THE GREATEST RHODESIAN WANKERS

As the first draft of my monumental book finally comes to a conclusion, I thought another chapter to whet your appetites might be in order. This story is unedited and completely true.

Last of the Rhodesians: Chapter:16


THE GREATEST RHODESIAN WANKERS

Or

The massacre of Allan Wilson and the Shanghani Patrol revisited

Gwelo 1978

Some people are natural born wankers. Some achieve this through hard work. That is not easy.

But, even the ‘coolest’ dudes, the Rhodie machos, would occasionally let their guard down and woe befall those that achieved this title, even for a short time.

It is rare however, and here I quote the great Winston Churchill,

“Never in the history of stupidity, was so little done, by so few, to humiliate so many”

because what transpire in the following story that after this fiasco the entire British South Africa Police force were the laughing stock of Gwelo.

The lads who occupied the singles mess in Gwelo were generally a great lot. All so different and each with their own unique personality. They were like me, full of bullshit.

One lunch time we had quite a full house in the dining room. Not only the Urban and Rural regular P.O.’s but my room mate Keith Taylor turned up for a change. He was a National Service Patrol Officer, but being a very witty and smart individual he was accepted by the regulars. I had been to school with him at Mount Pleasant but as he was ‘A’ stream clever ‘oke’ and a ‘Rugger bugger’, I had as a geek been excluded from his ‘Fellowship of the Ring Piece’s’... Now we shared a room and amazingly we were like two dogs. After sniffing the qualifications, we were quite happy to wag tails. I rarely saw him as he had a really shite job. The poor bugger had been allocated to be Mad ‘Dog’ Morris’s sidekick, he being the nutcase who ran the local Police Anti Terrorist Units training ‘college’.

So Keith wanders in just as we all started eating. Whilst greeting all and sundry, he kept picking at the skin on his right hand palm.

‘What’s up with your hand?’ one of the local wits called Terry shouted out over the babble.

Keith holds up a hand pitted with large holes from dried and burst blisters received from digging bunkers at Mad ‘Dog’ Morris’s COIN (counter insurgency) camp.

Awed whistles all around,

‘How the hell you get all that?’ asks Terry

‘Wanking too much’ laughs Keith along with the rest of the room.

Unfortunately in that brief millisecond of thoughtlessness, Terry, having been the interrogator and had eyes still on him, lifted his own right hand instinctively to almost table height and glanced down at his open palm.

Caught red handed, the roars of ridicule from the baying pack could be heard for miles. Now that Terry had declared his qualifications to everyone’s delight, conversation turned to the theme of the greatest debacle ever planned in the history of sport.

Mainly, these cowboys wanted to organise a Rugby 15 and take on the local area schools first teams. There were enough ex Rugger buggers to make up a full squad and plans were well underway.

The first school the leader of this loony lot contacted had spoken to the headmaster. He had flatly refused to let them play against the first team. Our lads had at least 18 months to 2 years average age advantage and he didn’t need his top team mauled by a bunch of desperados. However, he had reluctantly agreed to let our lot of brave lions maul his 2nd team.

Moans and groans and shouts of cowards went around but the game was on for the weekend. I wasn’t much of a rugby fan but agreed to come along to try out the second hand camera I had purchased off some Christian freak that had a shop on Gwelo high street.

The magnificent 15 had had a short training session in the pub and it was really just a matter of sorting out the small details, such as who brought the crate of beers for half time. Down at the quartermasters store they had managed to get some blue police rugby shirts from bygone days of fame. Socks and shorts at each player’s discretion. Rugby boots an optional extra.

On that fateful day, I had by now managed to load a film into the Russian Camera I had bought off the American loony in the bible bashing shop. The first attempt had caused a disastrous fortune when I was informed when picking the pictures up that, sorry it appears the film has not been exposed. You idiots developed an empty film?

My Zenith commie cam had come with some screw on telephoto lenses. Very impressive! What wasn’t impressive was the very primitive light meter along with the fact the exposure settings had rubbed off. As a result, in the end I shot one film and sold the camera to some poor sap for a loss, as usual, prior to leaving the police.

Now as the official photographer/reporter for the BSAP magnificent 15, it was intended that I write and send pictures to the police rag mag with suitable tales of glory and an educational hammering coming to Gwelo, type headlines.

Before I could select a suitable lens for the dramatic opening, the whistle blew and the sneaky young bastards had scored a try before our fly-half had put his fag out!

The few bribed supporters we had dutifully sighed and clasped their hands together. They were to keep them that way for an agonising long time!

If you have a dog or know some one well that has one, try to think of a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback, soaking wet and stinking before the fire. It starts to bite itself all over with that lip curl over the teeth that reminds you of the film Aliens. As it snuffles frantically up and down its steaming fur, you, with your 15th Castle larger of the day in your hand, and stupidly watching the dogs contortions with growing amazement for 40 minutes, think;

If he such a clever dog, as every idiot says to him, How come he can’t catch the fleas?

THAT, is exactly what I thought of the BSAP 15.

It was awful to watch. Like hordes of Matabele warriors, the school kids totally overwhelmed our brave, gallant, wheezing, cramp riddled wankers. No chance of one to one mortal combat as the swift and expertly trained squid worked together like marauding Impis to hamper the efforts of the booze cruise professionals.

Few of our team were interested for a beer at half time. By now the blue police rugby shirts stunk like a stale brewery and fags were passed around with shaking hands. Puffs were interspersed with doubled up dry retching as the accumulated lactic acid in the tortured muscles wracked their bodies in spasms of pain. I have seen deep sea divers suffering from the bends look happier!

The second half got silly. These kids took the piss now and danced around the gallant zombie look-alikes of the fighting police 15 as try after try went over. I felt ill. What a waste of money on the crate of beer.
For the first time since joining I understood what the British South Africa Police insignia of a lion with an assegai shoved deep into it’s pulsating heart stood for.

None of our ‘Men of Men’ had garters and as the socks slid down, the playing field became littered with their combs. I lifted my eyes up into the clear blue skies. Not to look for any divine assistance but to see if the vultures were gathering. In fact they had landed long ago and taken up residence in the unused opponents half and patiently waited for the final whistle, when they would pick the corpses down to their stupid bones.

The score board was a primitive affair with just HOME and VISITORS written in large white letters above two hooks for the numbered cards. The entrepreneurial youngster in charge, noticing that for the first time in the history of the school the score could go to triple digits, had cleverly removed one of the hooks from the unused VISTORS and placed it in preparation under the HOME part.

At last the final whistle went and the lightly sweating youngsters took the trembling claws of our fallen warriors and thanked them for a spirited fight. It could have been worse and 56 to nil was a fair result.

The debriefing lasted all week with the team selfishly blaming each other. Now there were still two schools to go and this time the headmasters were phoning us and offering the first team! Some of our squad were cowards and immediately applied for patrol duty in the terrorist riddled death trap of the Honde valley, rather than go through this again.

With more balls than brains the revamped squad took on the next lot. This time the spectators had increased as parents came to see their sons kick some coppers ass and get away with it. I flatly refused to take any more pictures than the one I had wasted at the previous game.

Although still nursing severe stiffness, they went forth with heads high and hope in their hearts. The hammering this time was of such intensity that any reasonable referee would have stopped the game out of human compassion. This time the score went over the 60,s. A grateful headmaster thanked our butchered upholders of the peace for the fine entertainment. His only regret was that he should have charged an entry fee.

The final match, I didn’t witness as even I couldn’t bear the pain. I believe it went into the 70 something’s. I resorted to walking to the Charge Office for my shift in a large coat covering my uniform.

I think it was at that point I realised we would lose the war and it was time to leave.

In the only photo I have, Terry is the one with the ball and the ‘nut crusher tight’ blue denim shorts. He is looking desperately around for somewhere to hide. The one with his back to the camera, who appears to be throwing up in exhaustion, is Keith. Notice the Mount Pleasant school socks. There is a huge pile of bodies on the left.

An idiot’s dietary guide to becoming an obese imbecile.

I have been watching with growing interest all the noise being made about diet, binge drinking, smoking and drugs being bad for you. There must be a large part of the population doing it and having a ball. So what is all the fuss about? It is all so one sided as well. There is plenty of information about for obscure people that want to live healthy lives (like me) but nothing to guide those that want to really live! So I have produced my own information sheet full of facts as how YOU to can have fun.

An idiot’s dietary guide to becoming an obese imbecile.

Fluid Intake.

Do drink copious amounts of alcohol and whenever possible between ‘sleeping it off’. A large beaker of spirits such as cheap vodka and gin make great chasers after every fourth pint of beer. This is a cheaper and more effective alternative to the fancy coloured drinks sold in test tubes. Alcohol decreases the brain functions to the point you dribble out your mouth, urinate in your trousers, fall down constantly, acquire amazing blurred vision and you tend to be incapable of speech, never mind sex. In this condition you will stand out in a crowd and feel like a million dollars.

Start your children off on drinking booze at an early age. Three serving spoons of Baileys Irish Cream liqueur in an infants bottle will keep the little dear from screaming its head off whilst you ‘sleep it off’. When they get older you can possibly have sex with some of your children’s friend’s brothers and sisters. However there are legal restrictions but a general guide is; if it is drunk and has an ASBO; shag it.

Young adolescents should start becoming expert binge drinkers by the age of 16. This way they will mix better with the other loud mouth yobs throwing up on the street on Saturday night and it will give them courage to steal cars, rob houses and the old British favourite – pugilism.

Mixing fizzy drinks with spirits is allowed. Recommended are caffeine rich drinks to get the heart really racing around to push the booze through your swollen liver. You will also notice that your kidneys will work better by no longer allowing yellow smelly stuff out but only clear fluids that froth like the head of a good pint of Guinness.

Please remember water is bad for you, fish do filthy things in it (sex and going to the toilet) and the water treatment plants smell of faeces and they put chemicals in.

Cow milk is for baby cows. Human mother’s milk is fine as long you are over 14, male and with one of your mate’s mothers.

Fruit juices for taste, such as in cocktails from cheap all inclusive hotels, may be drunk as the juice is totally synthesised from chemicals and helps to increase the urge to drink more of them.

Highly inflammable liquids such as petrol, paint stripper and white spirits, are cheap, fast alternatives than normal alcohol. They make the brain feel lighter and clear the naval passages. It is advisable to get advice with regards to lighting a cigarette if you happen to be one of the 90% of smokers.

Food Intake.

Do eat as many fast food hamburgers and chips fried in very old oil and put in sweaty soft buns. They are high in nutrients needed to make your body blow up like a balloon and thus soften the falls onto the main road as you stagger home from the pub. It also saves you having to climb stairs and you can just lie on the living room sofa ‘sleeping it off’. It is handy to have a dog to eat up any mess you hurl up on the carpet. The increase of flatulence will impress your friends with its aroma and pleasant musical tunes reminiscent to the opening theme from Star Wars.

Do absorb as many sugars as possible, such as Ice-cream, chocolate, sticky cakes and toffees. This helps to combat the small amounts of fluoride found in some beers and helps create a personal artistic smile of rotting stumps smelling like a sewer. A further touch is the appearance of random large yellow putrid spots on the face and body. These are of high entertainment value as they burst all over the bathroom mirror when you squeeze them.

Eat as much meat as you like, preferably half raw accompanied by chips, deep-fried onion rings and 3 fried eggs served with brandy or whisky sauces. The remnants taste delicious mopped up with slices of lard covered thick white bread made from processed flour.

Stay away from any foods with odd colours; such as green, dark yellow, orange, purple, (unless its old beef, in which case that’s fine) as these tend to be foods that animals such as rabbits and monkeys eat. Usually off yellow (as in chips) or red (as in bloody meat) is all the colour you need to put in your pale spotty face. Fatty beef Vindaloo curries are exceptionally good in assisting you sweat out unwanted salts and improves bowel movement.

Drug Intake.

Smoking 40 a day increases the likely hood of a sexy voice as heard in Big Brother contestants. (That’s the program you have on the television as you lie on the couch ‘sleeping it off’.
All other forms of illegal drugs are fine so long as the benefits cheque covers them. A cheap high is to get some anti-depressants from the doctor. Taken in quantity with alcohol it enables you to stare at Big Brother for hours without blinking and not have care in the world.
Growing your own dope is an excellent way to stay in a paranoid schizophrenic mode almost 24/7. Details are freely available on the web and the equipment is readily stolen from high street stores.

Benefits of this diet.

1. You are unemployable, you but don’t give a shite. No boss man to tell you what to do. You have complete control over your destiny and feel splendid about your life.
2. You have lots of friends who agree with you, especially the ones dossing in your decaying decrepit council house.
3. You die early, thus spoiling your children’s chances of stealing any more benefit cheques and they will have to apply for their own.
4. You receive free morphine from the NHS whilst dying in a hospital bed especially strengthened at enormous cost for your weight.
5. Never need to see a dentist or a doctor as you always feel fine.
6. You can sleep in till 11 when the pubs open.
7. You have many children and grand children that all love you and match your life style.


Courses are freely available in most corner pubs where fellow intuitionalists will give you handy hints on what else is available to claim for.

For more information please go to our web site:

www.fatandstupidanddrugged.co.uk

Skollie Interiors

People often ask me what I did for a living. I robbed banks. Actually that’s not quite true, they use to rob me, still do come to think of it. Come the revolution all banks should be blown up along with every McDonalds. I would never use the word ‘restaurant’ in the same sentence with McDonalds as it is a contradiction of words. It’s like saying ‘perfumed poo’!

Well, for over two decades I worked on interiors in Germany, of which about 70% were commercial sites with rather a large staff at one time of Irish and English sub-contractors. They were nearly all thieves and liars who ran away shortly after the socialists came into power and had to be replaced with Poles who all ran away when the bottom fell out of the construction industry completely. I gather they are all in England now standing on street corners claiming they are highly skilled and will work for £4.50 an hour.

I might land up taking some of them on eventually as after 18 months I am starting to feel I wouldn’t mind putting my creative skills back to work making nice pads for nice people. With that in mind I have started a new Blog. Here I will put up pictures of some of my work along with my usual witty style of descriptions. So go and check it out at –

www.skollieinteriors.blogspot.com

I have put a link on the right hand side as well. I only started it yesterday so please be patient, there will be loads of stuff going up along with loads of handy hints. The picture you see at the top is of me in Louis Vuitton in Sloane street London. That’s where all the people with more money than sense spend fortunes buying bags and shoes for prices that are quite frankly out of this world. I spent a couple of months participating in the £3 million pound refurbishment and it was one of the most horrific experiences of wanton waste of money I have ever experienced. I started to write about that awful time but gave up after a while as the whole thing still traumatises me! I will get around to it eventually but it will not be nice.

Catch ya later…

RHODESIAN MEMORIES 1

An odd incident occurred whilst I was waiting at Euston station the other day for my train to take me back to where I still presently live, which happens to be a very pretty part of the British Isles. Don’t laugh, there are such places and I’m not referring to some Polish 18 year olds naked bosom in a brothel in Manchester, but actually a very picturesque place in North Wales, which reminds me of the Chimanimani mountains of formally Rhodesia - albeit by the sea and full of sheep, the edible kind live on the slopes and the two legged type walk around the streets bleating unadulterated crap and vote for labour if it means they can retain their £80 a week certified alcoholics allowance.

There I was sitting outside in the muted sunshine on some wooden bench reading a Jeremy Clarkson book (he of infamous slagging off style, which is right up my street) and occasionally lifting a leg or two to allow a Black gentlemen to sweep mounds of accumulated refuse from the ground due to the fact that he needs a job and Euston has no rubbish bins. (Euston, we have a problem!) I gather that this is a left over policy from the days when mad Irishman liked to place bombs in them. When they got bored with that and gave up, the British government never got around to installing any and don’t have to bother anymore because another bunch of nutters have replaced the bad ‘Paddys’ with mad ‘Jihaddis’. These are all labelled in the press as ‘terrorists’ which is a bit odd as it appears rather a larger population of this planet seem to think otherwise. Tough titty if you on the wrong side of the fence at the wrong time and the wrong people sitting on the juice. (I.e. oil.)

Of course any one coming from Rhodesia knows what a terrorist is. Everyone else in the planet at that time called them freedom fighters! They went on to take over with a little help from some erstwhile ‘friends’; called the place Zimbabwe and turned the whole place into the first imploding star of the Milky Way faster than the big bang.

Whilst the date I decided to travel was the 4th September, missing ‘freedom fighters’ fifth anniversary of the release of the first virtual remake of the ‘70s film Towering Inferno, it didn’t stop me from be terrorised whilst I sat there in my Rhodesia T-shirt with a flame lily on it. I only wore it because it was the only clean shirt I had left and it is new because a nice man called Bill sent it to me for free.

I had been interrupted from my musings of perhaps my imminent fame in the literal world if A) I actually got around to finishing the book I am writing, and B) this style of Clarkson is very cool, if not albeit OTT now and then, but definitely something to take notice of since the guy has had more number ones in the best seller lists than Osama Bin Laden, (whose last novel, How to create breast implants made of chemical explosives to sneak on airplanes, never really took off, but caused havoc with my kids flights to come and see me) by some pesky unshaved yob.

I had been following his antics for several minutes out the corner of my eye and had from the corner of the other one cast about for some form of weapon of mass pest destruction, but the sweeper hadn’t left even a burning fag end to poke into his eye by the time he stupidly arrived at my table in an OXFAM shirt and a large clipboard to proudly ask me in a prepared speech from a brain washed better than his T-shirt if I would like to sign their petition to make poverty history. Had I had a copy of the massive, heavy brand new Rhodesian Memories 1 book I would have made this povo history by beating what remains of his left wing scrambled eggs of a brain out his rather useless brown eye which was happily pooping out Harold Macmillan’s winds of change set to African despots favourite rock anthem, ‘Oh Bob Geldorf, won’t you buy me another newer model Mercedes Benz.’

Before I had time to answer with my carefully prepared speech, the message boy added that “it is to protest that nothing has really happened to ease poverty since the G8 to G give us a break from the tripe summits” which had promised a load of spin guaranteeing that coffee from Kenya cost more at your local supermarket if it has a fair trade label than the supermarkets own brand, which is most probably from the same beans anyway.

I was going to give him a short history lesson as to why I would rather roll his petition up and smoke it along with a little white (excuse the pun) lie that I was an ex Zimbabwean farmer who had until recently been capable of feeding rather a lot of people, (half a starving continent actually) when his software danger program registered the word Zimbabwe and his eyes could see that I was of Caucasian race leading him promptly to apologise profusely and scuttle away! Damn!

Oh well. So what’s this all to do with the book I am attempting to flog here? Not a lot I suppose, except I can proudly puff out my scrawny chest and say, "Two of the stories are mine!" That alone is a reason to buy it in my honest opinion.

Rhodesia doesn’t exist anymore except in cyber space where it is actually more of a common nationality now than ever before. These are stories written by all kinds of folk, most would quite correctly rather have nothing to do with the likes of me. I don’t blame em! Some will make you laugh, some will make you cry, some might make you hurl, but all will bring a memory back for those that lived or visited this once proud land and its weird mixture of people of all race and creeds. For those that knew nothing of the place it will be an eye opener and more anecdotes must be told and written down, for these people are all ‘The Last of the Rhodesians’

The book is available at WWW.lekkerwear.com for a paltry $49.95 (not Zim dollars)
All details, including size and contents at this url

http://www.lekkerwear.com/information.php?info_id=29

Oh, just for the record…nice to see that the ruling elite of Zimbabwe have just taken over the Red Cross there and quickly confiscated all the new luxury cars that several misguided firms donated!

Till very soon…

Lore out.

p.s. No, I get no royalties…just the fame and hopefully a copy of the book and another free T-shirt…lol

p.p.s. The T shirt I had made up in 1979 after I had left the police. The front says Genuine Rhodesian, and the back Endangered Species.

Alive and Kicking.

Hi all.

Sorry for having nothing up for a while...it's a long story...

Still, I should have some juicy laughs sometime next week once I am back in sheep shagging land again. Including...

My name in lights at last. (Okay...albeit rather dully lit)
I met my Boss again after 29 years.
I get thrown out my pad soon!
I get my teeth fixed.
Sensation: the return of the top interior builder at your fingertips!

plus...

the new mathmatics quizz : If a childs Chinese made plastic spade for the beach purchased at a tacky tourist resort in the South East (frequented by people escaping the new obesity police) costs 45 pence, how much of this goes to rebuild bombed Lebonon's infrastructure?

If the gentleman named Martin (or anyone else) wishes me to get in touch, I cannot reply to anon comments.
Please use my Email address: lore-data@hotmail.com

Catch ya all soon,

Ciao...Lore

Chicken Little.

Today I finally made the decision. I have gone off salt n’ vinegar crisps. Walker had an offer of two bags of six for the price of one at the Co-Op today. Best of all, they were six packs of just salted and cheese and onion flavour, my favourites. I never buy those designer crisps. I want to eat a potato, not a logo on fancy packaging. Pringles taste disgusting and look like genetically cloned slices. Either that or it’s got to be the longest banana shaped potato in the world they been cooking for years.

I always wondered about the vinegar flavour. In Rhodesia we only had Willard’s crisps. Now they haven’t even got them in Zimbabwe, but I remember if on rare occasions I got a packet and they were only plain salt, I would shake some vinegar into the bag. That made my crisps all soggy and not even the dog would eat them. I’ve seen dried grated cheese and dried onion flakes, so my mind has no problem of the manufactures having their workers liberally brushing minute particles of them onto the freshly fried crisps as they go down the assembly line, but dried vinegar?
I imagine it would look like Columbian cocaine. The real stuff, that off-white, greyish hue. Now that would be a flavour – Salt and Coke, The Crispy High!


As the weather was nice today and I had a hot meal yesterday, I decided on sandwiches for lusp (that’s sort of a kombi lunch/supper thing between 12 and 7 depending on what I am doing and how hungry I am). Roast chicken to be precise, but I don’t buy that odd looking and even odder tasting chicken slices in a sealed packet. I hardly ever eat chicken in this country, they are so pumped up with water, they all drowned from the inside out before they got to the slaughter house. Co-Op does fresh roast chickens. I always go for the small ones. First, it’s a pound cheaper, second, I don’t need that much and thirdly, where the hell did they find such enormous chickens? Their mutants of the Dodo’s DNA! There so full of water, the salesgirl is making cups of tea from the steaming torrent pouring out pierced wounds as it is parboiled in the grilling box. Frightening stuff, I could almost feel the chickens pain! God knows what the tea tastes like; just as well she was Chinese! They drink all sorts of exotic teas, Cockroach and Pekinese tea is a best seller a man in a pub told me.

Then I sat in the sun in my next door neighbours back yard (them that wouldn’t lend me their barbecue last weekend) and pulled a leg apart and popped the juicy pieces onto my lightly salty buttered wholemeal bread slice. I hacked up a spring onion that had most definitely felt the affects of autumn in my fridge the past week, it wasn’t in the mood to spring into my sandwich, and covered the lot with a handful of plain salted crisps. Then I placed another buttered slice on top and pushed down hard with my palm. The noise reminds me of a cannibal cracking open the spinal column of a victim for the marrow with his filed teeth.

After that I cut the flattened wreck, now squirting the last remnants of melted butter down my leg after the first push blasted a stream onto my naked brown tanned belly (the chicken was still hot for me by the time I got home, so just had to have a bit of it) into triangles. My mom in Rhodesia always cut them in oblong halves. Only the hotels served sandwiches in triangles. They also put green stuff for rabbits in as well but I pulled them out and threw it onto any future rabbit’s path. I thought it was a law that we weren’t allowed to have triangular shaped sandwiches at home that stood up like Egyptian pyramids, instead of boring oblongs lying like flattened occupied coffins on a plate. Now I throw a wobbly if I don’t get my sandwiches triangular shaped. I don’t attempt to make mine stand though, unless it is with fright, as you will see.

I had forgotten to bring some kitchen paper towels with me outside, so I was well greased up by the time I finished. Looks like I will be eating chicken for a couple of more days. I don’t mind because tomorrow I am going to fry some onions up, pop in finger shredded chicken, some exotic spices like some green stuff you can’t get at the supermarkets, and sprinkle the lot onto an omelette. Fold it up, slide onto a plate without it accelerating and it promptly keep sliding off the kitchen top and onto the floor, with some instant chips from the deep fat fryer and bliss.

The rest I’ll have with cheese and onion crisps another day. Oh, I just remembered I forgot to wipe the melted butter/chicken fat off the next door neighbours porch table. I suppose I won’t get the grill next week either! Damn…

13.07.06
Dedicated to Mel.
Word count.863

Dob Dob Dob-Dab Dab Dab

Dob Dob Dob-Dab Dab Dab

This little ditty has been reworked so often, I’m sick of it! Still this version isn’t bad. It’s no masterpiece, but will have to do for the moment. It will change after it has been edited, but in the mean time…






Last of the Rhodesians:

Going Down in a Blaze of Glory.


Returning to the Boy Scouts association of Rhodesia, mainly the 8th Mount Pleasant Troop, after an absence of two years was a serious mistake. Father had made me leave when I was thirteen just as I was on the way to becoming the youngest recipient of the Advanced Scout award in the land and had already passed a few of the Chief Scouts award tests. (This had replaced the Queens Scout Award after good ‘ol Smithy threw the Queen out whilst creating his Rhodesian dream.)

I had just been promoted to assistant patrol leader when, under the pretence that my poor school results were the result of my obsession with scouting, I was forbidden to stay a member, thus delivering another damaging psychological blow and added to reasons of why I was rapidly despising my father.

Returning after a slight improvement in school results, (Due to the fact I had been dropped a stream at Allan Wilson and I would now be moved to Mount Pleasant co-ed as ‘punishment’ for wasting Fathers money at the Tech-High, had cheered me up no end!) was definitely a bad move. I had channelled my creative abilities into my passion for gymnastics at M.P. School and found the whole scouting thing a tad boring now. I would not stay long, but as you will see, whilst I hadn’t planned such an exit, therefore I would not ‘Be Prepared’; still did not deter me from leaving in a grandiose style. I was a true and worthy example of Lord Baden-Powell’s vision of the British Empires version of the Hitler Jugend.


***



The Annual General meeting of the (Whites only) 8th Mount Pleasant (Salisbury) Scout Troop. 1974.

It was under a perfect cloudless sky that Friday evening, the stars twinkling so bright, as the parents and visiting dignitaries parked their cars. We had the Cub Scouts there too! Splendidly attired in their freshly ironed (by the maid) uniforms, they guided the cars into the field above the Scout Hall on Morning Side drive, Mercedes to the front, old bangers at the back. Gosh; this was so exciting for us! Almost all the parents (except mine, Father was now dead and there was no way I would invite my step-mother) and the Chief Scout of Mashonaland province would attend. There would be marches and then the Rhodesian Flag would be unrolled. Prayers and then speeches and awards to top Scouts were to be presented. At the end, the Senior Scouts would serve ‘Cheese and Wine’ to all the adults. It was so cool, so simplistic in the joys of manly companionship, so; so
a load of shite!

My good ‘china’, James Deams, and I fucked off as soon as the parents started to arrive. I had set up my portable tape deck in the Quarter Master store behind the back of the hall, Mike Oldfield, ‘Tubular Bells’ blasting out to cover the din of the main hall echoing to the sounds of repetitions of the ‘Scouts Honour’ and boring speeches interspersed with squeaky voices of Cub Scouts rhythmically chanting their cult logo; ‘Dob Dob Dob and Dab Dab Dab, we too daft, to be bad !’

Sipping coke and casting a concernedly eye at the dodgy mains wiring to the cassette player, I had been telling James about my latest and greatest ‘puppies’ adventure.
Lounging across some folded green canvas tents, he prompted me on.

I told him about ‘vraaying’ Gill Grady off, behind Penny Clarke’s parent’s garage at a party two weekends past. I told him we got hitched after that night of passion. James was dead impressed. Asked what sporting activities had been involved, I informed him it had been like a chicken takeaway, I had some breast (rather a lot of it actually), some leg, but no box to put my bone in; besides I didn’t try it, it was the first night and I had been madly in puppy love, making me forty five minutes later than my step-moms imposed returning home time. I had also suffered terribly from lover’s nuts whose frenzied cure had made me half blind.


‘Yeah, but she dumped me after only three days and I heard she was snogging some other wanker at next Saturdays party. I suppose being banned from the next two weekends parties didn’t help.’ ( I had lied to protect my ego. I had actually received via one of her pals a ‘’Dear John’ note during break on Wednesday. That cured my eyesight, but left me deeply scarred emotionally - till I got off with the note giver at the next party!)

James agreed that my ban had been a bit harsh, but there were plenty more parties to come.

By this time I had noticed that the exposed cable ends of one of my twenty odd bits of well stretched extension cable were drawing dangerously close to each other. We suffered under British sponsored sanctions and had no insulation tape. Well; there was some local stuff available, but I wasn’t about to lash out money on unnecessary expenses. If the copper ends touched they would short circuit, maybe plunging the well packed scout hall into darkness, so mindful not to try and make myself unpopular, I grabbed the ones closest to touching and cleverly pulled them apart with my bare fingers.

‘Fuck me!’ I screamed, ‘that hurt,’ the 240 volts making my eyeballs almost jump out my head. Don’t think I try that stunt again. James laughed his head off.

Then we were both called inside to help serve the parents and dignitaries the Cheese snacks and home grown wine, being as we were the highly responsible Senior Scouts. The Cubs were sent outside to play and the other Boy Scouts would mingle around with their Mummies and Daddies and show them their patrol dens, some manky animal skins and dirty Plaster of Paris castings of a horse hoof.
I had always been curious about the effects of alcohol on the human brain and I had presumed that only weak-minded individuals got drunk. Standing behind the long table, I decided to test my theory on myself, since the booze was all free…

I served one for one!

One glass red wine for the adults, one glass red wine for me!
Yes Siree, I drank that stuff like there was no tomorrow.
Tasted like piss and vinegar! Who cared? The more I threw the shit down my throat, the better it tasted and the happier and cleverer I felt. So what’s the big deal, booze is cool if you can handle it? I could handle it. Nothing was happening, I was unique! I would grow up to be the man who never got drunk!

I was drinking as fast I could get the red battery acid out the demy-john bottles and poured gushingly into the small glasses, even though I now started to hear loud voices of whinging disgust from boringly dressed old hags, through the strange noises in my head. (A bit like that roaring sound you hear when you stick your ears in a large sea shell.)

‘A total disgrace, what kind of an example is this Boy Scout setting?’
‘Who is this disgraceful Youngman? This must whole heartedly be condemned!’ Etc etc,
‘Fuck em,’ I drunkenly thought, this was the dog’s bollocks, I could see everyone double now. This was definitely the life for me. I feared nothing, felt super human, beyond reproach…I was God, and my fifteen minutes of fame was here and now.

I drank till the glasses and plates of cheese sandwiches fell out my numb hands and I staggered, completely shit faced drunk, against some appreciative half pissed laughing adults, thoroughly enjoying this Boy Scouts self propelled booze cruise spiralling like a giant rag doll around the hall. Thank God, I had some allies among the growing, braying mob of disgusted protesters.

A couple of responsible Patrol Leaders managed to corner me as I crawled dizzyingly around looking for a place to have a slash, my bladder was bursting from the high speed processing of a couple of galleons of pure gut and brain rot. They inconsiderately threw me outside, just when I wanted to burst into the Boy Scout anthem using as many filthy words possible and left me to the tender mercy of the thoroughly bored Cubs.

THESE little BASTARDS, noticing that I was too incapacitated to defend myself, decided to use me as their latest adventure game and taking full advantage of my complete inability to comprehend what was happening to me, they dragged me (dozens of them, like swarming locusts) to the garden tap. Their twisted infantile minds made them hose me down and roll me with all my proficiency awards; hobbies, swimming, skipping, first aid, wanking, the rare diving badge, in the mud, and then they pushed me back, gyrating a serious wobbly, into the fully packed hall!

As I staggered, soaking wet (I might have pissed myself by now, not that I could notice), covered in sticky mud, playing ‘flipper’ and bouncing off the guests, there were more words of insults and some laughter that penetrated my now strangely loudly ringing ears. However, I was suffering serious problems with my eye sight but attempted to smile at all and sundry as I did a great impression of a drunken Charlie Chaplin walk back to the cheese and wine table. I needed a drink.

Sadly, before I could grab a bottle of the plonk by the neck, I was rudely escorted out again, beaten hard across the face, forced to walk around the hall and between rapidly leaving cars, in what appeared to be some strange ritual to sober me up. Unfortunately, because I was too pissed to ride my bicycle, I was driven home and the back stabbing swines woke my step-mom up. What a wonderful apparition I must have made, strung between two seriously annoyed Boy Scouts, my arms being held around their necks like we were true buddies, mumbling incoherently on buckling legs.

Even in the state I was in, I vaguely understood what she said and I will never forget her words of support, as I slouched, blind drunk, dripping water mixed with recycled red wine and dribbling uncontrollably from my mouth.

‘THANK GOD HIS FATHER ISN’T ALIVE TO SEE THIS!’

I silently thanked God too! The bastard would have flayed me! I was thrown violently on my bed, where I proceeded, still fully dressed, to be very, very sick, and nearly drowned in my own vomit, but I turned my body around till I lay in my own putrid stinking red cesspit, but still able to breathe! I WOULD LIVE…


The next day my step-mom made me clean it up, even from the walls, where somehow I had managed to spray carrots and red wine almost two feet higher than my bed on to two walls; without the maids help. (Cleaning up, not throwing up.)
I had a really bad bad headache.
The stench was appalling, I couldn’t think of anything that smelt quite as bad as I did.
My guts were killing me.
I felt like dying.
And,
to add insult to injury… I had to walk all the way from my house back to the Scout hall to pick up my bicycle, sick as a fucking dog, ALL 3 miles!
And,
I was told by the Scoutmaster, that I was an absolute disgrace
And,
I would not be allowed to take any more of my Chief Scout award tests, till I showed more responsibility or some bollocks like that!


And, I thought, Fuck this for a lark, I was now a real Rhodie man at last, so I resigned from Scouts to pursue a career of drinking and chasing women, this being my true destiny.

Brave new world of a million niches beats the blockbusters.

I came across this article today

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,5-2231917,00.html

and it confirmed something I have predicted since the start of the internet. Although the article (it’s an extract from a forthcoming book) only expands on the theme novel writing and publishing about two thirds of the way down, it is worth reading all of it to get the background.

What is very apparent is the continuing collapse of anything ‘mainstream’. I received an interesting Email this morning from a complete stranger commenting that my article ‘The Path’ was my finest piece of writing to date and to quote their words,
‘You may wish to consider, perhaps, the outrageous suggestion that your 'voice' could well turn out to be a tad quieter and more reflective than the joint-and-carling wielding-dj-to-the-cockle-warring-lager louts ;)’.
However, the lunatic story, ‘The Great Welsh Cockles War’, along with ‘The Path’ were both spotlighted on WriteLink, (an on-line writing community) the latter I thought was most definitely one of my weakest works! How odd. You can’t please everyone all the time. (It would be nice if that person contacted me again to chat about this a bit more.)

Should you adjust your writing to suit the audience or should the audience be simply allowed to pick and choose between various styles you write? What is for the writer more satisfying, a thousand people loving one fixed style, or 200 ‘fans’ spread between five completely contrasting approaches to literature. If you prefer the former, are you now not being dictated too? Are you writing to please yourself or to please others? Do you buy a painting for £100 because you like it or spend £20,000 because others like it?

One of the finest examples of this I take from the world of music: David Bowie, whose influence over nearly four decades of musicians is now legendary. One of his nick names is ‘The Chameleon’; an attribute to this mans incredible talent to change his styles. Sometimes, as far as I am concerned, with disastrous results. His work with ‘Tin Machine’ was for my ears, an abominable noise. ‘Let’s Dance’, his only solo number one in the UK, was along with the album, rather ‘mainstream pop’ when it came out in the ‘80s. He made plenty of new fans but unquestionably disappointed his ‘Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars’ original supporters base.
Undeterred he stuck to his own unique style of NOT having a fixed style. Someone else who equals that stature in my opinion is Madonna. You may not like her personally, but you cannot ignore her great ability to constantly recreate her-self.

I doubt that either Bowie or Madonna is particularly concerned if any of their works bombs. They do what they do because they wanted to and they will continue to experiment in all directions for a very long time to come. I consider that a sign of true creative genius.

Sanctions and Recycling.

What a fuss they make in the U.K. “Oh dear, all our landfills are almost full. Goodness me, all these ‘new’ regulations from Europe. What ever happened to the good old days when we just fucked the shit into the Irish Sea, at least it gave the Paddys some flotsam to eat during the potato famine.”

Where I live, in North Wales, besides some rather half hearted attempt by the hotels to toss all glass into a separate bin, everything else goes in the black wheelie. As this is a seaside resort catering to the brain dead of the midlands, there is a proliferation of ‘Made in China’ rubbish shops. The boxes the tons of this plastic crap come in are stuffed with unbounded glee into ever increasing sizes of bins, some now resembling small containers. No effort is made to compress the cardboard so more could fit in; who cares – what you think council tax is for?
Then after the fat kids have been supplied with their plastic buckets and spade sets, guns and fake Barbie dolls from their grossly obese parents (Mum and Dad competing who has the most gut hanging out over the jeans) it’s off to the beach. Then by six in the afternoon the adults are rolling drunk down the high-street followed by screaming brats demanding replacement ‘toys’ as the last lot disintegrated into multicoloured shreds. Still; the good old council will clean it all up!

I will tell you how to cure the people of this nonsense, hit where it hurts; their wallets. Pay; I say and pay out the nose. I tell you about two other lands I lived in and make your own conclusions.

Rhodesia was a rogue state and as a result the international community of goody two shoes with shit for brains slapped sanctions on the land; the idea being that 28 years down the road
they can do it again but in severe moderation in a vain attempt to get the butcher of Zimbabwe to go away. It didn’t work then and the paltry effort imposed now is just worth a few silly lines in left wing rag mags.

Now when I was a boy we had real sanctions; yes siree, they didn’t ban us from travelling like the modern ones, we got jack shit officially from the outside and that made us strong. It became a normal way of life to recycle. This was war and we all mucked in. My Scout troop needed a truck for us lads and all the equipment. So we collected newspapers. Door to door we collected and tied them in huge piles and when there was a large mountain of the stuff threatening to collapse in the hall, it would be picked up and the troop would get two and half cents a kilo. I remember an awful row when I did my axe test between a committee member and the Scout Master. I had chopped a tree down in the Scout Halls premises and this rampant break of conversation rules was severely criticised.
Every home had a tin foil bag. The foil caps on the milk bottles would be washed and collected. We would take the squeezed balls to school where they would receive money from the scrap metal merchants. Every house had compost heap at the bottom of the garden for food scraps. Glass was as precious as diamonds. Every bottle was returned from where it came from. There were no fancy drinking glasses. Ours looked like jam jars; that’s because that was exactly what they were, just had the screw bit smoothed out. The breweries were forced to stop making the popular ‘Dumpies’ a popular 330ml beer bottle shaped somewhat like a Second World War Mill’s hand grenade. Oddly enough, besides the wasteful use of glass, these things were so thin they easily broke and the shards were lethal with both barefoot humans and wildlife receiving horrific cuts to their feet. Even as late as the mid eighties I would purchase a Coke where the contents was the same price as the deposit on the bottle (5 cents) and I would get a kick out of reading worn print such as ‘Bottled by Coca-Cola of the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland, making that particular bottle forty odd years old!
There was not one tinned beverage. (Besides the best orange juice in the world, Mazoe Bezant.) My friends would sometimes bring a tinned Coke back from a South African holiday and we would look at this thing in wonder.

I remember plastic bags hanging on the washing line! Our family were not poor but plastic bags were a rare commodity. In supermarkets your purchases were put into large recycled brown paper bags. You would never see the country-side ruined by free holdalls flapping from trees.

By 1973 our school note books were made from an off cream/white paper that reacted to our fountain pens like blotting paper and much to our delight we were all allowed to use ball point pens. These were also made in Rhodesia.
Around about 1974 the government calculated they could save over a million dollars of desperately needed foreign currency (approximately 600,000pounds then) by simply repacking cigarettes in recycled paper cardboard boxes with plain labels rather than the fancy foil such as the Benson and Hedges packs. Tobacco was Rhodesia’s biggest forex earner and at the time produced the finest in the world and was the third biggest exporter. Clever men flew around the world making shady deals and whilst we never got a fair price, it gave us the currency to purchase things we could not make – petrol and ammunition. The major tobacco companies refused to go along with the scheme saying it would tarnish their brand image. We didn’t give a shit about image and almost overnight the international brands disappeared to be replaced by new local names such as Kingsgate, Madison and Everest. These brands still exist, albeit in short supply; the farm invasions have reduced tobacco production by 70%.

Brass bullet casings were collected on the rifle range to be melted down, car wrecks were non existent. Rhodesia led the world in mine proof vehicles; you will be amazed what you can do with an ancient VW Beatle chassis!

Plastic toys were almost non-existent; any steel wire found would be turned into the most amazing toy cars by the African population in a perfect 1:20 scale with real moving parts. The steering wheel would protrude out the ‘roof’ and be used by the owner as he steered the prized possession around. Beaten flat old nails or other bits of scrap iron would be used to make Mbira instruments (see pic) and rubber tyres were converted into sandals, old inner-tubes made everything from catapults to just about the best way to strap things down onto a bicycle or car rack.

Rhodesian made vinyl LP records with recycled paper covers; all rare collectables now and the largest denomination note of ten dollars would be the cost of a night out with the girlfriend in a top class restraint, (hah hah, stupid spell checker, I meant restaurant ) not a wheelbarrow full of 50.000 Zimbabwe dollars needed now.

We became the recycle entrepreneurs of the world, a skill recognised by the dozens of lands that welcomed the ethnically cleansed White Rhodesians. Show me a rubbish tip - I’ll show you a fitted kitchen. We had no rubbish - we HAD the cleanest and most self sufficient land in Africa!

Bavaria, the wealthiest state of West Germany became my home for two decades. Even with zero understanding of the culture or language, I fitted in perfectly, as there was something about this spotlessly clean land and disciplined population that sub-consciously appealed to me. Recycling was relatively easy to install into their mind set. I became so use to separating the rubbish; I cannot even recall when it became law. Bringing things to the depot was always a treasure hunt and amongst some of the gems I picked up was a pair of large stunning Marantz speakers, there casings of wood putting the modern counterparts to shame. A quick assessment to the reason of their disposal concluded that the rubber around the main bass speaker had perished. For the cost of £3 for a plaster’s replacement sponge pad, cut into strips and a tube of silicon had them singing sweet as pie again.
When the loony socialists of Gerhard Schroeder took over nine years ago, the coalition government automatically gave their Green party members the environment portfolio. Some of the policies were down right bizarre, but some produced interesting results. A carrot and stick approach to household rubbish had anyone with a small garden install a container to create their own compost and even though we were a family of four, the smallest wheelie bin on the market would be only half full when it was emptied every fortnight. You needed bigger bins: you paid for it big time. Laws were passed to make car manufacturers take back their old models and minimum limits of recycled materials had to be part of a new vehicle’s construction. Roof drain pipes had adapters installed to pass rain water into large barrels, the water used for the garden, saving on both water and the stealth ‘water disposal’ tax.

A forced deposit on tinned beverages created a twelve month chaos which resulted in almost the complete obliteration of all forms of canned drinks. What riled the German public was that unlike their British counterparts; outside of a public gathering such as the ‘Love Parade’ or a pop concert, they didn’t have a tendency to throw the empty tins around the streets or country side. The beverage manufacturers instead cleverly created a recyclable plastic bottle with deposit. The beer bottle was pure brilliance, having a screw top and double walls that kept the contents cool and fresh.

More must be done to teach the British public the benefits of recycling; the celebrity obsessed youth should be guided by their idols (after they been trained and paid) and the charge of disposing rubbish considerably raised. However, the government along with the local councils, must also make more effort.

It doesn’t help much when the seaside resort where I live has only one allocated spot for a few bottle and paper bins. ALL supermarkets should have them in their car parks. Nearly all large shops in Germany actually have special bins where you can immediately strip the packing and leave it there. And the packing must also be tuned into saving the planet and not just catching the eye of the beholder.

THE PATH

I came across a path the other day. There should be nothing unusual about this. But in a way this was. Here I was in a small, neat and tidy little village a few miles outside Munich walking back to where I was staying. The sidewalk was wide and spotlessly clean; the perfect stereotype of a German habitat. And there it was: this eyesore, a blot on the landscape. It was not a very long path, maybe 8 paces. It connected the pavement to a shopping mall car park; cutting a compressed mud swathe through the neatly trimmed hedges. I, like many before me, walked this route rather than follow the road, thus saving me perhaps two minutes.

A path according to the dictionary; is a way which people pass on foot; line along which a person or thing moves, and also, a course of action. I like to think of it as method of getting from A to B by the shortest and most undisruptive quickest way. When I lived in Africa, paths were everywhere. In the suburbs no decent vacant corner plot would be normal without its obligatory short cut. In the bush they connected the various villages.

That leads me to tell you about one of the most amazing paths ever created; the 40 miles from Makuti, altitude 3730 feet, then down the Zambezi escarpment to Kariba, 1300 feet in now modern day Zimbabwe. In the early 1950’s the British colonial lands of Rhodesia and Nyasaland needed power for their rapidly growing industries; so the river that crashed over the magnificent Victoria Falls would be dammed at its narrowest point. This would create at the time the largest man made lake in the world. This tsetse fly and malarial infested humid white mans grave would be transferred into a major tourist resort with commercial fishing industry; along with the electricity its giant turbines would generate. Building the dam was not the first problem. Getting materials there was, for there were no roads at all.

The finest ordinance surveyors from Great Britain were flown in and poured over aerial photographs and maps, following contours through this rugged terrain to come up with a plan. They presented the Southern Rhodesian government with a proposal of £xxx millions and a completion time of xx months. It was greeted with ridicule by the Minister of Roads who swore he could build the road at half the price, in half the time and without having to look at a single picture or map. And he did. (Okay, he and the lads might have crossed checked now and then.)

I have been up and down that road many times. It is always exhilarating, especially the first glimpse of the majestic lake flashing like a blue jewel in the heart of Africa under its relentless sun. The wildlife is prolific; with herds of buffalos, prides of lions; if you are very lucky, perhaps a leopard. But what you always see is elephants. They would leave their huge piles of dung on the road for the giant beetles to gather and roll into balls to push home; the wrinkly leathered grey shapes would reluctantly wander off the tar road when a car approached, to disappear almost like magic into the dense foliage of the hills.

Thousands of generations of elephants had wandered this land, up to the cooler heights in summer and down again for winter, always moving for perhaps reasons as simple as a change in diet. All man had to do was widen and tar a path that was proven to be the quickest and easiest way. The stripped bark of the huge Baobab trees stood out like mileage markers along the route through those complex twists and turns.

The path for man of course deviated across a dam wall and onto now days Zambia. But what of the original path to the valley floor, trodden by beasts before Moses asked God to open one across the Red Sea. It is still there, under water now, but the lakes waters created many large islands which still to this day are visited by the elephants. They follow that path with incredible inner sense. They cannot walk it anymore so they swim. If they get tired they would take turns having a quick breather by standing on a travelling partner, whose feet would be on the path!

Rangers in boats once followed a pair for over 4o miles. It took them 24 hours before they struggled out onto the banks, close to death from exhaustion. I have been lucky to witness the swimming elephants of the Zambezi returning to their old haunts that even modern man cannot obliterate from times unknown out of the hidden conscience of these wonderful animals.

My little path in Germany connecting the sidewalk to the supermarket cannot be seen from space. Even if you could – who cares? The walk of the elephants can be seen though, and let me be your guide. Open up your Google Earth. The easy way is to enter, Kariba Zimbabwe, into the search bar or find Africa, that shouldn’t be too hard. Next find Zimbabwe, for those a little confused, it is due north of South Africa.
There you will see a huge lake. The dam wall is at these coordinates; 16 degrees 13’ 19,29” South by 28 degrees 45’44.17” East. It is easily visible. This is your starting point. In summer the road on this wall once set a world record of 53 degrees Celsius in the shade. Now follow the road east through Kariba town. There are some small roads branching off, one goes to Kariba Breezes hotel where a pal of mine, Pete, was killed in the nineties when returning drunk from the hotel bar he took a short cut home and promptly walked into a herd of elephants. He was using their path. Follow the main road north by north east till finally it meets the main Harare-Lusaka highway at 16 degrees 18’43,06” South by 29 degrees 14’44,31 East. What will really hit you is the amazing ruggedness of the terrain.

So next time you take a path, remember that yours could also have a mystery behind it, but never one as mysterious as the path of the elephants.

Post note: I couldn’t find the exact figures for the road’s cost or construction time. Although I most certainly have read them before. What I did come across amongst the massive amounts of data available about Kariba, including stunning pictures, is that it could be on the verge of collapse. Zimbabwe is now a bankrupt and failed state and no maintenance has been done on the wall for at least four years and the government doesn’t care. Experts have predicted a scenario that would make the Asian Tsunami of recent memory seem like a small wave. You can see on the map that its collapse would also destroy the next dam wall down stream holding back an almost as large a bed of water; Lake Caborra Bassa in neighbouring Mozambique.

The combined water mass would cut that land in half, engulf Madagascar and a thirty foot wave would hit Perth in Australia.

This is life Jim, but not as we know it.

Well I am sorry that there has not been an update for a while but I have had a rather hectic time moving and not having a direct internet connection. Now I do, albeit it is a little slow but beggars can’t be choosers at the moment and therefore I am happy for small mercies.

Lots had been happening in the world the last two weeks plus, most of it bad…hah hah hah. But not to worry, I have been entertaining myself writing this ludicrous black political satire. It is not that far from being finished actually. I reckon three or more chapters and it is a wrap, besides the work of going over it, tying up the knots and plots. Then I have to find someone willing to edit the lot for nothing besides 20% of profits unknown.

It could all turn out to be much to do about nothing but we will see. I have also been messing around redoing the chapters but I will leave the present part / chapters as they are. As I intend to try and SELL this, I will cut you off at least two or three thrilling chapters before the end.

So here it is, the next episode in the most exciting thing you have read since you were drunk in a poolside deck chair trying to get your head around the Da Vinci code.

The Y Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Six.

Secret Agent Slapper spun the mighty machine through a 360 with the hand brake. Ramming the tortured engine into first, she floored the accelerator, causing the rear of the sleek gold metallic Jaguar convertible to snake wildly as it attempted to gain a grip. As it did, Dilly smashed on the brakes and pulled up in front of McDonalds on Beggers Street. She sniffed the stench appreciatively, the aphrodisiac aroma of burnt rubber making her nipples stand out.

Mildew scuffled over and climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat, signalled the classic Star Trek, ‘Engage’ arm movement, and Dilly put the ‘Cat’ through its fancy brochured advertised paces. No words were spoken besides Wolf’s request to head towards Birmingham, Dilly needing all her concentration controlling the huge horsepower at her disposal, zipped the machine through the yellow lit streets and the speedometer showed 120 miles an hour as she entered the M4 slipway heading north west.

Wolf rummaged through Dilly’s bag and attempted to read through his one good eye the crude script scribbled onto the paper napkins stuffed into the Co-Op carrier bag by the weak glow of the tiny cosmetic lamp installed in the visor.

“I gotta eat, Wolf, and I need some booze. I hope you got some coke for me in that little bag around your spare tyre. My nerves are killing me. Found anything interesting?”
Wolf looked up, “There’s a 24 hour service station coming up, pull in there. Yeah, you did well kid, this is pay dirt by the looks of things.”

***

“Get him out Tinny, now, and I don’t want that thing,” pointing to the Greatmaltpoo who was now engrossed dragging itself with it’s forelegs whilst it attempted to relieve the itching worms in its rear on the corridor carpet, “ever coming here again!”

Tinny obeyed his shrill wife and pushed the confused Divhead Bonkit, dragging his arse bound dog, out the door and slammed it shut. “You look a bit of a mess my dear, I’m not sure if yellow is a good colour for you,” referring to the congealed mess covering most of his wife’s head.

“Shut up you idiot. We have a big problem. That Slapper bitch took the CCTV footage, so I can’t prove she did this,” parting her hair with difficulty she showed Tinny the large quail egg sized bump, now a delicate shade of blue/black. She didn’t bother informing Tinny that she had started the fight. Avoiding the light brown ‘snail trail’ left by Bonkit’s recently departed dog, she went over to the Last Supper and released it from its catch exposing the naked back. The P.M.’s face turned into one resembling a dental student’s pickled deceased volunteers head.

“Sweet Jesus, we are fucked!” As an after thought, he added, “where’s the diamond gone from your ring sweetie?”
Cherry looked down at her left hand, still holding open the Last Supper. “That’s it, she is definitely dead, along with that fat shit fool Mildew. Stop farting around like some 13 year old examining the strange stains that appeared over night on his pyjama bottoms and take your thumb out your bum, engage brain and phone Alabaster Crampballs. I’m going for a shower. I want him here first thing tomorrow morning. Ka-pee-toh, Copy, Comprehendo?”

***

Dilly returned from the ‘Ladies’ restroom, sniffed loudly, looked at Mildew with Coked up sparkling attentative eyes. She sat down opposite him at the corner table in the tacky restaurant and immediately attacked viciously a double portion of ‘bloody rare’ rump steak, chips and fried egg. Between belches, she drank from the large pile of Heineken beer tins stacked in the middle.
There had been little problem organising the feast. The place was deserted of clientele at this time and the young Kosovo immigrant employee, (of the month, according to a huge plastic tag pinned on his hollow chest,) had wisely opted for alternative three, after his protest had resulted in Dilly placing her I.D. badge, her chrome plated 9mm PPK semi automatic pistol and two fifty pound notes onto the counter. With her hand still gripped around the weapon, she had simply stated to the terrified illegal, “Take your pick, and make it a wise one.” The service from then on had been impeccable.

“Ya look a ficken mess by the way, and you smell like this beer tin”, she told Wolf between gasps for air, and waggled her third beer at him.
Mildew ignored her and poured over the napkins. His right eye was hurting bad. He had refused food as he was on a diet, but happily accepted one of the proffered beer tins from Dilly. With his partner well occupied for a while, Wolf studied carefully what was in front of him. Finally he sat back and looked over at Dolly who had finally finished her meal and was lighting up a cigarette. She threw a quick look at the Kosovo who waved enthusiastically in agreement to let her disobey the ‘No Smoking’ sign.
“And?”
“Before I tell you Doll, how did the great escape go?”

Dilly laughed that way that only she could, a pure piss take laugh of sensual ridicule.
“Worked a dream, Wolfie, ya should have seen it man. I rush out, cameras flashing everywhere, brained Cherry babe appears for half a sec, then slams the door as I’m babbling to Sky News some tripe about dumping Blonkit. Best though, Gobby Browneye next door rushes out in his dressing gown to see what all the performance is about, and slips bare foot into the Greatmaltpoo turd on his doorstep. Hah hah hah. Then, he lands up on his back, cracking his head and they land up taking him to hospital. I simply squeezed the Sky News reporters second microphone a bit, promised him more if he dropped me outside the flat where me Jag was parked. The rest you know from the DVD.

Mildew had given up trying to read the napkins in the car and had watched the CCTV footage on the cars DVD, TV and navigation aid screen. “Well, it’s the famous ‘Granita pact’ reached between Tinny Blabber and Gobby Browneye ten years ago in an Islington restaurant supposedingly about who should be the next Labour leader in 1995. It was always denied that it existed, but here it is.” Wolf poked a finger at the small pile of paper napkins.
“What does it say.” Dilly peered at the creased and grubby pile trying to decipher the spidery scribble upside down but gave up and let Wolf explain.
“Basically it’s a list of all public services that will be systematically looted along with any state assets they can plunder. An agreed twenty percent is allocated to protect the whole plan and,” Wolf took the bottom layer out and spun it around so Dilly could read it better, “protect the finding off, or destruction of the pyramid should it ever be detected and investigated. It was also agreed that Tinny would hand over the P.M. job to Gobby after ten years, something that hasn’t happened yet.”
Two signatures near the bottom appeared above what looked like dried blood stains. “What’s this?” Dilly used the long manicured nail on her forefinger to tap the stains.
“That, dear Dilly, is what THEY are frightened off. My guess, they signed and sealed this with their blood. Once I can get a D.N.A. check on it I will know for sure. Presuming it is, it is irrefutable proof.”

Dilly lifted her finger off the napkin and stuck it inside her right ear, waggled it rapidly up and down for a couple seconds. Removing it and satisfied that there was nothing stuck underneath the nail, “Pyramid? What’s that all about then?” she asked curiously.
“We have to go to Bosnia-Herzegovina to prove my theory. I now believe 100% that Tinny Blabber was not abducted by Aliens, but is actually a direct descendant from one. I am sure the answer to the whole Tinny Blabber code is somewhere deep in a pyramid that is over twelve thousand years old in the Visoko valley not far from Sarajevo.”

The Alien stuff Dilly could easily believe after the experience at 10 Conning Street. She shivered slightly, remembering the awful experience she had just gone through. “Suits me Wolfie, you the man, I need to get away from here for a while anyway, but aren’t we heading in the wrong direction?” She had a load more questions, but knew from experience that Wolf would answer them in due course automatically as his talent for subterfuge really kicked in.
“First big hassle. Money.” Wolf didn’t even bother asking Dilly if she had access to any large funds. Besides her designer wardrobe, all of it ‘presents’ from various appreciative liaisons, she used most of her income paying back the huge debt of lawyers fees who had represented her twin brother Rodney.
“Next major problem; Alabaster Crampballs.”
Dilly stretched and yawned widely, then gave Wolf a screwed eyes grimace. “The man’s a friggin faggot freak, tried it on with me once. What does the ‘White Ghost’ do for a living anyway?”
“Well according to this, Dilly dear”, Wolf poked at the pile of napkins once more, SPIN is a secret organisation set up by the Blabbers to protect them from the truth coming out. Crampballs heads it.”
“Oooo la la la, Wofie, I gather you don’t like the man much,” the venom that Mildew spat the head of SPINs name out had surprised Dilly. Definitely no love lost here. “What’s up Doc?” Her pet line to Mildew done with pouting lips in an attempt to lighten him up.
Wolf sighed. “I just worked out that he is the reason I’ve been stuck in that damn cellar ever since Tinny Blabber came to power. Stuff him, I’m better. We still a jump ahead of the bastard. Were going to Ireland via a short stay at my safe house in Porkmydog in North Wales. Well, it’s actually a caravan in Shittysands Holiday Site, but we will be okay whilst I think of a plan to get some money together. We require a lot, plus we need a boat to get us to Bosnia-Herzegovina with out being detected and a trustful Captain and crew.”

Dilly stood up and went over to the counter. The young man in charge barely came up to her breasts, and smiled in a death grin of expectant imminent annihilation. “How may I help?”, came the high pitched tone of pure terror.
“When was the cash machine last filled, sweetie?”
“Er, one hour ago.”
“You don’t have a problem if I empty it then?” Flashing a deck of credit cards before the quivering wreck, now peeing down his left leg, Dilly added with a smile, “legally, of course.”
Without waiting for any response she strode over to the AT machine, and swinging her hips whilst whistling, Hey Big Spender, fed one card after another till the gaping maw stopped gushing torrents of cash. “Oy, you, bring me some of them plastic carrier bags will ya,” the attendant scuttled quickly over in response to Dilly’s request.

“Oh well, there will be some well pissed off Lords when they look at their credit card accounts at the end of this month. That’s the lot. I got stopped at the maximum. I reckon close on fifteen thousand quid.” Dilly dumped the four stuffed bags next to the beer tins now being hurriedly packed by the attendant.
Wolfie pushed the half crazed with fear Kosovo away.
“Brilliant, Dill, that covers expenses but we need more for the boat.”
Dilly groped in her bag and removed an almost pigeon egg sized object wrapped in printed Go With B.P. toilet paper. Freeing it, she presented Mildew the magnificent diamond. “Will this perhaps cover it?” Her eyes flashed with inner pleasure, and she squirmed in primeval pleasure against the back of the chair. It had been a long time since she last went on the hunt and this one was looking very interesting.
For the first time in weeks, Wolf laughed, a sound from deep down in his psyche, one of returning confidence in his own abilities.
“You stole Cherry’s beloved Kimberly Blue. You got guts kid, and she will be after yours big time. That’s the boat covered. How the hell did you manage this?”
Dilly shrugged nonchalantly, “let’s just say it had a long passage before arriving here.”
“You ready? I’m ready, lets go.” Mildew picked up the bags of money, Dilly being more powerfully built carried the 20 tins of Heinakin.

As the two approached the exit, Dilly asked
“Ya got a Captain in mind?”
“Yes, a genius and the most dependent man I’ve ever met, Captain James T Jerk.” Wolf stopped in front of the newspaper wrack.
Dilly walking behind him was forced to stop too. “Isn’t that the nutcase that blew up the HMS Sinkfast in the Nigerian Delta seven years ago? Is he alive? I heard the ship went up with the loss of over 900 lives.”
Special Agent Wolf Mildew stared at the headlines from The Daily Creep,
‘Massive Explosion on Pontoon Kills 15 Illegal Jet Ski Tourists in Estuary’
Heroic crew recovering in Bangemup hospital. Reported by Urine Heep.

“I think he is alive and knowing him, still kicking.”

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

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