sleep!” Dilly gave the weirdo who was supposed to be her democratically elected leader her best former laptop career dancer smile for the drunken Joes number.
“Come, let us nuke Iran, I mean let us go to the dining table.” Tinny bowed graciously, loosing his crown which Bonkit’s bored dog promptly attacked and savaged.
“Never mind, I have many more,” the sing songy voice in C minor was making the hairs on the back of Dilly’s neck contemplate suicide. “Come my child, let us offer thanks to the all mighty for gracing our table.” Taking Slapper’s hand he guided the shell shocked Dilly into the dining room.
For the second time in her life, Secret Agent Dilly Slapper, number 38-32-36, Head of Covert Operations and Clandestine Killings’s Paralytic Department, was seriously unsettled.


Wolf staggered slowly to his feet and weaving through the large crowd of teenage bingers his drink induced blurred eyes struggled to comprehend a graphical image through the dense cigarette smoke.
Finally reaching the bar, Wolf looked at the barmen and his perfect clone. Odd that he had only noticed that there were two Bladdymore Invasionosts after his seventh pint of Bummers Golden Urinestar ale.
“Hey Bladdymore, give us another pint, comprehendo?” The young Polish Olympic gold medallist in Kung Fu, highly trained under cover operative for SPINs protection unit run by the shadowy figure of Alabaster Crampballs, acknowledged Mildew’s request and spiked the fresh glass with a triple vodka before finally pulling the pint. His quick glance at the high definition television screen below the counter confirmed that the camera pointed exactly at Wolf Mildews corner place in the pub, was working perfectly.
“No you pay, it is on the, how you say…shed?”

“House, man, it’s on the bloody house, ahh bollocks, Nyet, Newt, Newton!” he shouted in the only Russian he knew. Taking the glass, Wolf tormented the aggressive tones of the packed pub’s clientele directed to him as he did the old, one forward, two back dance on the way to his reserved place in the corner.
“Spill ya pint agin on me ya fat old wanker, ill ficken glass ya,” was one of the better pleasantries Mildew’s completely inebriated brain absorbed in some relative cohesive order as he finally reached his chair in the corner. He again looked at the seven watches on his seven left arms and concluded he couldn’t make out what time it was. “I’ll keep drinking till she gets here, Dilly will be here soon,” Mildew spoke softly to his pint again; “she will be okay pint, won’t she? Please tell me she will be okay.” Wolf lifted his fully filled glass of Golden Urinestar laced with vodka and stuck the open end of it against his right ear, the fluid filling his ear hole in a rush of bubbles that sounded like an atomic bomb had gone off in his head, whilst some of it cascaded over his pink track suit.


The windowless dining room had been decorated by Colonel Git’Dafty’s personal Bedouin tent interior designers, a freebie for Libya not being bombed recently. The only lighting came from four massive solid gold Jewish candelabras in each corner. Instead of candles, the holders had electric bulbs attached, the fake flames flickered a dull orange light, turning the Prime Minister’s gold caftan into a glimmering sea of pure radiance. Suspended with transparent fishing wire, a large luminous jugglers hoop hovered eerily just above his head.
"Take, eat. This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me," Tinny Blabber’s voice now a Gregorian monk’s chant, before offering his seated companions a share of seven of Icelands fake cod fish fingers and seven St Mc Vietie’s Jaffa cakes.

A demijohn of donated red Italian wine lay opened in the middle of the table. Spreading his arms slightly, Tinny upturned his hands, and his outstretched arms signalled towards the galleon of cheap plonk laced with anti-freeze, “This is my blood, it will be shared among many for the forgiveness of sins."
“Bloody well right it will.” Dilly grabbed the demijohn and poured a quarter of its content down her throat in four seconds. Ironic, she thought, never would have believed her ability to deep throat would come handy here. One thing she knew, get pissed, get out of here as fast as possible, preferably alive and still sane!
As Dilly wiped her mouth with a monogrammed napkin she watched in hypnotic amazement as Tinny Blabber shoved a still frozen fish finger into his friends open mouth and pat him on the head. Cherry poured wine into the crystal glasses.

“I’m awfully sorry Prime Minister”, Dilly’s natural erotically deep toned voice had been enhanced by years of smoking, “I am allergic to fish and…er, oranges,” refusing the proffered plate with the sweating fish finger and half melted chocolate covered flavoured soggy biscuit.
“How odd, so am I”, Cherry exclaimed in a high-pitched falseto, and handed the rest for her husband to keep feeding to Bonkit. Tinny had taken the cabinets member’s beard in a bunched fist and was using it to make his friends jaw open and close like a ventriloquists dummy as the other hand fed finger after fish finger between his friends clicking dentures.

“I am so sorry to hear about your poor dog. Such a shame, I gather that Taliban had only been in your possession for a short time, before it had its life, so tragically…terminated” Cherry Blabber’s comment were heard only by Dilly, the men folk engaged in some perverse ritual where the Prime Minister stroked Bonkits throat whilst crooning, “swallow, Divhead, swallow, everything will be all right.”
Dilly didn’t miss the tone or subject content behind the maniacal grin facing her from the one side of the large triangular solid glass table. The perfect equilateral was balanced by a single intricately carved green jade pedestal matching the small stools used for seating. She felt distinctively warmer as the wines anti-freeze started to course through her veins. Reaching for the demijohn, Dilly took another massive slug whilst she thought rapidly a killer reply to really hack the arrogant cow off.

“Yes, so sad, I presume you must be also gutted. I heard your stinking useless pussy you threw out, shrivelled up and kicked it recently. You must be so proud the story of your dead pussy was splashed all over the papers.” Dilly was well pleased with her reply and she burped softly.
“Perhaps you could be so kind and help me finish preparing the second course, whilst the important men talk shop?” Cherry again used the ‘I give orders around here’ tone.
Ahh, so we gonna have out in the kitchen, Dilly clocked. “No problemo, Chillie doll”, came the chirpy reply. The plonk was working fast via Dilly’s empty stomach. If it came to a fight, Dilly reckoned she could easily kick the shit out off Cherry Blabber if she decided to play rough.


Mildew’s eyesight had improved immensely after being knocked almost senseless by the boyfriend of the outraged teenage female whose protruding gut below the skimpy FCUK T-shirt had also received a large portion of his spilled pint. With his right eye swollen, his optical nerves compensated by making him see everything once again in the singular. Wolf removed his spectacles from the large money belt he wore under his track suit top. He had taken them off earlier in a vain effort to look ‘cool’, and was now able to read the time. It was nearly 11.00pm and still no word from Dilly.

Bladdymore Ivasionost appeared at Wolf’s table with a tray supporting three freshly pulled pints of Golden Urinestar. He had spotted the ruckus and had quickly come over to placate the couple sitting next to Mildew, who were now debating whether they should, “give the fat twat the best bit of Happy Slapping, the internet has ever seen.”
“ On the shed”, as he placed the three glasses on the table after wiping the splashed residue from Wolf’s last drink away. “My Boss don’t want trouble, Ok?” He slipped away back into the crowd unnoticed.


The kitchen was massive and resembled a hospital morgue. Nothing but stainless steel units, lit with a faint green tinge by a Perspex suspended ceiling. No wonder the thing cost £120K of tax payers money.
The two powerful cats eyed each other up as they circled slowly around the large centrally placed hob, where a heavy pure copper saucepan warmed a brandy custard sauce.
“So, Slapper, what’s your game with Divvie? I checked your background, your nothing more than a glorified whore looking for a quick ticket to the big time. Exactly what DID you do before you became a lap dancer at the Nags Give Head pub?” Cherry Blabber’s cold black eyes bored into Dilly’s face.
“Yeah, and exactly what was your job before you decided to play Mary Magdalene to pseudo Jesus here. What I did is my own business, so shove that in your wide gob. Push me more you bitch, I’ll scratch your eyes out.” Slapper flashed her perfectly silver metallic painted inch long nails with lightning speed across the front of Cherry Blabbers face.

Cherry Blabber could bomb a nation into anarchy and ruin. Her vaginal hold over the prime minister was legendry. But she had completely underestimated Slapper, who had sod all to lose, and she made then her biggest mistake of the evening. Taking up the twelve inch kitchen knife from a long work bench, uncannily shaped like an autopsy table, she had been using to slice up extinct threatened Giant Albatross livers for the next course, she placed the bloody point under a startled Dilly’s chin, and pricked the perfect unblemished skin.
“I want you: to tell Divhead tonight, that’s its all over between the two of you and make sure you stay well away from him. Your up to something you bitch but I can’t figure it out yet. Take this as a small warning, don’t fuck with me!”

Slapper’s hidden past kicked in instinctively. “Yeah, well in that case, might as well hang for a sheep as well as whacking a silly cow,” with that, Dilly snatched up the saucepan with lightening speed and poured the contents over the Prime Minister’s wife’s head. With a flick of her wrist she spun the pan’s handle 180 degrees and smashed the heavy bottom perfectly against Cherry’s left temple with the correct force to drop the wide eyed amazed women unconscious in a tangle of limbs and custard to the floor. The whole incident couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes. Dilly spotted a plate with more fish fingers and Jaffa cakes and made her way back to the dining room. Tinny was just feeding the last Jaffa into Bonkit’s mouth as Dilly entered and placed the plate onto the table. Throwing her coyest smile, “second course will be in fifteen minutes gentleman. I’m just going out the back for a quick smoke, if that’s alright?”
Bonkit’s glazed eyes registered nothing and Tinny waved a gracious hand in her direction as acknowledgement. Dilly took up her handbag from where she had left it next to her stool and placed the strap over her left shoulder.

Once again in the corridor she ran her hands swiftly around the frame of The Last Supper. The painting was the only one flush mounted on the wall, and in seconds Dilly’s finger found the hidden hinges. “So, I was right,” Dilly whispered and found the holding catch at the opposite end. Releasing it, she let the picture swing out exposing the back. There crudely pinned to the paintings reverse was a plastic Co-Op carry bag stuffed with used paper napkins. Pulling it off from its place, she popped it into her bag and closed the painting again. Moving rapidly, she entered the kitchen and cast a quick eye at the upper corners of the dead still place, the only sound besides Dilly’s quickened breath, was a bubbling snoring sound as Mrs Blabber blew bubbles through the hardening custard dribbling slowly down her face. The CCTV camera was easy to spot. Even better, was the typical botch job of British interior design. The camera had been installed after the kitchen, so the idle workers had simply taped the cable along the wall straight into a large cabinet. Picking up the half full bottle of Remy Martin - Louis XIII Grande Champagne cognac from where it had stood near the hob, she drank the last £400 worth in two huge gulps as she opened the kitchen unit’s door to expose an array of sophisticated digital recording equipment.


Mildew watched in fascination as the obese teenager slid slowly off her fat buttocks and sat legged splayed, comatose head sitting comfortably against her massive mounds of breasts on the beer sodden carpet. Taking a sip from what tasted like a very extremely weak pint compared to the last few, Wolf leaned over to her boyfriend who sat laughing at the spectacle,
“I reckon that barman spiked ya chick’s drink, mate.”
The heavily muscled skinhead stopped laughing. “Ya think that bastard did me bird or what then? I’ll ficken kill him!”


Dilly was watching the scene unfold too, but on one of a multitude of 6” HDTV screens seven miles away in the kitchen of 10 Conning Street. She quickly pressed eject on the writable DVD player, over riding the record mode. Slipping it between the napkins in her bag, Dilly reached up to the power switch and shut the system completely down. The fine Cognac fought the anti-freeze in her body and along with the adrenalin rush, Dilly was thinking very clear. She took her mobile phone out, flicked the top, and whilst her left hand occupied itself getting a cigarette from its carton out in her bag and into her mouth, the right pushed the button for Wolf Mildews number.


The British National Party’s version of the Incredible Hulk, staggered up and pulling his hoodie sweatshirt sleeves up, exposing tattoos of the English flag and naked women, he turned to Mildew,
“I’m just ending that bastards asylum application, watch me pint mate, I’ll be back.”
Wolf’s crutch vibrated. Groping deeply in his semi sodden tracksuit bottoms, he retrieved the buzzing mobile phone, pushed the receive button as the massive yob ploughed his way through the masses in direction of the bar, and placed it against the ear not crackling, snapping and popping.


“Listen, you sober? I got a problem. I got the stuff, but I had to whack that bitch Blabber cow with a sauce pan. Dropped her like stone…hah hah. Tinny is busy chatting with Bonkit over the merits of dumping nuclear waste on the Falkland Islands and fuck the peasants, at least we get penguins that glow in the dark for tourists to watch. I got maybe a ten to fifteen minute window to get out before she wakes up and screams her head off. You there shit head…Hello?”


Wolf thought quickly. Hulk had gathered a few of his mates and was making progress towards the bar.
“Listen, I’ll get the T.V. and newsboys from every paper in 10mins outside. I will tell them you are breaking up with Bonkit, there is a drama and maybe someone hurt. I’ll get an ambulance as well. When you hear the sirens turn up, hit the front door.”


Dilly grinned, “You are a clever wanker Wolfie, listen, get the fuck out of there, you’re being watched. I’ll meet you outside McDonalds on Beggers Street in 20 minutes in the Jag.” She hung up, lit the Dunhill and inhaled deeply. Even James Bond would be impressed with this, she thought. If the sirens don’t kick in outside by the time she smoked a second cigarette, the one on the floor, muttering quite obscenities, most definitely would start sounding off. Something she rather not fancy.


“Fokglasnost!” Bladdymore Invasionost swore at the dead screen below the counter. Looking up, he could just make out the shape of Mildew heading towards the door. What was even more apparent was that several members of the public were rapidly making their way towards him. He knew they weren’t coming for a pleasant chat. He had also witnessed how his mistake had left the girl unconscious. He backed against the bar, prepared to make a stand and started swinging with his hand.

It had taken Wolf exactly ten seconds to send the prepared text message to the top twenty three gossip columnists, all the main television stations and three nearby hospitals. He had prepared for such an event. Always have an escape route for your operatives. Wolf’s route to the door was relatively clear as the mob surged towards the bar in anticipation of watching some blood sports. He stopped for a moment at the juke box music selection mounted on the wall and flicking through it, found what he was looking for and entered the songs number after feeding thirty pence into its money slot.
As six of the largest men he had ever seen launched themselves at the Polish barman, the sounds of Karl Douglas filled the room,

’Everybody was kung-fu fighting

Those cats were fast as lightning

In fact it was a little bit frightening

But they fought with expert timing.’

Wolf walked out the door after watching for a moment Bladdymore, now standing on the bar’s top, demonstrating gracious pirouettes, expertly kick the attacking yobs in the head one by one, and headed for Beggers Street through the chilling night as fast as he could.


Dilly, stubbed her second fag out on the nearest surface and smiled those perfect lips in a Mona Lisa grin. Perfect timing. As the sounds of the approaching sirens grew louder she walked past the rapidly awaking Cherry, who was twitching spasmodically as her nerve centres by-passed the large bump protruding from her left temple, and swinging a long arm dramatically across her eyes, stormed into the dining room.
“Oh Divvie”, she cried in a piercing voice, the octaves high enough to shatter the crystal glasses, “it’s finished. I know now, you love your job more than you could ever love me!”

Divhead, deep in a hypnotic state could only keep repeating, “Bomb the bastards”. Tinny looked at her confusingly, then crunched his face tight. Something wasn’t Kosher, and released Bonkit’s ears, which he had been using to make his cabinet members head bob up and down in positive acknowledgement to every thing he said, and stood up.
Dilly grabbed the last of the wine in the demijohn, and swallowed deeply. “See ya later tossers, not!…” Dropping the empty container, her long legs covered the distance to the front door in seconds, and as the enraged screech of a highly pissed off Cherry Blabber erupted from the kitchen, she opened the front door to 10 Conning Street, and walked out to the awaiting publicity.

1 comment:

Gentleman-hobbs said...

Like it mate