http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans Fri, 03 Apr 2026 22:33:48 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5753/crackshot http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5753



Town Cryer Barry Short took his usual place in the Square of the little South Walian Hamlet of Merthyr Tydfil and ascended a wooden crate. Short by name and short by nature, at 5 foot 4 it was a strange choice of job given his diminutive stature but needs must when the devil calleth and with most of the men having been killed in the Napoleonic Wars there was not that many men to go around -Short or tall.But at least he was more difficult to hit with a musket ball. As he unrolled his parchment written by a quill on velum, Barry summoned up all his vocal strength to announce the week’s entertainment to the paupers and the very common people ofthe South Wales Valley area.“In the Year of Our Lord 1844, on the forthcoming Sabbath of 14th March, there shall be a duel to be held on the Morlais Castle Common at 11.30pm at Night between local publican,Morris Dancer of Ye Crown Inn, Merthyr Tydfil and his opponent Bartemius Pugh to settle a point of honour!” shrilled Barry.The great unwashed that gathered around now had something else to look forward to -to ease their plight which was filled with malnutrition, rickets and cholera- their own version of Match of the Day.“A duelling scheme up at the Heads of the Valleys is long overdue” muttered Old Hag, Bubo Popp in her native Welsh tongue clad in her Welsh shawl and Stove-pipe hat.
As usual, the tiny hamlet had become turned ‘Rumourville’ with idle tongues wagging as to the cause of such dispute.The real reason was that Morris Dancer, the Innkeeper of the Crown – a local hostelry and stage coach departure point - had accused Bartemius Pugh, a Venetian traveller o fgentlemanly standing, of groping his barmaid, Melony Toby, in front of several witnesses,who would swear blind that was what Mr Pugh had deliberately done, when she had bentover to pick up the Landlord’s latest culinary invention.A bar snack of potato origin mixed with fish into a pie – the ancestor of latter-day scampifries. A ‘Me-too’ list was chalked up on the Inn blackboard but one or two of them had to be ignored as they were actual requests. Bartemius also swore blind (as he was in fact truly blind after taking a pistol shot to the face in a previous duel in Paris).The Italian was well versed in duelling by pistol- it was in fact his tenth such duel, as he had been raised by fellow Venetian Casanova and was on the Grand Tour of Europe and just like his mentor- he was in fact a crack-shot.Somewhat ironic really, as he was now in another potentially deadly contest over a different crack that he was alleged to have fondled. Barmaid Melony Toby,- (or Toby Jugs as she was known to the local sheep farmers and swineherds that frequented the establishment with its solid stone slab flooring covered in sawdust & straw and spilt Rhymney Brewery Ales) was a lady of loose morals but only with gentlemen that took her eye.As Bartemius didn’t have any of his own, she wasn’t prepared to give him any.The Venetian tried to defend his actions by claiming that hadn’t realised that he was in fact in an Inn but thought that given the smell of the ‘plaice’ that he was in Olde Morgan’s the Fishmonger’s Shoppe.Toby Jugs, like most Merthyr residents past and present was not known for her love o fbathing – in fact B.O. was another invention that had been credited to the Hamlet. But then again Merthyr had little access to clean water- a Well at Tydfil’s and of course the River Taff often polluted with dead bodies floating down from the rough area known as China being the only options.“Why are they holding a Duel at night under the light of the Brecon Beacons?” asked another wizened old hag, Gwennie Turnip, a great grandmother at 40 years of age- though her solitary remaining tooth in the front – used for central eating her diet of thin porridge.It was a very ‘gruel’ existence.
“It is to even out the contest- replied the local Beadle- Jeremy-it was at the insistence of Morris Dancer’s friend and brave Second Mr Thomas Cooper!” continued the lawman.“Why is HE a brave man?” asked Gwennie looking puzzled.“Mr Pugh is blind but is known to have killed several men by accident in such events most of whom were Seconds!”“With a pistol?” asked local crazy cat woman Nut Meg.“It would hardly be with an epee now would it .....otherwise it would have been over in a split Second? “ Chortled the Beadle at his unintentional quip.The Beadle was not a big fan of the Landlord who had refused to pay him protection money or the manner in which he kept the Tavern going.“But I heard that the Blind Venetian only agreed to the terms put forward by Mr Cooper if Mr Morris Dancer would wear his traditional May Day costume to the duel!” whispered theBeadle as if imparting knowledge not readily available to the public- which had in fact been his own condition.“Pull the other one it’s got bells on!” replied the disbelieving Bubo.“Exactly!” replied the Beadle.“ Be careful who you tell that to mind .... you don’t want that Scold’s Bridle on again now do you?”Gwennie Turnip shivered at the memory of that metal cage around her mouth as punishment to stop her gossiping – she was still left with a drooling problem and mouth fatigue- but at least for the month that she was compelled to wear it,- she didn’t have to perform the usual matrimonial blow jobs.“Are you going on the Black Sabbath Night?” asked Gwennie to her fellow gossips.“Count me in!” – said an eavesdropping local pest controller from high up on a thatched cottage roof- Ozbert Osborne, as he bit into a fruit bat- in doing so risking COVID.“Why are you eating a fruit bat?” asked Bubo Popp confused.“Got to get my five a day in haven’t I ....-Herbie- the man who makes the potions told me that I should have a balanced diet ......”So I will bring the magic mushrooms! to sell at the Event””
Fast forward to the weekend and poor old Morris Dancer was cacking himself.
He was too young to die.He had never fired a flintlock pistol before let alone had a duel with a European Marksman.Thomas Cooper formerly of Caerphilly, took off his fez that he had once acquired from a tradesman when he had ordered by mistake some salad in.“Look ....said the second....I booked the last duelling slot available just before Midnight as there is an Act which went through Parliament making duelling illegal- it comes into force at12.01am....so you only have to delay the event for 30 minutes and then it’s over!” “To shoot you after that would be illegal and he would hang for murder!” Thomas continued. “Just like that?” “THIRTY minutes .....you are getting ahead of yourself .....how can I a simple Publican know when it is closing time?.....in the future there may be devices to measure the time like hour glasses or a device that can read the movement of the sun and moon .....but at present Iam governed by crows of the cock....!” moaned Morris .“That’s what got you into this mess in the first place....an argument over a woman!” said Tommy.“Just like twat!” he said mumbling but trying to create a family catchphrase.“Crows?” replied a confused Morris .“Sorry... I thought you said Grows!” replied the Second.“There’s me in less than two hours about to die and you are telling funnies....who do you think you are some kind of comedian?” said the nervous Innkeeper.“How the Hell am I going to delay the duel anyway!” asked Morris still sitting on the po on the floor of the food preparation area of his pub.“I’ll think of something!” replied his friend.
It is near Midnight and a crowd of villagers gathered around the light of a brazier.“How the Hell am I going to know when the time is up?” whispered Morris nervously to his second.Tommy Cooper said “Don’t worry I have arranged a few distractions to take us passed thewitching hour and save your bacon!”
“Besides I have asked Evans the Coal to pour some tar on the pitch to signify the end of legal hostilities....he has agreed to burn the ‘midnight oil’ as he is a hard worker in exchange for a few groats!” he continued.The independent Magistrate, Judge Jeffries Junior called for silence from the gathered throng- as he was of the opinion that people that were involved in duels deserved be hung-but then again he thought that way about every person that came before him – they all deserved to be hung- sheep stealers, thieves, highwaymen who ruined the safe passage of coaches around the Country- especially the highwaymen as the bastards took your road tax but didn’t fill in the potholes on the turnpikes.He had got himself stuck in a rut many a time and even hung hungry children as young as eight for stealing apples from overflowing gentry orchards.They wouldn’t do it again!The combatants were called together- and after they had turned Bartemius round in the correct direction first were read the rules of the day as to the duelling scheme.“Do both of you gentlemen wish to continue this dispute over honour or will either of you apologise and admit they were wrong?” questioned Jeffries.“He groped my barmaid....the foreign bastard!....he should be sent to Rwanda once it opens for business!” declared the future Brexit-loving Morris with false bravado not wishing to lose face in front of the majority of his xenophobic clientele.“I didn’t .....it was an accident....there was something fishy about the ‘hole’ place...I can’t see ....so how was I know it wasn’t the fish shop.....besides ask him why all the cats in the area follow her around otherwise?” grumbled the Venetian Blind marksman.“In that case, do both of you Seconds have the pistols?”“Yes!” declared Thomas Cooper and Casanova simultaneously.They both held mahogany boxes with green velvet inside and of course a single shot flintlock pistol.Toby Jugs stared at Casanova, cleavage poking out over the top of her Nell Gwynne style dress.Casanova fumbled with the pistol before using the ramrod to force the bullet down into the chamber.“Ooh I do love Sloppy Seconds!” she declared licking her lips and adjusting her ample bosom for the benefit of Casanova.“Are the pistols loaded?” asked the Judge.“Both barrels!” said Casanova staring back at Toby’s Jugs- not concerned with the single barrel flintlock pistol.
“Yes!” replied both seconds.“Now Gentleman you will both take ten paces back each and then turn and fire a single shot!”ordered the Judge.Morris replete in his May Day outfit started to ring out, as he went with the bells giving his opponent a big clue as to his direction.The time was now 11.40pm with twenty minutes left to kill without being killed.With that came the first of Tommy Cooper’s distractions. He had paid local harlot Erica Roe a few groats to invade the pitch topless.Obviously, this didn’t affect Bartemius as he couldn’t see the titties.But it did have some effect on the timing. Bartemius on 5 steps just stopped hearing the commotion and feeling the milk from the cowpox suffering merry milkmaid splattering on his face, wondering what the Hell was going on.Judge Jeffries ordered a reset and that as punishment Erica was to be sent to his room in the local law courts whilst he administered the cat of nine tails.He wasn’t just the local Magistrate but the Chief Whip too.“What you got there then Megan – a handwarmer?” asked Bubo Popp to her friend.“No...it’s my black cat!” said Megan.“Looks Familiar!” said local refuse collector ‘Dennis’ Norden.“He is missing half his ear only one eye and three legs left and has the mange!” continuedMegan.“He has been run over twice by Dennis’s ‘bring out of your dead’ recycling cart.“I thought I recognised him!” said Dennis.“What’s he called?” asked Bubo looking at the poor wretched creature and then at the cat.“Lucky!” replied Megan without any sense of irony.“What’s that around his neck?“ interjected Gwennie.“It is a home-made collar- he is a terror to kill local song birds -so I attached some metaltubular chimes around his neck to warn them he is around!” said Megan.“I found it by the Old Field!”
The duel continued with both Bartie and Morris standing back- to- back, pistols pointing upward to the full moon as they came together. It was now 11.45 and still plenty of time for the duel to continue legally. Morris was sweating under his horsehair wig and tricorn hat. All around him the common was busy filling up.The local brotherhood of monks had appeared in their ‘Dry Robe’ outfits so prevalent for the Merthyr area.They began a ‘Modern Talking’ chant about one of their order - Brother Louie, Louie, Louiewho apparently was a big fan of duels and being ‘undercover’. This had been arranged by Thomas to distract one of the few senses that had been enhanced by Bartie’s loss of vision.Bartie’s objection was lost in the chant. Magistrate Jeffries ordered the recount.“Ten paces each... then turn and fire...no more delays!” he declared with some authority.Both combatants began to pace out with Morris so nervous, he could feel the urine running down his campanologist trouser leg.Like a newly expectant Father filling his babies bottles with breast milk from a lactating milkmaid , he had lost count of the strides he took away from the Venetian crack-shot.Was it seven or eight?It was now five to midnight.Did he risk the wrath of the Magistrate and local reputation if he ducked?That decision was taken away from him by the appearance of Gwennie’s black cat Lucky which had crossed his path. Frozen in terror, Morris looked on helplessly as the Blind Venetian turned in one fell movement and fired his single shot in the direction of the hapless moggie that had been making a bee-line for Toby Jugs .“Talk about a black cat crossing your path .....how lucky was that?” said the open-mouthed Magistrate.“Did I get the Welsh bastard?” asked Bartie.“You killed my beloved cat!” wailed Gwennie.
The blood drained to the feet of the blind killer. He had not heard his opponent fire his shot and in terror and the heart of darkness stood there awaiting the impact of a bullet from Morris.Morris was in a quandary. He had never shot another human being before - especially one without sight. But on the other hand, he had called him a Welsh bastard and groped his barmaid. He owed it to all the women in the World to take out this sexual predator. Morris took aim at 10 seconds to Midnight.He pulled the trigger and out of the front of the flintlock pistol came a home- made flag withthe words B A N G written on it.“Watch out ....Beadle’s about!” said the local Magistrate before blowing his whistle to signal the end of legal duelling in Britain.
]]> Mon, 01 Jul 2024 02:23:14 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5752/nerd-world-man http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5752
Poor little Brad Stick was a natural victim. He was only 11 years and had just started going up to the big wide World of the Comprehensive School. Now separated from his earliest friends since Primary School it was a huge culture shock coming from a cossetted little school that he had spent seven years known merely ‘as the Nerd in the corner’. His only friends were imaginary and he was more of a loner than alleged JFK Kennedy assassin Lee Harvey Oswald but in the little school he was tacitly accepted and tolerated by his first school peers.
His emaciated frame, topped by Michael Gove ‘Milhouse’ glasses, struggled to carry the spanking new leather satchel his Mother had bought him, which she insisted he carry to school every morning on his daily 20 minute hike from his house in Brecon Road, Merthyr Tydfil to his new educational version of Borstal. It was a Sisyphean task for the puny schoolboy, as the satchel with his exercise books weighed nearly half his bodyweight and made him look like a myopic hunchbacked King Richard III, as he struggled up the steep hills that led up to his new Alcatraz.
To get there he had to go through hostile enemy territory – well named as ‘territory’ as he was terrified of who or what he would encounter each day on his journey up the ‘Red Lane’ though the notorious Gurnos Estate. The Lane was so called because it was bloodstained from beatings and muggings in this little corner of Paradise. He often sang THAT 1980’s Phil Collins song that he had heard on Spotify for confidence, usually as he passed rough sleepers with their rabid XL Bully dogs, lying in unbridled layers of dogshit, broken glass and used syringes.
But the worst of all- was the elder groups of boys- who hunted in packs of threes for someone to bully and steal their lunch money. His Mother (who had separated from his Biological Father Gordon) was his only protection – as his Mother had told him that his real Father had left for Silicon Valley years ago. He had no recollection of this Father but as he had a penchant for computer sciences -he was always proud of this fact -until the day he discovered that Silicon Valley was the nickname his Mother had given to the big breasted implanted woman he had eloped with.
Which was somewhat strange as his Mother had told him that his Father was only a little over Five Foot in height- she told her son she should blame him for his genetic shortcomings- so he innocently assumed that he must have used them as ear muffs. His Mother continued to be embarrassed by the doorstep gossips as some years later his Father was caught indecently exposing himself to Women in Cyfarthfa Park. She wanted nothing to do with him and made up a story for her young son that his dad was into science fiction whenever the pair were cruelly shouted at in the street about ‘Flash Gordon’.
Brad felt given his wan stature made him a more akin to a test tube baby, as his Mother had worked in the Sekisui science laboratory for years. She claimed to be responsible for the discovery of Viagra but her test case had failed to stand up in the Patent’s Court. Puberty had not yet kicked in for little Brad- the hair on his head was brown and very wavy and every morning it stuck up in all directions for fine weather. During his first ever PE lessons he could remember being assaulted by some older boys trying to discover if the school rumour was true in that he had one solitary pubic hair downstairs. 
Sadly for him it was. He had gone from being known as ‘the Nerd in the Corner’ to ‘One Pube’ in an instant.
A Tik-Tok moment that is when he was held down and filmed while one the bully boys put on a David Attenborough voice over – with the infamous words- “ And here we have the Amazon rainforest....decimated by illegal logging with only one tree left standing!”
He particularly hated cross country and was always last finishing last with all of the children returning hours before him but at least it had taught him how to run. One of his local sheep farmers had accused him of interfering with his livestock – suggesting he was seen lying down in his pasture smoking but it wasn’t certainly him- as despite his Mother’s claim to fame - he was incapable of Vape.
Brad had no social life- not surprising considering his face was permanently in a phone or computer screen. He like modern schoolchildren no longer sat around the dining table and actually spoke to his Mother. He only communicated with her by text. A lot of the time she was in work but it was often when they were in the same room. She – like most modern working single parents had little time to actually cook wholesome food- Brad survived on takeout meals from MuckDonalds & the bogus Colonel.
To get by she also worked part time in the evenings in a care home. Not surprisingly he was seriously malnourished, as his Mother was always taking part in clinical trials and was never there to ‘care’ for him. The only time he had nutrition in the form of fresh food was when one of his Mother’s ‘inmates’ went sick and the relatives brought in fruit. But even that stopped when Covid came.
His Mother would however bring home lots of old-fashioned clothes which were destined for the landfill when the old ladies died- which made Brad a little bi-curious when he put them on. He thought he had an alter ego which he called ‘Granny Tranny’. It was not his only alter ego though as he had discovered a new means of escapism from his miserable life. Online Gaming.
Here in the Meta Verse he was no longer called ‘Nerd in the Corner’, nor ‘One Pube’- he could be a virtual hero without challenge. Here he didn’t have to rub his Bitcoin with shit to get back at the bullies.

In cyber space, he was a keyboard warrior under his online masculine name of Arnold Schwarzawigga – which was totally inconsistent with his real life – as he was thinner than supermodel bulimia diet soup.Here in the Meta Verse he had an online presence that was noticed by his fellow female space aliens from all over the Universe. He loved his online Space Crusade game as part of World of Warcraft, where he could teleport into strange Alien Planets and spawn as his Schwarzawigga Hero or other sci-fi hero.
Brad, when walking to school, had his face in a mobile screen and then for six hours every night in a computer one. No wonder he had glasses thicker than the bottom of a milk bottle and that was even before he discovered the other ‘joystick’ evolution had given him.
At 11 years of age, he was like a mini-version of Mr Magoo – everything outside the end of his nose was a blur as he was always bumping into fellow pupils in the corridor as he passed in his own personal i-cloud. This didn’t engender to making new friends and he was often met with the jibe- “Careful One Pube or you will knock it off!”- not from the schoolchildren but from the cruel teachers, who doubled as Prison warders in his new reality Hell.
Academically, Brad was bright but sitting at the front of the class and raising his hand to answer questions just gave the bully majority more cause to pick on him. As soon as the teachers would turn their backs, the innocent child would endure more missiles than those in the Gaza strip. Brad wanted to learn- but the Neanderthal Bullies didn’t and disrupted the class at every opportunity.
He looked forward to the day that the knuckle-draggers were separated out into the remedial classes and he be placed into A-Band where he could actually learn something. Today had been particularly tiresome as his fellow classmates had discovered the art of chewing paper and then spitting it out like an old- fashioned pea-shooter through the hollow plastic tubing of Bic pens. His curly hair in the back was covered in them as he now contained more white spots than a septic tonsil. Even the teachers frustrated him by referring to him as ‘Boy’ when he had a perfectly good name.
No sooner than the school bell had rung for the end of the day than Brad was off running. Like Indiana Jones in the opening scene of the film Raiders of the Lost Ark, Brad sprinted towards the exit trying to get a head-start on the other Amazonian tribesmen throwing discarded cardboard boxes like boomerang frisbies, hoping to reach sanctuary before he lost his new adult teeth to a fist. Jogging down the Red Lane with a gravity assisted satchel the Nerd World Man made his escape. He had outwitted his tormentors once again who had paused to pick on some slower animals on the Gurnos/Serengeti Plain. In a race with a cheetah only the slowest of two men get devoured and he was determined today it would not be him.
That cross-country training must be finally paying off. In through the front door he leapt, stopping only to grab the remains of last night’s pizza delivery as he went upstairs heading for his safe space. His computer and the Meta Verse. He soon became immersed in an alien world of strange characters with blue hair and tattoos everywhere.
A World not dissimilar to James Cameron’s Avatar – a World he controlled and could interact with fake humans just like on Love Island. As he ‘spawned’ his character onto a planet with moon like craters. He was suddenly approached by a three-breasted semi-naked woman.
“Hello Muscles....why aren’t you handsome!” said the stranger. Brad suddenly had a picture in his head of a slim Ariana Grande. But just in case Brad kept his fingers poised above the X button. This was the button that enabled him to raise his gigantic Highlander sword.
He had encountered virtual sirens like this one before and always erred on the side of caution. “How old are you?” asked the virtual stranger in bubble speak. Brad looked at his spawn clock.
“Two minutes old!” the keyboard warrior replied also in caption form.
“What’s a good- looking thing like you doing in a place like this?”
Brad wasn’t sure whether to press the X button and strike or continue the Artificial Intelligence chat. He decided on the latter.
“Why don’t we go over to the power juice bar and I can buy you some liquid steroids ?”
Brad followed the stranger – interested to see where this new emotion of affection might lead him. He did after all have some stirrings in his Nether Regions that he could not explain even if he could put his finger on it.
“The bar takes payment by bitcoin or if you go to your Mother’s handbag and get her credit card its free!” said Three Tit. Brad paused the game and went downstairs to get the requested card.He could hear that his Mother was in the shower.
“Schwartzenwigga .....do you have the card?” asked the stranger. Brad typed back “Yes!”
“Good Boy!”
“ Now read me the long numbers off the middle there should be 12 of them!”
Brad started to get suspicious. “Why did the stranger call me Boy when I am a man in this World?” He still typed in the numbers but more slowly this time.
“Well done Boy!” replied the stranger. 
She called me Boy again he thought.
“What do you want to drink?... Power Juice....Steroid Surprise.... or a Tiny Cocktail?” questioned the Tri-mammoried Avatar.
“Power Juice please!” Brad replied knowing his character would take on extra energy for the game ahead.
“Okay Boy can you read me the expiry date on the card?” continued the stranger.
“Why do you need that?” typed back Brad hackles beginning to raise. He then typed the numbers.
“And finally Boy ....what about the three numbers on the signature strip....its so we can both pay for the Power Juice of course!” replied the Alien Avatar.
Brad began to smell a cyber rat.
“I can’t find them!” he typed.
“Boy ...look on the back of the card!” demanded the stranger.
“Sorry I can’t see it....the numbering is too small for my limited eyesight!” replied Brad frustrating the efforts of the Avatar who was now paused with three tits swaying angrily like a cat’s cradle.
“I say there Boy.... do you have a web cam?” asked the stranger.
The Avatar had now called Brad ‘Boy’ more times than cartoon rooster Foghorn Leghorn.
“Yes....a Spiderman Web cam from my Mother for Christmas!” said Brad.
“Good...then switch on then Boy and put the card up close to the camera!” ordered the stranger.
From his early schooling through to present day, Brad was hard-wired to do what he was told by adults but coming from Merthyr he had been born with the rebel streak. He was no longer confident that the alluring semi-naked space alien that was the other end in cyber-space was who she claimed to be, but in his innocence, he didn’t know what harm it could do to give his mother’s information out. He did however, reach across his desk fumbling for something. As the two-way camera whirred into action, the sight that met his bespectacled eyes was not what he had expected.
It was not the beautiful US cheerleader schoolgirl that he had imagined but a fifty year old man sat in stained vest and y-fronts squinting back at him trying to see the card. Brad turned the laser pen on full beam blinding the Yankee Con-Man as Brad took on the mantle of his old man -an alternative Flash Gordon and ‘Boy’ had he been ‘merciless’ to that Minging creature at the other end of that lens. Just like Mannfred the other Man had been ‘blinded by the light’ and the Nerd World Man had triumphed over the First World one.
The Welsh worm had turned.
]]> Mon, 01 Jul 2024 01:54:16 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5751/not-much-cop http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5751
It was December 13th 2023 and the delegates at the United Nations Climate Change Conference known as C.O.P 28 in Dubai the capital of the United Arab Emirates were just about to conclude matters, when the heavy golden double doors flew open and a size 10 Railtrack Boot appeared followed rapidly by a leg belonging to Welshman Morgan Chamber.
“Now hold on everyone......sorry I am late but I am the Official delegate from the Green Party of Wales...and I want to say my piece!”
Morgan Chamber, known locally as Mog the Smog, was never one to go or come quietly, as his Fifth Wife on their second Honeymoon would undoubtedly testify.
He strode purposely towards the 24- carat golden podium.
The assembled delegates from over 400 countries looked somewhat confused as he had a small round wooden boat attached to his back.
As he took to the stage – Security was on high alert- fearful of a terrorist attack from the World- renowned Free Wales Army- whose military wing had first formed in the Former Lamb Inn in Merthyr Tydfil- and understandably the Arabs were worried about their monopoly on the stage and the prospect of there being different Martyrs to the Cause.
The Head of the Conference, Prince Al Bin Chopiz Ed Off raised his oily palm for Security to hold on. He was a fair man and wanted to listen to different cultures just like his ancestors had done sat around their Bedouin campfires at the oases in past centuries blowing camels and smoking cigarettes too. He believed that everyone from the Third World should be entitled to voice their opinion before ignoring all recommendations on the reduction of fossil fuels.
Mog was not phased seeing so many different coloured faces before him wearing different white robes and multi-coloured attire -after all he himself was dressed in the new National Dress of Wales- the bright luminous orange Railtrack jumpsuit -which made him look like an escaped prisoner from San Quentin Penitentiary in California. He stood before World Royalty and influential power people – the actual ‘illuminati’ that kept the lights on and controlled Global economies and decided policy for innumerable Nations.
“Evening all!” he said upon reaching the Magic Mike.
By some unknown technological wizardry his words were instantaneously translated into over 400 different languages, except of course for Welsh, for the 1001 Arabian Knights sat in the Blue Zone of the Great Hall of Aladdin.
“I am here so that the World can hear the voice of Wales- one of the oldest continuous Celtic Nations now consisting of 4 million people and eleven million sheep-who have been subjugated by our English Ironmasters- men, women and children have toiled in the bowels of the Earth and have been subjugated and forced into economic slavery and to mine the black gold from the Planet’s soft underbelly, in doing releasing thousands of tonnes of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere  helping choke the lungs of the Earth- just like the English Ironmasters who filled the lungs of our little ones with pneumoconiosis and all for profit and greed- You the good people of the United Arab Emirates or the United States of America would never force anyone into slavery- just for greed, money and power – now would you?”
The room fell silent.
“We in Wales have tried our best to put in place many measures to reduce our genetic carbon footprint such as becoming the first Country in the former United Kingdom to impose a mandatory 20 MPH speed limit in urban areas – not just to reduce the number of accidents- but also to reduce traffic pollution from petrol and diesel engines- the extraction of oil and natural gas must stop otherwise we could turn the Planet into desert regions just like this one!” Mog continued.
The room was more silent than a Trappist Monk fart.
The Prince rolled his eyes but let Mog continue as each speaker was allotted 15 minutes.
Mog picked his nose and rolled it in-between his right thumb and fore finger and stuck the bogie to the underside of the podium- just like he did with his chewing gum in secondary school in his native Rhondda Valley.
“No more greenwashing- no more green credits for companies who burn wood from trees and claim tax relief on it.....otherwise the Ice Caps in Snowdonia will melt leading to the extinction of the endangered Welsh Yeti.....!”
Mog paused for dramatic effect.
“We conducted a survey in conjunction with Friends of the Earth and Greenpeace and it was found that one of the biggest sources of greenhouse gas was old cow farts...so we immediately recalled the Senedd and insisted they wear Michelle Mone PPE masks to cut down on their Bullshit....we also send a message on Facebook to our online followers to ensure that if they were returning from England that it was manda-TORY to defecate on the English side of the Owain Glyndwr Prince of Wales Bridge!”
“It had 11 million likes and was clearly a popular policy with the second generation ovine voters too!”
“Westminster has reduced the amount of money it gives to the Principality Post-Brexit- under the ‘Trinkets for the Natives’ budgetary policy recorded in Hansard- the Welsh people now have to have a roads curfew as the street lighting and road lighting gets turned off by most County Councils at 7pm-!”.....”We even had to pull the slogan of the extra £350 Million a week for the NHS off the side of the former Pit Ponies!”
“We have tried alternative green measures to increase the amount going into the National Grid but just like our Welsh Water it is syphoned off by our colonial masters- Water Mills, Wind Turbines (personally I am not a big fan) and solar panels on the roof.....we even attached a lead to the Pelaton of Olympic cyclist Geraint Thomas but it wasn’t enough and he crashed yet again as a result....!”
“We stopped burning down holiday homes in West Wales too – although the advent of Ring doorbell technology was a deciding factor too...!”
Looking directly at the Papua New Guinea delegate- “We even took a ‘leaf’ out of your book and started eating Pro-European Vegans- as they were filled full of vegetables- but Port Talbot’s Anthony Hopkins confirmed he preferred to eat a liver and a nice Chianti and not just the ‘Remains’ of the Day!”
Mog cast his eyes to the back of the hall where two delegates were leaving.
“India and China.....I can see you sneaking out”  

The heads of the audience turned towards them – shaming them- and then back. Just like a Wimbledon Tennis Umpire when Anna Kournikova has bent over to pick up a ball.

“We Welsh and you Arabs must stick together....we go back over 2000 years to when Welshman Hugh Griffith playing Sheik Iderim in Ben Hur!”
“We must together stop the new chariots polluting our Cities ....I live in O.P.E.C that this generation of children will still be able to live on the Earth....after all there is no Planet B only a Cardi one....there can be no RE-GRETAS....we must (pointing at the sleeping or possibly dead US President Joe Biden) educate these Fossil Fools!”
“The two biggest perils to the Planet are caused by air pollution- how many of you 8,000.00 delegates walked in your Jesus sandals to this Climate Change Conference- you three (pointing at the British delegation consisting of Tory Prime Minster (this month) Rishi Sunak, Foreign Secretary & Pig F**ker David Cameron and King Charles III ....I bet you all flew here separately on private jets!”
“I, on the other hand set out a month ago arriving on this trusty coracle!” continued Mog.
  
 “How much damage did I do to the environment and ozone layer?”
“Admittedly, I had to dump all my daily faeces in the Palm Jumeirah & the World Islands but it is only what the Former United Kingdom Government is doing Post-Brexit to our Welsh rivers anyway- the ‘Bog’ Snorkelling Championship is no longer confined to Llanwrtyd Wells!”
“And the second one from Silicon Valley- all the Earth’s precious energy is being wasted on mobile phone charging, I-Pods, I-Pads & Laptops.....just like your close neighbour from your friends in Israel- Moses- we need to take the tablets away..... !”
“And Swedish Doom Goblin Greta Thunberg has her part to play too- unless we change the ways of the young as well as the old and their addiction to selfies and social media- as time is running out -Tik- Tokking away if you like!”
“The only electrical appliances to be charged into the National Grid should be the Sinclair C5 electric trikes- pioneered by the late Sir Clive Sinclair- the purported Saviour of the Hoovers Washing Machine Factory- before it was hung out to dry in my native Merthyr Tydfil-!”
“What do you need a mobile phone anyway- except if you are hanging off a cliff precipice?...and with the exception of the Burj Khalifa how many off them do you have in Abu Dhaba?”
“ That is why the Swiss yodel!”
“The Global economy should not be built on a house of fog and sand!”
“It’s time to shut down the reliance on oil and natural gas before it destroys the Earth and the Planet overheats and turns us into Mercury!”
“You lot sit here and play Good C.O.P but outside its bad and please remember that ULEZ stands for Ultra Low Emissions Zones in London and should not be a reference to the lead lady in a Pride March- you bunch of Shi-ites!”
Prince Al Bin Chopiz Ed Off now made eyes at the security guards that Mog’s time was up. In his muslin robe, he looked as white as a Sheikh. Mog’s fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Warhol he had raved on about was now over.

It was his time in the sun. The Hosts would peg him out naked in the desert with no Boots Factor 50 to help him. Either that or take him to the Turkish Embassy.
]]> Mon, 01 Jul 2024 01:27:00 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5746/on-the-job http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5746



“Good afternoon and thank you for finally attending this Job Start Interview!” Said the Civil Servant.
“You’re welcome Mr Isious!” replied the attendee politely-reading the name badge on the Official- with all the charm of a gentleman that had been to Gordonstoun and then Dartmouth Naval College.

“ Mr Andrew Albert Christian Edward Windsor I presume,…do you have any photographic identification on you to prove this fact?” asked the former DSS snooper.

“Sorry…one doesn’t carry a wallet around with me…money is vulgar…hang on …One has a photograph of oneself flying a helicopter in the Falklands War …would that suffice…is that what you are Sea King?” Asked the eighth in line to the throne of England, passing over a tattered old Kodak snapshot, now yellowing with age.

“Not really but it will have to do…don’t forget you won’t be allowed to vote at the next General Election without proper identification documents you know!” replied the know -it - all Government employee reading from the YouGov site.

“ So why is one here….is one in trouble?” asked the disgraced Royal.

“Not compared to recent events….you are here because officially you have not worked since 2002 when you left the Navy!” Replied the jobsworth.

“That’s 21 years to be precise and you are only aged 63 and therefore still of an age that you are eligible to work!” He continued.

The Duke of York gulped nervously but didn’t sweat it.

“So according to our Government records, you are receiving State benefit from the Sovereign Grant , formerly the Civil List, to the tune of £250,000.00 ….the question is are you actively looking for work?” the interviewer said looking over his bifocal glasses.

“Well ….stuttered the Prince….my Mother has only recently died …!”

“That was over six months ago in September 2022!” Continued the Questioner.

“And what about the previous two decades….were you just F***ing about?” asked the Civil Servant turning very uncivil.

“Look…one told that BBC Lady, Emily Mattress, in my other interview that one doesn’t drink coffee and therefore haven’t been anywhere near a Maxwell House!” denied the Duke.

“So what exactly have you been doing since your last recorded job in 1982?” Asked Mr Icious.

“Do you have a first name ?” Asked Andrew.

“Of course…it’s Malcolm!” Replied the Government Employee.

“May one call you Mal?….Mr Icious?” Queried the Duke.

“Most certainly NOT!” Replied the Job Centre Plus Interviewer.

“This is a formal interview to determine if you deserve to continue to receive handouts from the state!” He continued.

“So other than playing around with your chopper for two decades…what exactly have you
been doing?”

“Well…one has been waving a lot …!” replied the Royal with absolute sincerity.

The interviewer furrowed his brow and stared at the Duke.

“Mainly from the deck of the Royal Yacht Britannia…!” he stuttered.

“ Do you know the song a life on the ocean ‘wave’ is better than going to sea?” Said the posh
boy.

“Is that why you are called Handy Andy then?….I thought it was for a different reason!” said Malcolm turning the Royal colour Purple, apoplectic with rage.

“Well we both sponge money off the Taxpayer don’t we?” Said Andrew trying to find ‘common’ ground with the commoner.

“ You mean as a civil servant I am obliged to accept a below inflation pay award and work till I am 67 …five years longer than any Frenchman …whilst you live the life of Riley….it’s complete nonsense!”

“Some would say nonce-sense actually!” Replied the Sniggerer.

“And don’t mention Frogmore please….it’s still a sore point with my family!”

“So are you claiming too for any dependents?” Asked the Interviewer.

“Yes, for one’s daughters Beatrice & Eugenie !” The Royal outcast said.

“ And how old they…are they still in school or full time education?” Malcolm pressed
harder.

“Let me see Beatrice is 34 and Eugenie 32 and of course Sarah my other dependent is 63!” Andrew continued.

“Don’t any of them have their own jobs?” Asked Malcolm absolutely flabbergasted.

After three long minutes of laughing from Andrew he replied “Are you serious?”

Looking around the whitewashed walls of the Windsor Job Centre, he uttered.

“Come on…who set this up ….Michael McIntyre or Ant n Dec?”

“Can’t be Jeremy Beadle….he is no longer about after all!”

“This isn’t a laughing matter, Mr Windsor…I am here to make sure that you find work or we stop your State ‘benefit’ like everyone else in this Country!” said the official in a more Mal Icious tone.

“So what skills do you have?” Asked Malcolm.

Andrew racked his brain and repeated “Waving?”

“There are several job opportunities available working in the Pizza Express Woking Branch….do you know it?” asked the Interviewer.

“No!” Replied the Duke immediately.

“Never been there in my life….oops…on second thoughts one went there with one’s daughter on the night that one DIDN’T go to Tramp nightclub…!”

“What perks do you get ?”

“Well it is a bit like the Hooters restaurants they have in Canada and the US with young girls serving in skimpy outfits only with different ‘toppings!” said Malcolm luring the new Prince of Darkness in to bite.

“Interested?”

The Duke was now leaning forward at the desk.

Malcolm lifted the telephone up and spoke into it.

“Susan…would you be good enough to bring me in the Pizza Express bakery job application forms for the Woking branch….you will find them under the
P- Dough File!”

Andrew looked suspiciously at the Official he had heard that word chanted a lot when he was in Buckingham Palace ever since he had innocently paid Three Million Pounds to a charity suggested by a girl he had never met.

“You are aware that the allegations about One and Miss Go Free were never proved in a Court of Law do you? said the Duke rather testily.
“Not my concern really!” Said Malcolm.

“Do you know why One did that free interview with Emily Mattress?” Countered Andrew.

“Former BBC reporter Martin Bashir rang up the Palace claiming he had further evidence….bloody phoney wank statements….how dull does he think one is? …Princess Diana or something?” raged Andrew.

“Oh ‘hang on’….there is also an International Job going as a prison officer at the New York Correctional Centre….sounds like money for old rope…!”said Malcolm looking at his computer screen.

“ Are you still allowed to visit the United States ….?” challenged Malcolm.

“Come to think of it….One does have a lot of Air Miles left on One’s frequent flyer account to Palm Beach , Florida….but on second thoughts best not to go there again…you know with all those selfies of people One has never actually met….!” mused Andrew.

“Sauna Tester in IKEA in Kyrgyzstan?” proffered Malcolm.

“You could do that no sweat!”

The evil eye from the Royal followed.

“Why does one have to get a job anyway …surely with all those people coming over in those small boats ….they need a job more than One does…after all…One’s ancestors created the British Empire especially for people who DO have the ability to break sweat….!” Replied the oyal in a posh voice.

“Oh they are fast tracked to Rwanda these days…so the Post-Brexit fruit is still rotting in the fields without anyone to pick it!” said Malcolm.

“Do you fancy a try?….after all you have a plum in your mouth most of the time anyway!”
He continued.

Andrew leaned in and whispered

“One thinks we both know that neither One nor One’s family are ever going to do REAL work as we are too important to the British economy given the amount we bring in from tourism?” Replied Not so Handy.

“How much is that a year?”asked Mal.

“19 Million Pinds!” said the Royal gurning with the pronunciation.

“And the cost to the tax payer for the Sovereign Grant ?” questioned the Interviewer. “Don’t know or care!” Said Andrew churlishly.

“It’s amazing what you can find on the internet especially with a Freedom of Information form these days…..try £369 Million give or take a few clocks…!” Replied the clear Republican.

“ So what is your point exactly?” Asked the peeved Royal feeling more exposed than Prince Harry at a Las Vegas pool party.

“Everyone in Britain must now pay their way or get deported to Rwanda!” said Mal “That’s the most ridiculous thing one has ever heard!” said Andy channelling the late Kenny Everett.

“What about Stanley Johnson up for a knighthood?” asked Mal the inquisitor.

“Point taken!” sniggered Andy.
]]> Tue, 07 May 2024 22:36:55 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5740/grave-mistake-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5740



Tony Robinson looked nervously at the television camera. This was a first even for the ‘Time Team’ and its archaeologists. The deep scan of the Norman crypt at Morlais Castle in Merthyr Tydfil had revealed a hollow
chamber behind the inner walls and the readings for metal possible gold and silver were going off the scale.
Tony genuinely believed they had discovered a treasure hoard possibly confiscated from local Celtic chieftains in the 13th Century. He felt giddy at the prospect of being as famous as Howard Carter, who had discovered the
unopened the burial chamber of King Tutankhamen in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt in 1922.
What treasure lay beyond these limestone walls that had remained hidden for 800 years?
He wanted to be recognised and not just being remembered as that ‘Baldprick’ from Black Adder who was ridiculed and bullied by Rowan Atkinson.
Tony scraped away at the remaining millimetres of limestone rock concealing the chamber and finally managed to pierce its inner layer enough to get a flashlight in the tiny aperture. He had been excited at the potential find and had in his childlike state put off using the toilet in all the fuss- he wanted to be the one to have the fame. Besides, there were no longer any public toilets in the Merthyr Town centre due to Council
cutbacks.
As he peered inside, he suddenly frightened the film crew who feared a booby trap for a grave robber, as he came face to face with a figure of a Norman soldier completely dressed in armour. The shock made Tony piss himself uncontrollably, as the result of a mixture of fear and anxiety.

There was another more welcoming emotion too- relief -as like Magnus Magnusson on Mastermind he had started so he may has well finish.
“ Oi Slackbladder...do you mind ?...You’re pissing on my suede shoes!” said the hatted figure of Time Team regular Mick Aston.
The warm of the yellow liquid on a cold grey day in a Valleys cave was welcome, but pleasure quickly became misery as he had ruined his expensive corduroy trousers. The cameraman panned down at the front of them to compound Tony’s misery. Ever the professional Tony said to the screen “ Be careful if you go into limestone caves as there is a lot of water around that can splash your clothes indiscriminately- drips from stalactites go down and stalagmites go up!” he said trying to bluff his way out of the embarrassment.
“ Oh and be careful of incontinent television presenters too ....always give them room to go into a dig ...in case they shit on you!” said Mick taking the mick.
Tony looked at his sidekick with a stare that could kill. He concentrated on the task in hand. He continued to gouge at the circle of wet rock in a circular fashion with a small hand drill until he had enough of a gap to get his head in.
When he had done so, he placed the torch in his mouth and shone it around with a jaw movement . If he hadn’t had to hold the light source in his teeth he would have been open mouthed. “ Is the crypt untouched.....the Norman seal intact?” asked Mick impatiently.
Tony withdrew his head and pass the flashlight to Mick.
“ See for yourself!” he said almost whispering.
Mick peered through the hole like an amateur gynaecologist and his jaw dropped. He could see row after row of Norman soldiers clad in full battle regalia like they originally wore in the 1066 Normandy invasion.
“ We have found the limestone equivalent of the Terracotta Army!” said Mick leaping on Tony in his joy forgetting momentarily that Tony had pissed himself earlier.

“ This is a living Bayeaux Tapestry....its priceless!” said Mick punching the air.

“ I have dreamt of finding something of this magnitude and historical importance all my life -even when I was a homeless student archaeologist....looking for ‘digs’!” said the one time stand in for Worzel Gummidge.
The overpowering smell of urine reached his nostrils, as he too realised he now smelt like he had trench foot.
Tony & Mick began hacking at the remaining wall to allow full bodily access all the while watching out for ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ style booby traps for intended grave robbers.
Mick half expected a giant ball to come rolling out of the darkness or for a crossbow to hit him King Harold style in the eye.
There was however, a warning written in French on a plaque above the head of the first soldier which the pair took to be William of Normandy.
They guessed this was the case as the towering figure was well over six feet tall and had a massive Eric Cantona- style nose .
“I assume that is William the CONKeror!” laughed Tony slipping back into character.
“ Can you read that sign in French?”
“ Of CORSE I CANNES!” quipped back Aston purtting on a phoney French accent and talking quickly.
“ It is a warning that if the seal of this burial chamber is broken the nearby Hamlet will suffer 200 years of decline, depression , famine and flood!” replied Mick.
“ Bit late for Merthyr either that or someone beat us to it!” laughed Tony his voice echoing around a chamber not opened for over half a Millenia.
Tony checked to be sure there were no trip wires in front of him before approaching the Norman Warlord.
“Look at that armour...imagine the weight of carrying that into battle every day!” he said looking up and realising he only came up to the nipple line of the historical figure.
“ I wouldn’t have lasted long against someone his size!”
Mick too was in an orgiastic state seeing such historical splendour laid out in row after row stretching back into the darkness almost as if the army was ready to march on the command from their leader.
“ We are Sooo privileged to be the ones to find this lot!” he said.
The eerie silence was broken as a whooshing sound was heard as a projectile hit the wall near the newly created entrance in the limestone rock. The normally bluey-white rock was suddenly covered in an explosion of orange.
“ Don’t move or Baldprick gets it!” shouted a Welsh voice from the Darkness.
Mick Aston suddenly realised the projectile hadn’t come from the crossbow of a Medieval army but a more modern source of a paintball gun.
“ These figures and any gold and silver in their pouches belong to us!” said another voice.
“ Who are you?” asked Tony.
“ We are the guardians of this chamber and these soldiers are our ancestors- we are the Normans from Bramble Close in the Gurnos and you are standing in our family grave.!” said the first voice obviously the leader.
“ We are from Time Team from the television...perhaps you have seen us on the Discovery Channel?” replied Tony.
“ No!” was the straight reply.
“ We found them in the same way we ‘found’ those frozen cod steaks when someone broke into the Merthyr Tydfil Iceland store....we call it ‘Findus Keepers’ or you might recognise it as ‘Treasure Trove’ a rule established prior to the coming of us Normans in 1066 under Edward the Confessor.” said the musclebound Gurnos Warrior.
“ You on the other hand are trespassers!” boomed the voice filled with the sound of aggression.
“ Do you know what we do in Merthyr to grave robbers?” asked the leader, all 6 ft 8 inches of him enjoying terrorising the minor celebrity.
“ No?” gulped Tony.
“ We eat them!” said the Big Boss.....” Bones and all!”
Baldrick’s incontinence flared up again and he promptly shit himself.
A small trickle of a brown rivulet rolled down from his Don Estelle-style shorts into his socks...turning khaki into kak.
“ I wouldn’t eat him now if I were you !” argued Mick.
Mick had heard of some tribes in Papua New Guinea being headshrinkers and cannibals, but didn’t think it still went on at home in England & Wales.
“ Do you know what we call you English in these parts?” asked the Leader licking his lips.
“ Long Pig!” said the Norman.
“ Do you know why?”
“ We taste....like.... bacon?” stuttered Tony.
“ Correct....like HG Wells Time Machine we are the Morlocks and you the Eloi...!” said the voice.
“ Is that camera on...filming live to the Nation?” asked the Morlock Leader sharpening a barbecue spit knife.
“ Yes...!” lied the spluttering Tony...hoping it might be his Saviour. 
He knew Merthyr from reports in the Sun newspaper was renowned for having the laziest, un-fittest, workshy bunch of scumbags this side of the Great North/South Divide and had a lower life expectancy than Sierra Leone but cannibalism?
He bumped into the first soldier in the ranks and it fell backwards in a domino effect knocking down row after row of priceless historical limestone figures shattering and cracking them as they toppled one by one.
Tony’s heart was pounding and his blood pressure through the roof- if the Normans would eat him for entering their sanctuary what would they do to him in light of this sacrilege? He suddenly noticed another man stepping out of the shadows who had a familiar rubber face.
“ Rowan....is that you?” asked Tony clutching his chest.
The man responsible for Johnny English , Mr Bean and Blackadder bent over with laugh. He was joined by the fake Normans.
“ No... this isn’t Team Team or Not the 9 O’Clock News ...we are filming but a new edition of Candid
Camera as the BBC has run out of ideas....!” laughed Rowan .
“ Smile for the camera...it’s called Rowan’s laugh in!”
“ You bastard Atkinson....I nearly went the way of Mel Smith then...!” said Tony picking up his slurry filled pants that were hanging low like an MC Hammer video.
Looking at the grey limestone colour on Tony’s face , Rowan realised how close he had been to sending another member of the cast of Blackadder to that great Comedy Forum in the sky.
“ I think we both nearly made a grave mistake.!” said Atkinson.
]]> Mon, 22 Apr 2024 18:45:22 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5739/deaf-on-the-nile-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5739



Cast of Characters
Miss Arly Marble- a Septegenarian Tea- Total Lady from Yorkshire England (drinksYorkshire Tea)- deaf as a post – avaricious reader who mishears everything.
(Glenys)Mrs Eira Ray- an Irish Nationalist Poet who is on the Cruise to Map the Tombs & Pyramids.
(Abbie)Mrs Jane Dough - a retired Dental Nurse with an OCD complex and a limp.
(Alison)Doctor De’ath- A Doctor who switches accents at Will.-
(Curtis)Phil Le Delphia- A lawyer who specialises in Wills etc.
(Jack)Mr Rhodes Drage- an Oxford Professor who has anger management issues.
(Ron)Mr Len Scrafter- a former US American Football Referee, who has very bad eyesight.-
(Phil)Mr John Dough- a self- employed baker from Abercynon, husband of Mrs Jane Dough ( newperson)
Mr Nile Rogers - a honeymooner (new person)
Mrs Chic Rogers- a honeymooner (new person)
Omar God- an Egyptian Boat Crewman (new person or second part)


Opening scene- a Dahabiya Dream Boat on the Nile River in 2024


Miss Marble:“What a wonderful Asian country Egypt is- such history going back over five Millenia!”
Miss Eira Ray: “ Actually, Egypt is in Africa!” corrected the Irish Poet.
Miss Marble : “Who is a Freak?” countered the hearing challenged Miss Marble somewhatconfused hearing only part of the word.
Jane Dough : “Turn your hearing aids on Miss Marble-(pointing at her ears) NO-ONE is aFREAK….Egypt is in AFRICA!”
Miss Marble started to rummage in her travel bag and after a few seconds produced a case ofanti-perspirant called Lynx Africa.
Phil Le Delphia : “Well it is damn hot- he said taking the can from the table and spraying hissweaty armpits- “I hate these warm Countries!” he continued.
Rhodes Drage: “ So if you hate this heat that much… why did you book up a Nile Cruise on this Dahabiya Dream cruise boat …..in August of all times then?”
Phil looked down at his rubber Fitbit which had partially melted in a vain attempt to checkthe onboard temperature.
Doctor De’ath: “96% degrees in the shade- the Doctor said looking at his rectal thermometerwhich appeared to have chocolate still on it- sounds like a Third World record!”
(PoshEtonian accent)Len Scrafter: “Call this heat?.....try officiating at the Pasadena Superbowl in California…..it was Reffing Hell….96% degrees is nothing compared to that final between the MiamiDolphins and the Buffalo Bill redskins in 1996…….”
Rhodes Drage: “Correct me if I am wrong but I thought it was the Washington Redskins?”
Lens Scrafter: “In that Rosebowl- with no cover- they all had Redskins!”As the sailboat continued its journey from Luxor up river, the party of individuals thrown together on a narrow boat tried to relax but find out a little more about the strangers that they were sat around the wooden table with.
Phil Le Delphia : “ If you must know I am not here on a pleasure trip like most of you….I am here on business at the behest of my client…Mr John Dough…on my left , the Sole Director 28of Pudding Club Limited…. he came aboard this ship at first light….you know what baker’sare like….up at the crack of Dawn!”
Miss Marble: “Who is in the Pudding Club and been up the crack of Dawn?” – a lover of gossip and scandal with her Women’s Institute Friends
Jane Dough : “No… Miss Marble we are talking about my husband - a passenger called JohnDough!” said Jane lifting her hat and speaking into her ancient ear trumpet and pointing ather spouse with a knife.
Miss Marble: “There’s no need to shout….I am not deaf you know!”
John Dough: ‘ Well you are doing a damned fine impression then….you CoffinDodger!” shouted the irritated businessman.
Miss Marble glared at John – she had heard THAT- if looks could kill.
Enter to the breakfast time the newly- wed couple.“Do you mind if we join you?” Asked Nile Rogers.The Egyptian waiter added two more plates to the table.
Mrs Eira Ray:“Could I have some fruit please!”
John Dough : “Three Thousand Pounds each for this trip and I can’t even get a bacon sandwich !” He mumped miserably.The waiter bowed and returned with a platter of selected figs, dates and Palestinian not JaffaOranges.The two new arrivals giggled excitedly enjoying their honeymoon experience.“Pass the sugar… Sugar…!” Asked Nile of his spouse.“Pass the honey…Honey !” Replied Chic passing the Tate & Lyle.The other members of the breakfast club looked around at each other jealously.Mrs Dough sighed looking directly at her much older husband John Dough.“You never talk to me like THAT !”“0kay ….pass me the milk you old cow!” Replied the baker without looking up.Mrs Dough passed the milk alright as she poured the entire contents over his head.John Dough didn’t flinch Like Donald Trump he was used to a golden shower. He continued to eat his porridge with the Asses milk dripping off his bald pate.
“Talk about passed your eyes milk!’ quipped Len Scrafter.Mrs Dough embarrassed by the comment- threw her napkin onto the table and stormed off angrily.
Mrs Eira Ray: “Poetic justice if you ask me….you deserved that you chauvinist pig!”
“So I am pig now!” Replied John Dough milk dripping from his head and porridge smearedall around his mouth.“Somewhat ironic when I can’t get any in this Country!”Omar God looked on at the Westerners upset at the mention of the dirty animal that Jesus had cast a demon into.And looking round at the white devils sat around him he could see the results. Did they really deserve to rule the Planet?
Omar God: “Offendi , please do not mention such a dirty animal on my humble boat….it upsets me and my crew!”
John Dough:“Look Fuzzy Wuzzy…I am paying good money for this floating sieve…and I can say what I pigging well want…..when I want ….and I don’t care what you and Mo Salahover there think about it one jot….”
Omar’s face suddenly changed as the Protective Eye of Horus took on the look of the Osiris -the Ancient Egyptian God of death and the Underworld.He was ‘Thothing’ at the mouth at the arrogance of the Englishman insulting him in his own Country and the boat he had lovingly crafted with his own hands. It was all he could do not to put his hands around John Dough’s throat and squeeze the Pilsbury dough out of him. Lens Crafter pulling a yellow referee card from his pocket and waving it at John Dough.“I am booking you….I think you owe this A-rab an apology!”
Omar God: “Thank you Effendi, but I am not an Arab but a Coptic Muslim!” Replied theboat owner.
“Mirror, Mirror on the wall who is the least pharoahest one of all!” Said the poetic Eira Rayglaring at John Dough.
“Typical Brexiteer, still thinks Britannia rules the waves…..I have a message for you John Bull….the Empire ended after the Second World War….if I had my way I would rid the World of all you arrogant English and unify the Emerald Isle in the process!”“ Cromwell didn’t go far enough with your lot!’ said John Dough without looking up fromhaving his gruel.“Here’s your Orange Order …you bloody banshee !” He said picking up a Jaffa and angrilyslinging one at the Irish Molly Malone.
It was all Eira could do to restrain herself clutching her cutlery and muttering the phrase:“Remember Louis Mountbatten Imperialist Englishman!”Professor Rhodes Rage was now face to face and nose to nose with John Dough so close he could taste the porridge.
Len’s Scrafter reached into his pocket and pulled a different card out this time.“Red card for the red coat …..and you Oxford Don......anymore and you will both be sent offthis lovely boat too”.“
I think we need a Ready Break Boyo!” interjected Doctor De’ath separating the two (Welsh Valleys Accent) .“ I thought there was still a special relationship between the US and Britain!” he said trying to appease the pair.
John Dough: “What do you know…you bloody Quack….I bet those certificates in your offices were printed off the internet and authenticated by Former Tory Party Chairman,Jeffrey Archer!”
Miss Marble: “If there is one Nation I dislike more than the Southern English it is their mutant offspring colonists it is those from the New World!” said the Northern English Female Sleuth.“I haven’t forgiven that lot across the pond for tipping all that lovely Yorkshire tea into thatBoston harbour in 1773….those sons were really taking a liberty!’ said Miss Marble handover the silver tea pot pouring out a cup delicately.
John Dough: “ Shut up you old trout….no one cares what you think….and I have got newsfor you …you need to change those batteries in your hearing aids….that wasn’t a silent fart you let out earlier….with table manners like that you need to be sent back to Richard Branson…. no wonder you are still a Virgin and will be returned to God in a box marked‘unopened’!”
Miss Marble suddenly lost her own marbles and picked up a butter knife and started threatening him with a throat slitting gesture like she was a member of the Bloods or the Crips.“Are you determined to upset everyone on this boat before breakfast?” Interjected Nile Rogers.
“If the cap fits!” Replied John Dough.“And I would put one on with if my Missus looked like THAT!’” he said pointing at his newwife.“I have never been so insulted in my life!” Declared the outraged Chic Rogers.“Surely…with THAT face you MUST have been!” roared John Dough unashamedly.Nile Rogers stood up to punch the obnoxious factory owner but was restrained by Lawyer Phil Le Delphia.“Careful …you don’t want to be charged with assault like that Turkish Football Club Owner now do you?”“And you …John Dough as my client…. I would advise you to tone it down until at YEAST  you have SIGNED your new Will!”
Continued Phil.“Yes …ooh ah…think of your high blood pressure!” Continued Dr De’ath ( SwindonWiltshire Accent )The purple faced Gammon just glared around at the crowd of strangers he had already insulted.He looked like he would catch fire at any second.He loved his ability to upset other people and ruin their lives.It is all he lived for -as his lifetime accumulation of bread had not made him any happier- nor had his unlimited supply of crumpet over the years that his money had attracted.It would be a long week on this Dahabiya Dreamboat which would now probably turn into a nightmare.The guests one by one retired to their respective cabins below deck.


Scene Two


Thirty minutes later a piercing scream was heard from down below.It was Jane Dough- who had suddenly become the latest widow on the boat.
The tourists all rushed towards cabin 13-which bore the name of Julius Caesar.Each of the cabins on board the Dream Boat had names associated with Egypt.Ptolemy, Cleopatra and of course the Bangles. First to the doorway was Doctor De’ath, who complete with black medical bag rushed into tothe cabin to find Jane doing an impression of Edvard Greig’s the Scream - frozen in shockwith her hands over her cheeks like a version of McAuley Culkin looking through theNeverland Ranch window at an approaching Michael Jackson.
The doorway soon became crowded as the rest of the passengers and crew arrived one byone.The body of John Dough lay face down on the bed with a knife lodged in his back wedged between his shoulder blades.
“He’s dead!” Declared Doctor De’ath checking the cadaver’s pulse.As he moved the body slightly, the corpse let out a death rattle of his own which sounded like the horn of a cruise ship on the River Nile waking up Omar God asleep at the wheel with a start.“I think it was suicide and not a Murder!” Pronounced Dr De’ath looking at the entry wound of the knife.( Scottish Accent like Taggart)
“Are you REALLY a Doctor?” enquired Rhodes Drage suspiciously.“Please explain how the Hell he could have stabbed HIMSELF in the back?” said LenScrafter though his thick milk bottle glasses…..”
“I can’t see it myself!- although it is definite foul play!”Eira Ray :‘I agree with Mr Magoo here….what did he do ?……fall on the knifebackwards?….it is impossible - as he is lying FACE down!”.
Len Scrafter said what most of the innocent passengers were thinking“Good riddance to bad rubbish….he deserved to be sent off!”
Jane Dough: “Do you mind….where is your sensitivity?….he may only have been my husband for a year …but he didn’t deserve to be murdered in this way!”
Len Scrafter: “ I am a soccer referee …..we DON’T have any feelings!”
Dr De’ath : “We must inform the Egyptian Authorities immediately of the death….mainlybecause I get ash cash for pronouncing him dead….finder’s keepers!”
Len Scrafter: “ He was a goalie as well as a policeman?”
Jane Dough: “ Not that kind of keeper nor a Policeman-He was a baker !- that’s why Imarried him …. he told me he had loads of Dough!”Len Scrafter somewhat confused having been lost in translation.
Len Scrafter : “ But someone said he was a Pig earlier?”
Miss Marble: “ From experience….best not to involve the Police until we know what has transpired…..otherwise we could be held captive on this boat for days!”
Mr Nile Rogers: “ I agree ….if we tell the Egyptian Authorities they will stop the Cruise and ruin our Honeymoon and we won’t get to see all the Wonders of the Ancient World like Karnak and Abu Simbel “ he pleaded.
Chic Rogers: “ Please- it’s not like he was a good man now is it - you all bore a grudgeagainst him earlier!” The passengers all looked at each other and then back at the lawyer for guidance.
Phil Le Delphia: “ Well we could all be accessories to murder if we don’t report it to the crewbut we all have our individual good reasons for the Cruise to continue!”
Rhodes Drage: “What’s yours?”
Phil Le Delphia : “ His cheque for my services hasn’t cleared yet!….and he said whisperingin the ear of Jane Dough ….”His Will states you must survive him by a week before you get to inherit his fortune!”
Jane Dough changing tack like the wooden sail boat on the Nile she was on replied:“ Perhaps we shouldn’t act so hastily after all ….but we need to keep this quiet from thecrew until in six days time we arrive at the Aswan Dam!”
Eira Ray: “ In times of trouble we should do what they would do at the Stormont Parliament Buildings and have a democratic vote or blow up the boat with Semtex and destroy the evidence….I have a friend called Sean Finn you know!” winking with her eye.
Rhodes Drage: “ We could just wait till dark and tip his body into the Nile and report him missing later?”
Eira Ray: “ We wouldn’t want to give a Rivers of Blood speech to the Egyptian Authorities……besides there aren’t any Nile Crocodiles left this side of the Aswan Dam to dispose of the body!”
Jane Dough: “ We could just prop him up in the bed as if he is ill and tell the crew he is not to be disturbed…..I will bring him his meals to our room until Aswan !” she suggested.
Miss Marble : “ But there still leaves us with one big problem….there is still a murderer present on this boat and it could be any one of you lot!”
Nile Rogers: “ What about you….who do you think you are?....An amateur ColleenRooney?”
Chic Rogers: “ Yes…why are you above suspicion …while you point that bony wrinkled finger at the rest of us?”
Miss Marble : “My Heroine Agatha Christie wrote seventy five novels and fourteen shortstories and not once does an elderly spinster turn out to be the murderer!”
Len Scrafter: “ Not even in that Ku Klux Klan based novel? ….Ten Little ....” he was interrupted by Phil Le Delphia.
Phil Le Delphia: “ Us woke lefty lawyers do not use that word anymore ….but I agree withMiss Marble not even Hercule Poirot would point the finger at an innocent old lady….that would be ageist and flawed logic ….besides the noise of her zimmer clumping on this Lebanon Cedar wood floor would have given her away….!”
Eira Ray: “ Coming from Ireland, I have lived amongst murderers all my life so anotherweek or so won’t bother me….can we go to a vote now!….raise your right hand if you agree with the plan to postpone reporting the missing body until Aswan!”
The shell- shocked passengers raised their hands in turn starting with Eira Ray. Then Jane Dough.Dr De’ath.Phil Le Delphia.Rhodes Drage.Nile Rogers.Chic Rogers.Miss Marble.The only one hesitant was Len Scrafter- they all stared at him.
Len Scrafter: “ What ….I don’t want to be unpopular….but on this occasion I won’t be the one to blow the whistle!” He protested.Jane Dough- thinking off her inheritance started subliminally to hum ‘Crocodile Shoes’ by Jimmy Nail.
Eira Ray: “ It is unanimous….we all plead ignorance ….and pretend John Dough is missing until his partially eaten body turns up just like Steve Irwin and we blame the crocodiles and hippos for his death….we just need to remove the knife first and stem the blood flow….DrDe’ath can you stitch him up?”
Dr De’ath : “ Of course…we doctors took a Hippo- cratic oath…we have long been able to bury our mistakes….look how long it took the authorities to catch Dr Harold Shipman!”
Eira Ray: “ Talking about stitch ups ….my Father was a member of the Guildford Four Pub bombings and served fourteen years in jail for an offence he didn’t commit …so it would be sweet revenge to get one over on the justice system this time….in the interim, I suggest we appoint Miss Marble here to investigate this Death on the Nile!”
Miss Marble: “Who is Deaf on the Nile?”
Jane Dough: “ No one Miss Marble…but just like Jeffrey Epstein’s Black Book we do have a John Doe here and unlike Epstein we can’t afford to hang around!”
Rhodes Drage: “Besides they say that once you lose one of your senses the others are enhanced!” nodding at Miss Marble.
Miss Marble: “ Well my investigative sense is already enhanced….I know exactly who the killer is….but the big question is do you? If we all meet upstairs at the dinner table I will ENDEAVOUR to reveal the answer after we have all had the house speciality soup….having been on this cruise several times….it is to diefor!”


Scene 3 - the dinner table.


Omar God and his crew have prepared a delicious lunch of a local Soup delicacy.
Omar God: “ We have copied each of your passports and will return your original credit cards after dinner today….it is important that you all eat the food at the same time …..it creates a family atmosphere and bonds travellers on this unique experience!”
Just like an episode of TV show Death in Paradise, the passengers sat with baited breath hungry not only for food but also to find out what Miss Marble had discovered - she seemed so certain she knew the identity of the killer.
Miss Marble: “ I hope everyone enjoyed their meal ….one thing is certain you will never taste a meal like that again!”
Eira Ray: “ That soup was delicious Omar….what was it called?”
Omar God: “ Cleopatra’s Soup….a bowl fit for a Queen on the Nile!”
Jane Dough: “ It was so moreish ….if only my husband was still alive ….he would badger you for the recipe with his rolling pin cocked!”
Lens Scrafter: “ I have travelled the World …been on cruises on the Panama Canal and through the Amazon from Manaus to Puerto Rico but I have never tasted anything so divine….it even beats our home grown five star restaurants of McDonalds & KFC !”
Nile Rogers: “ If my new wife can cook anything like meal I will be a happy man….only this morning I asked her how she wanted her eggs this morning and she replied….Fertilised!”
Chic Rogers: “Omar God…what is the secret ingredient?”
Omar God: “ Ah…now I recognise that voice…I thought you were calling my name from the Honeymoon Suite earlier on!”
Miss Marble: “ If Omar reveals his secret he would have to kill you all as it goes back millennia- he calls it Gordon Ramses Soup because he says everyone swears by it!”
Phil Le Delphia: “ Well Miss Marble don’t keep us in suspense any longer…who amongst us is the murderer?”
Miss Marble: “ I will give you a few minutes to digest things!”The entire table started to belch & burp- just as is the Arab custom when I good Mcmeal has been provided.
Miss Marble: “ Oh that’s easy….it was me all along!” she said leaving go of her zimmer andwalking upright like Keyser Soze at the end of the film the Usual Suspects.Phil Le Delphia clutches at his throat as one by one do each of the passengers.
Miss Marble: “ Omar here and I set up this little venture three years ago now…we lure people to Egypt….take their passports and credit cards and bury their bodies in the Sudanese desert ….the soup you all ate contained a secret ingredient alright…deadly venom from theEgyptian Asp …the kind that killed Cleopatra 2000 years ago …if you had bothered to learn the Egyptian language you would have discovered that Dhabihah means ‘slaughterhouse’in Islamic - the ritual slaughter of multiple animals at the same time!’
Phil Le Delphia : “ But they know our whereabouts at the Hotel!” struggling to talk for the first time in his life before gurling and choking.
Miss Marble : “My friends at the Kempinski Nile Hotel will swear they never saw you and the US and British Embassies don’t care ….ask Nazanin Zaghari- Ratcliffe…when you meet her in the after- life!”
Dr De’ath: “ That explains it….as his head dropped to the table….I wondered why the trave lbrochure was called the Book of the Dead !”
Miss McMarble: “ Deaf initly!”
]]> Mon, 22 Apr 2024 01:49:52 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5632/on-the-job http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5632



“Good afternoon and thank you for finally attending this Job Start Interview!” Said the Civil Servant.
“You’re welcome Mr Isious!” replied the attendee politely-reading the name badge on the Official- with all the charm of a gentleman that had been to Gordonstoun and then Dartmouth Naval College.
“ Mr Andrew Albert Christian Edward Windsor I presume,…do you have any photographic identification on you to prove this fact?” asked the former DSS snooper.
“Sorry…one doesn’t carry a wallet around with me…money is vulgar…hang on …One has a photograph of oneself flying a helicopter in the Falklands War …would that suffice…is that what you are Sea King?” Asked the eighth in line to the throne of England, passing over a tattered old Kodak snapshot, now yellowing with age.
“Not really but it will have to do…don’t forget you won’t be allowed to vote at the next General Election without proper identification documents you know!” replied the know -it - all Government employee reading from the YouGov site.
“ So why is one here….is one in trouble?” asked the disgraced Royal.
“Not compared to recent events….you are here because officially you have not worked since 2002 when you left the Navy!” Replied the jobsworth.
“That’s 21 years to be precise and you are only aged 63 and therefore still of an age that you are eligible to work!” He continued.
The Duke of York gulped nervously but didn’t sweat it.
“So according to our Government records, you are receiving State benefit from the Sovereign Grant , formerly the Civil List, to the tune of £250,000.00 ….the question is are you actively looking for work?” the interviewer said looking over his bifocal glasses.
“Well ….stuttered the Prince….my Mother has only recently died …!” 
“That was over six months ago in September 2022!” Continued the Questioner.
“And what about the previous two decades….were you just F***ing about?” asked the Civil Servant turning very uncivil.
“Look…one told that BBC Lady, Emily Mattress,  in my other interview that one doesn’t  drink coffee and therefore haven’t been anywhere near a Maxwell House!” denied the Duke.
“So what exactly have you been doing since your last recorded job in 1982?” Asked Mr Icious.
“Do you have a first name ?” Asked Andrew.
“Of course…it’s Malcolm!” Replied the Government Employee.
“May one call you Mal?….Mr Icious?” Queried the Duke.
“Most certainly NOT!” Replied the Job Centre Plus Interviewer.
“This is a formal interview to determine if you deserve to continue to receive handouts from the state!” He continued.
“So other than playing around with your chopper for two decades…what exactly have you been doing?”
“Well…one has been waving a lot …!” replied the Royal with absolute sincerity.
The interviewer furrowed his brow and stared at the Duke.
“Mainly from the deck of the Royal Yacht Britannia…!” he stuttered.
“ Do you know the song a life on the ocean ‘wave’ is better than going to sea?” Said the posh boy.
“Is that why you are called Handy Andy then?….I thought it was for a different reason!” said Malcolm turning the Royal colour Purple, apoplectic with rage.
“Well we both sponge money off the Taxpayer don’t we?” Said Andrew trying to find ‘common’ ground with the commoner.
“ You mean as a civil servant I am obliged to accept a below inflation pay award and work till I am 67 …five years longer than any Frenchman …whilst you live the life of Riley….it’s complete nonsense!”
“Some would say nonce-sense actually!” Replied the Sniggerer.
“And don’t mention Frogmore please….it’s still a sore point with my family!” 
“So are you claiming too for any dependents?” Asked the Interviewer.
“Yes, for one’s daughters Beatrice &  Eugenie !” The Royal outcast said.
“ And how old they…are they still in school or full time education?” Malcolm pressed harder.
“Let me see Beatrice is 34 and Eugenie 32 and of course Sarah my other dependent is 63!” Andrew continued.
“Don’t any of them have their own jobs?” Asked Malcolm absolutely flabbergasted.
After three long minutes of laughing from Andrew he replied “Are you serious?”
Looking around the whitewashed walls of the Windsor Job Centre, he uttered.
“Come on…who set this up ….Michael McIntyre or Ant n Dec?”
“Can’t be Jeremy Beadle….he is no longer about after all!”
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Mr Windsor…I am here to make sure that you find work or we stop your State ‘benefit’ like everyone else in this Country!” said the official in a more Mal Icious tone.
“So what skills do you have?” Asked Malcolm.
Andrew racked his brain and repeated “Waving?”
“There are several job opportunities available working in the Pizza Express Woking Branch….do you know it?” asked the Interviewer.
“No!” Replied the Duke immediately.
“Never been there in my life….oops…on second thoughts one went there with one’s daughter on the night that one DIDN’T go to Tramp nightclub…!”
“What perks do you get ?”
“Well it is a bit like the Hooters restaurants they have in Canada and the US with young girls serving in skimpy outfits only with different ‘toppings!” said Malcolm luring the new Prince of Darkness in to bite.
“Interested?” 
The Duke was now leaning forward at the desk.
Malcolm lifted the telephone up and spoke into it.
“Susan…would you be good enough to bring me in the Pizza Express bakery job application forms for the Woking branch….you will find them under the 
P- Dough File!” 
Andrew looked suspiciously at the Official he had heard that word chanted a lot when he was in Buckingham Palace ever since he had innocently paid Three Million Pounds to a charity suggested by a girl he had never met.
“You are aware that the allegations about One and Miss Go Free were never proved in a Court of Law do you? said the Duke rather testily.
“Not my concern really!” Said Malcolm.
“Do you know why One did that free interview with Emily Mattress?” Countered Andrew.
“Former BBC reporter Martin Bashir rang up the Palace claiming he had further evidence….bloody phoney wank statements….how dull does he think one is? …Princess Diana or something?” raged Andrew.
“Oh ‘hang on’….there is also an International Job going as a prison officer at the New York Correctional Centre….sounds like money for old rope…!”said Malcolm looking at his computer screen.
“ Are you still allowed to visit the United States ….?” challenged Malcolm.
“Come to think of it….One does have a lot of Air Miles left on One’s frequent flyer account to Palm Beach , Florida….but on second thoughts best not to go there again…you know with all those selfies of people One has never actually met….!”mused Andrew.
“Sauna Tester in IKEA in Kyrgyzstan?” proffered Malcolm.
“You could do that no sweat!”
The evil eye from the Royal followed.
“Why does one have to get a job anyway …surely with all those people coming over in those small boats ….they need a job more than One does…after all…One’s ancestors created the British Empire especially for people who DO have the ability to break sweat….!” Replied the Royal in a posh voice.
“Oh they are fast tracked to Rwanda these days…so the Post-Brexit fruit is still rotting in the fields without anyone to pick it!” said Malcolm.
“Do you fancy a try?….after all you have a plum in your mouth most of the time anyway!” He continued.
Andrew leaned in and whispered
“One thinks we both know that neither One nor One’s family are ever going to do REAL work as we are too important to the British economy given the amount we bring in from tourism?” Replied Not so Handy.
“How much is that a year?”asked Mal.
“19 Million Pinds!” said the Royal gurning with the pronunciation.
“And the cost to the tax payer for the Sovereign Grant ?” questioned the Interviewer.
“Don’t know or care!” Said Andrew churlishly.
“It’s amazing what you can find on the internet especially with a Freedom of Information form these days…..try £369 Million give or take a few clocks…!” Replied the clear Republican.
“ So what is your point exactly?” Asked the peeved Royal feeling more exposed than Prince Harry at a Las Vegas pool party.
“Everyone in Britain must now pay their way or get deported to Rwanda!” said Mal 
“That’s the most ridiculous thing one has ever heard!” said Andy channelling the late Kenny Everett.
“What about Stanley Johnson up for a knighthood?” asked Mal the inquisitor.
“Point taken!” sniggered Andy.
]]> Sat, 11 Mar 2023 18:52:42 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5627/badger-honour http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5627



Merlyn Hawke was a predator.
A sick one at that.
He was the ultimate Zooadist- he hated all animals -except that is his two hunting dogs, a lurcher called Addams and a Jack Russell Terrier, named Nipper, because that’s what he did to his Ex-Wife.
Merlyn had a small kennel on some land he had pinched from the Commoners Association on the Penygarnddu Common near Dowlais Top.
He had always been an outdoorsman, with his wrinkled and weathered face making him look much older than his actual  65 years of age.
Merlyn had always enjoyed causing pain to animals, his earliest memory was of his father, Buzzard, encouraging him at the age of four to throw stones at the multitude of rats that inhabited the open sewer of the Morlais Brook, that ran down from Dowlais through Penydarren, carrying the effluent and pollution from a population ravaged by Industrial pollution.
At six, he had already learned the dark art of shooting tree sparrows with his Diana SP50 slug gun.
He enjoyed burning insects with matches and cutting worms in half with a scissors and watching try to regenerate before cutting them in half again.
It was no surprise then that as an adult, he become involved in the local fox hunting scene, not for the Boxing Day pomp and ceremony but he was first to admit for him it was purely to see a defenceless animal ripped apart by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds.
They say that evil isn’t born but made.
Merlyn Hawke appeared to be the exception to this rule.
Merlyn didn’t live like most people in 2023, he lived off the grid- he had made himself a bivouac out of branches and lived off the land in the Taf Fechan Woodland Area.
He had few Earthly possessions but despite this fact he had booby trapped the area around his makeshift home with bear traps to foil the unwary.
His eco-home blended into the woodland with only a Stephen King -style Red Indian ‘Dreamcatcher’ the only evidence of his existence on Planet Earth.
Merlyn didn’t believe in the concept of money- to him it was just a legal fiction- designed to keep the lower classes in economic slavery- he had what he needed from Mother Nature by way of food, foraging for nuts, berries and mushrooms and of course meat from rabbits, voles and fish when he could get them.
He had modelled himself on the Sylvester Stallone character, John J Rambo although without the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Merlyn had never claimed a single penny but spent many a penny marking his scent on the proliferation of hawthorn bushes and ash trees in and around the Taf Fechan River.
Just like a bear, he too shat in the woods and wiped his caked arse on the Dock leaves that were in abundance in his little valley.
Merlyn avoided society like the plague, had never had any form of inoculation as his late parents had not believed in them.
Surprisingly, Merlyn had rarely been ill since he left school at 11 , mainly due to his lack of contact with other humans especially since his estrangement from his ‘wife’, Jane.
They weren’t married in the eyes of the law, but had followed his parents traditions by ‘jumping the broom’ together.
It did however, confuse the Hell out of the Council Street Cleaner.
Merlyn had decided that his dogs were much more reliable and trustworthy than humans and certainly far more loyal.
When they went hunting together, he always ensured that the dogs got a fair share of any catch- both in terms of meat and the marrow from the bones too.
Nipper was very partial to rabbit stew and he would place a bowl out for him once it had sufficiently cooled after transfer from his big metal stewpot.
Merlyn had recently found a little human companionship with a local lad, formerly of Romany extract.
He had taught Merlyn the delights of eating hedgehogs and of course their use as a toothpick.
His name was Perry, which was short for Peregrine and Merlyn had experienced great delight in taking him under his wing.
They both enjoyed hunting together taking Nipper & Addams on long walks to pastures new.
Perry had his own pet , a tame ferret called Flusher- which he had so-named after finding him in an outdoor toilet when he was a kid.
Flusher lived in a side pocket of his camouflage trousers and went everywhere with Perry in his trews.
He still lived with his elderly 40 year old Grandmother, on the caravan park at Glynmil situated between two busy roads on the Slip Road.
He knew that soon he would have to find new ‘digs’ because it was a Romany tradition to burn out the wooden didicoi after the owner had died.
Today, Merlyn & Perry had been up to the kennels early, as they had planned to go hunting together near Brecon and it would be a long days haul, as neither of them drove or possessed a car for any purpose.
As usual the pair followed the line of the River as they headed North.
Not far from Talybont, the dogs picked up the scent of an animal and began to turn in a circle to notify Merlyn of this fact.
They knew that hunting rabbits and small mammals was allowed but certain creatures were off-limits with their dogs, especially when it came to foxes.
Not that the pair had any reservations about the fact- as they would do so undetected anyway.
Lurcher Addams had the keenest nose of the canines - a fact that Merlyn boasted about -claiming that his dog could smell a rabbit fart from five miles away-as long as Perry wasn’t upwind of course.
The pair of dogs took off at speed, as they hurtled up the valley and then pounded up a steep embankment in search of the source.
Perry ran after them but Merlyn being more advanced in years was a lot less light footed.
The pair had stopped near a large hole with the entrance partially obscured by ferns and bracken.
Addams and Nipper were now being restrained by their collars, as they we’re definitely onto something.
Barking and hollering at the hole.
Merlyn suspected that it wasn’t a Warren but couldn’t be certain as to what creature the dogs were sensing.
The hole was larger than an otter’s holt and probably too far away from the river in any event.
He turned to Perry and asked his opinion.
“Not sure ….but I suggest we send Flusher here on a scouting mission!” Said the youngster.
Reaching into the side pocket of his camouflaged trews, he lifted the little mammal out very carefully.
He knew from experience that the little member of the weasel family possessed tiny but very sharp teeth.
Sharper teeth than the zip of the second hand pair of knock-off Levi jeans that he once found in a bin that had taken his foreskin off.
Boy did he curse the bastard that had shat in them and then dumped them.
He lifted Flusher to the hole and he merrily made his way inside.
Flusher wasn’t normally scared of anything.
He had once dispatched eights rats in less than five minutes when he had entered the Waterloo House culvert near Penyard.
The camp had eaten well that night.
Even if the young uns had asked as to why their hedgehog tasted a bit funny.
Perry had laughed it off under the cover of a joke, where two cannibals were in the process of cooking a circus clown.
They agreed that also had tasted ‘funny’ too.
Flusher disappeared from view but suddenly returned as he retreated backwards out of the hole- such an event Perry had not witnessed before.
It literally was a ‘reverse ferret’.
Strange thought Perry.
“I’ll send in Nipper!” said Merlyn.
In through the dark earthen hole went the Jack Russell only to come back out missing his collar and half of his ear.
“Jesus…what’s in there?” Said Merlyn looking aghast at Perry.
It was Addams turn to try and flush out the occupant.
Initially, the second dog made some progress, but being much bigger in size and more muscular, the Lurcher got trapped in the burrow and had to be dragged out by his back legs with blood dripping from his face having been attacked by something.
“Your turn!” said Merlyn barking out an order to his young human companion.
Perry, not being the sharpest tool in the box, felt ‘under pressure’ and despite the obvious risk to his health decided he would squeeze up the narrow tunnel and see what critter was inside for himself.
Like an Egyptian pyramid tomb raider, Perry shuffled his way up the passageway - he was not bothered about being covered in grime or insects -after all he was of Romany stock- but he was apprehensive about what he might be facing.
With a miniature torch in his mouth, he crawled along the earthy tunnel like Charles Branson in the Film the Great Escape-as he reached the end he peered inside and was shocked to see its occupants.
He immediately retreated narrowly avoiding the swipe of a set of razor sharp claws on the end of a furry paw.
Shuffling backwards he made it out of the burrow far quicker than he had entered.
Merlyn was desperate to know what he had encountered.
“Th…th…there is a Q..Q…Queen in there!” Stuttered Perry.
“Queen?…..there are bees in there?” Asked Merlyn looking puzzled.
“No …that bloke from Queen was in there….the one with the frizzy hair and an electric guitar!” Replied Perry.
“How the Hell did he get IN THERE?” Asked Merlyn.
“ How the Hell did he get on the Buckingham Palace roof to play God save the Queen?…I don’t know that either?” Replied Perry.
Merlyn decided the only way forward was that he must investigate the opening for himself.
Perhaps his gypsy friend had eaten too many magic mushrooms and was hallucinating?
As he crawled along the narrow tunnel he began to feel jittery, he was never good with enclosed spaces - he stopped a foot or so before the end of the crawl space and peered into the wider chamber and as his eyes adjusted to the underground gloom, he was shocked to see a rather cavernous drop and even more shocked to discover humans sitting there anticipating his arrival.
There was the original guitar hero, Brian May from Queen and alongside him sat Mike Batt staring back at him with ‘Bright Eyes’ and James Dean Bradfield of the Manic Street Creatures.
“What the Hell are you guys doing in here?” Asked Merlyn in disbelief.
“Protecting the badgers!” Replied May without hesitation.
“Why?” Continued Merlyn still in shock head protruding into the badger hole.
“See I did warn you….said Bradfield to Batt.
“If you tolerate this then your Wombles will be next!” warbled Bradfield.
Mike Batt just nodded in agreement.
“Aren’t you guys worried about getting tuberculosis in here?” queried Merlyn.
“The link between badgers and bovine tuberculosis has never been proven!” raged May.
“If you continue with this line of questioning….we will…we will …Brock you!” threatened the Killer Queen.
Merlyn’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the fact that there was a huge sharp badger claw rigged on a booby trap wire above his head.
“More importantly what were YOU doing sending your dogs into a badger hole…I believe they call it ….badger baiting? “queried Queen Brian.
In the narrow confines of his earthy coffin, Merlyn found it hard to shake his head in faux denial- as he attempted to do so- loose soil fell from the tunnel ceiling onto his face causing him to appear to nod accidentally, as he tried to dodge the dust.
“Get Sett Go!” shouted May and the claw swished across the aperture and with a direct hit scratched both of Merlyn’s eyeballs at once damaging his optic nerves as it went.
The Hunter had now become the hunted.
“You bastards….,” Merlyn screamed as the blood began to fill up in his eyes.
“ Another one bites the dust!” laughed May and Bradfield ‘manically’
“ Karma is a bitch!” spat back blind as a Batt- Merlyn….” I’ll be back with more female dogs and sort you do gooders out once and for all!” 
“Don’t stop me now!….the show must go on!” May sung theatrically, as he applied a giant mole thumper to the trespasser’s head….shooting Merlyn out of the hole quicker than Mercury.
As the huntsman flew past Perry even the two dogs were silent.
The only faint sound audible to both human and canine alike came from the hole and was a trio singing
“We are the Champions ….of the Worms!”
]]> Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:37:27 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5613/a-big-thumbs-up http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5613



Elliott Thomas was a loner.
He had for the entire sixty years of his life lived with his late elderly Mother, Norma, at their remote log cabin home in the woods near Pontsticill in South Wales.
He had few human friends with his ten year old cat ‘Jonesy’, (named after the cat in the horror sci-fi film ‘Alien’ ) being his only regular companion.
Elliott loved that cat and Jonesy loved him back.
Most evenings Elliott would put his feline friend on a lead and walk him in the 
Taf Fechan woodland for the cat to do his business.
Clearly it is not just bears that shit in the woods.
One thing was certain though Elliott was not frightened of the dark- his Mother had taught him that there were no monsters under the bed and that the same things would be still there whether or not he turned the bedside lamp on or off.
Jonesy had grown accustomed to their twice daily stroll in the pine fresh clean ozone of the Brecon Beacons National Park- once in the Morning at 8am and later each night at 9pm.
Jonesy being a cat, didn’t like to defecate in his own garden but preferred to leave his faeces for someone else to step into his second hand Whiskas supermeat and share the love.
Elliott had been left comfortably off by his late parents, with his only expense being having to have his septic tank emptied once a year.
He didn’t pay Council Tax as his Property straddled the border with Merthyr and Powys and he fraudulently told both sets of Councils that was paying the other one - he felt is was unfair anyway, as if he wasn’t receiving any direct services from either in any event.
At the age of 60, he like most people in Merthyr had never held down a job but unlike the majority had never claimed any Government ‘benefits’.
Elliott spend most of his time reading old back issues of his treasured Americana, such as the now defunct ‘2000 AD’ and looking towards the Heavens with his telescope.
He didn’t possess a television set as the thick conifer and fir trees that surrounded his camouflaged cabin wouldn’t permit a terrestrial signal.
Despite it being 23 years since the title of his beloved sci-fi comic had passed it’s sell-by date- Elliott didn’t possess a mobile phone nor a landline.
He loved the concept of the future but didn’t embrace it.
His electricity and heating came via an ancient oil generator but generally speaking Elliott would turn into bed after his evening ‘catwalk’ and as soon as the sun set through his solitary West facing window.
His only contact with the outside world was the cash in hand, six monthly oil delivery and once a week the postman would deliver Mail always addressed to his late Father.
He hadn’t told anyone that his Father was dead and had assumed his identity and National Insurance Number as he was Elliott Thomas Junior.
Accordingly to official NHS records he was over 120 years of age.
There was a pile of letters from the local hospital inviting his deceased father to attend the ‘well man clinic’ which was somewhat ironic as had been dead for over 50 years, killed and buried in the woods after a single blow from a frying pan had done for him, after his Mother had accidentally killed him mistaking him for an intruder when Elliott Junior was just ten.
He had helped his Mother bury him downwind of the septic tank so as not to raise any suspicions on the rare occasion a lost rambler knocked on the cabin door.
Elliott was not just a loner- he was a Ufologist and believed that the Earth had been visited not just once by aliens but several thousand times over the last millennia believing that the purpose of the Blue Planet was as an Alien Ant Farm.
His one true friend, Mulder Rice, who had emigrated to the USA many moons ago continued to send him clippings of ‘Close Encounters’ with Alien visitors from his Roswell home in the Nevada desert near Area 51.
Elliott didn’t believe the official USA Government’s version of events from 1947 that the famous Roswell incident was in fact the remains of a weather balloon rather than the wreckage of an alien spacecraft.
He was convinced that it was all a big cover up.
Elliott was also dead jealous of Mulder’s claim that he had been abducted by grey aliens and taken up in a spacecraft.
He loved reading about the British version of Roswell - the Rendlesham Forest incident in 1980 - when various US Air Force staff witnessed strange lights around their Suffolk Airbase.
Elliott longed for his own close encounter with a creature from another planet and frequently dreamed of experiencing the same.
The young Elliott had never owned a television-only his late Father’s radio with a very limited signal which had ultimately indirectly brought about his Father’s death.
His Mother had been in the kitchen listening to a re-run of Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of War of the Worlds from 1938 and mistakenly believed her prankster husband to be a real alien and whacked him with a Teflon Saucepan across the temple.
Poor amateur astronomer, Elliott Thomas Senior , was seeing a whole universe of unknown stars before his legs buckled from under him, dropping dead to the floor like a version of tragic Merthyr boxer Johnny Owen- only ‘Match(Non)Stick Man- hands closed like a fist.
Such a tragedy had a massive impact on the impressionable Elliott Thomas Junior, as he was instantly promoted to doing all the things ( bar one) that his Father had always done.
It is certain that if Elliott Junior was examined by a psychiatrist, then that would have explained his series of facial ticks and sudden aversion to fried foods.
But after the recent death of his Mother, Elliott’s only companion was Jonesy- the last surviving kitten of a litter of five tabbies who had been adopted by Elliott when found abandoned like Hansel & Gretel in the woods.
He had never forgotten the sound of their mewing in Owl’s Grove and often woke up in a sweat as to what their fate would have been if he hadn’t taken them in that Autumn night.
Every since, Elliott always checked the area around the car park for any strays because he had heard innocently from the local Postman that it was a known ‘dogging’ spot.
Just like the disciples of a Judas goat, Elliott was easily led- except went it came to his body.
Elliott stared at the pile of letters but like most men of PeterPan persuasion, he didn’t want to accept the inevitable in that he was aging quickly.
Nowadays, whilst waiting to urinate at his makeshift wooden toilet, he had become conscious that it was taking longer and longer for his ‘engine’ to start.
And once he was in midstream , he was like Magnus Magnusson on Mastermind in that he had started so he would have to finish.
Unbeknownst to Elliott, he had an enlarged prostate and it was interrupting his rite of passage.
But contrary to posthumous advice from the late comedian Bob Monkhouse,  Elliott was too proud and too scared to have the simple test.
He believed stringently that it was purely an exit and not an entry hole.
Unlike the rock band , Led Zeppelin, he didn’t agree with going ‘in through the out door’.
It was nearly 9pm and Jonesy the cat was rubbing his body against his master’s legs - a sign he was ready to lay some cable.
Elliott grabbed his late father’s Gannex raincoat, last in fashion when Harold Wilson was Labour Prime Minister in the Seventies, put Jonesy on his lead and the pair set off in the direction of Owl’s Grove.
****************************** *(**
“Pass me the paste brush!” ordered PC Wolf Blass of his partner.
Constable Isaac Haynes reached onto the floor of the ‘Jam Sandwich’ police car and dipped the brush into the bucket of Solvite.
Holding onto the paste brush, Wolf Blass grasped the sticky bristles before dropping it on the floor next to the lighting column.
“Nice one!” He moaned, as he rubbed the excess paste onto the grey concrete upright.
He picked up the brush and pasted the Police Notice onto the lighting column next to the Red Cow Public House in Pontsticill, Merthyr Tydfil.
The headline read:
Police Notice:
Missing Hitchhiker, Woody Stock last seen in this village on Friday May 4th.
Anyone with information please ring Crimestoppers on 666.
There was a photograph of the missing hiker replete in his Hippy outfit taken from his drug arrest charge sheet from Glastonbury Festival 2022.
“666 is that the number for the Australia Police force?’ Asked Haynesy the detective.
“Printer Error …I ‘suspect’…but probably the reason we haven’t yet had any public calls at HQ!” Replied Wolf Blass.
“Went missing on Star Wars day too!” declared Haynesy.
“Star Wars day?” Asked Wolf Blass scratching his policeman’s helmet then his hat too.
“May the 4th!” Replied Haynesy.
“Huh?” Said Wolf Blass not following the reference.
“May the Force be with you? Said Haynesy quoting Obi Wan-Kenobi.
“The Force is always with us?” Queried Wolf Blass still lost in the conversation.
“Never mind….no wonder you didn’t make it to detective grade!” puffed an exasperated Haynesy.
“Perhaps we should consider putting up posters when we retire as a part-time job!” suggested Wolf Blass.
“Become Bill Stickers, you mean?” queried Haynsey.
“ We could call it ‘Old Bill’ Stickers?” He chuckled sarcastically before eating the last of his KFC mega bucket.
***********************
About two miles away in the woodland glade near Owl’s Grove, Elliott was excited he could see flashing multi-coloured lights ahead and he knew instinctively that it wasn’t Mr Whippy the usual ice cream van at this time of night.
Tying Jonesy’s leash to a thin sapling, he approached stealthily hoping not to startle the diminutive occupants of the spacecraft, who had descended down the metal steps and gone into the woods.
As he approached he suddenly noticed an unusual smell not normally encountered in the backwoods of Powys.
Unbeknownst to him, it was the Gallifreyan version of chloroform and by the time he had worked it out he was suddenly dropping unconscious to the forest floor.
****************************** ****
“That’s the last poster finished….shall we go back to the station or do you want to chance a visit to Owl’s Grove  to see if that Ice Cream Van is still there!” Asked Wolf Blass.
“ Do they still do alcoholic ice cream?” Asked Haynsey.
“Yes…they do Police ‘special’ versions with 999 flakes…!” Replied Wolf Blass also desperate for a fix.
“Owl’s Grove it is then!” Hands on the wheel trembling with delirium tremens.
****************************** ***
Elliott came round from his enforced slumber and found himself strapped to a medical table.
He was experiencing ‘fifty shades of grey’ alien.
He glanced around the interior of the spacecraft and noticed huge transparent glass cylinders around the perimeter containing many specimens of animal species all floating in a clear liquid.
Suddenly, his nose detected a familiar pungent perfume-like aroma.
Petunia Oill or Junkie Juice to give it its colloquial name.
He turned his head to his right and could see that there was another human male wearing a dirty yellow bandana, a CND tee-shirt and faded blue denim jeans.
He looked out of it - but he gave the impression from his outfit that he was always out of it.
Suddenly, a metallic door slid open and three grey aliens with huge saucer-shaped black eyes and three elongated thumb-like fingers entered the room.
The adjacent Hippy suddenly came alive.
“Not again!” He screamed at the diminutive creatures.
Elliott suddenly began to regret his lifelong ambition to be abducted.
“The name’s Elliott Thomas !” Said the nervous captive trying his best to extend a hand of friendship from Earth to the rest of the Universe from his restrained position.
One of the Aliens ticked off a sheet of paper bizarrely marked NHS with his middle finger.
“ET …I would phone Home if I was you!” Warned the Hippie.
“I don’t have a landline or a mobile !” Replied Elliott.
Suddenly, the table he was lying down on parted and his legs were spread in opposite directions as his lower body was raised.
He could feel his lower garments being removed telepathically and no sooner than they were at half mast then the middle finger of the lead alien began to glow and light up.
The table then turned 45 degrees, so Elliott was now facing the hippie and the smell of Petunia Oil mixed with Body Odour became overwhelming.
The glowing alien thumb like finger then entered Elliott’s rectum and began to burn all as it went higher and higher into the body cavity.
All Elliott could manage to say was:
“Does this mean we’re engaged?
The Alien scribbled something onto the sheet of headed paper before a computer in the corner of the room went into overdrive with more flashing bulbs than a celebrity on a Hollywood red carpet.
“Be Good Elliott…your prostate is fine…but you need to drop 35 pounds…you’re fat!” declared the lead Alien whose white name badge showed he was called Woo.
“Doctor Woo from Gallifrey?” queried Elliott as the straps began to undo untouched by any hand -human nor alien.
“Og ot eerf er’uoY!” Said Woo as Elliott was propelled slowly backwards towards the metal steps.
Elliott had never really reversed himself before, as the Time Lord disappeared from sight as he involuntarily backed out of the spacecraft.
As he reached the sapling still holding Jonesy the cat captive, he was astonished that time seemed to go in reverse.
Jonesy was even more in shock than his human master, especially as the shit he had just laid a few Earth minutes earlier had shot back up his furry feline arse.
The pair then moonwalked backwards like Paedo Pan of Pop, Michael Jackson being led to his cabin by Bubbles the Chimpanzee for their Honeymoon night.
The Spacecraft then simply took off at high speed into the night sky heading in the direction of Exoplanet, Proxima Centauri b.
A few minutes after, the cops arrived at the copse only to be disappointed that the ice cream was no longer in situ.
They were surprised to see however a cat taking its owner for a backward walk on a leash in the woods.
The pair decided that such an unusual event was worthy of further investigation- as they only really walked backwards after a heavy session on the beer at the Merthyr Rugby Club.
As discreetly as two 25 stone policemen could be, the pair followed paw patrol by car until they were forced to park up and follow breathlessly on foot.
Jonesy knew the way back to the log cabin backwards - which was good really - as to the untrained human eye he was in fact leading his human master back to his log cabin home.
***********************
At the Queen Camilla Hospital in Merthyr Tydfil, the Computer in the Proctology Department run by Artifecal Intelligence (AI) burst into life…printing a series of ‘semi- colons’ and colons on the NHS pages marked Elliott Thomas Senior.
Prostate check complete.
Enlarged but not cancerous it concluded.
The report was torn off and then filed by a Filipino Nurse under T.
Jeremy Hunt’s  much lauded reduction in NHS waiting times using  
private ‘illegal aliens’ had worked to the disappointment of small craft watcher Nigel Farage.
***********************
Outside the log cabin the pair of detectives lay in the undergrowth eating the last remnants of their sirloin sandwiches.
They were on stakeout.
“Right…do you want to be good or bad cop this time?” Asked Wolf Blass.
The pair made their way to the cabin door and rapped on the wood.
Inside the cabin, the time warp had rectified itself and Elliott was now moving forward    once again.
As he opened the door, Jonesy slipped outside.
He was desperate to offload his recycled log having been trapped in the environment of the non-log cabin.
It didn’t possess a cat flap but his furry arse did.
He was so desperate to go he could only reach the septic tank area before evacuating his bowels.
“Can I help you Officers?” asked Elliott- face ticking nervously like he held a guilty secret.
“Have you seen this man recently?” Asked Wolf Blass holding up a sticky paper poster.
“ Yes…that’s Colonel Saunders!” replied Elliott innocently.
Haynsey tugged at the front of the KFC wrapper that had become stuck to the front of the Missing Person poster.
“Sorry…not him…HIM …Woody Stock !” Wolf Blass said apologetically holding up the photograph of the Hippie.
Unbeknown to Elliott everything that had happened to him on the flying saucer had been deleted from his memory banks.
“No…!” denied Elliott believing that statement to be true.
“ If you can remember Woody Stock you weren’t REALLY there!’ Quipped Elliott half recalling the strange alien hippy encounter.
Haynsey’s attention was now drawn to where Jonesy was frantically digging trying to cover his shit in his own back yard.
“He was last seen hitchhiking in the nearby village of Pontsticill!” continued the unrelenting Bad Cop, instinctively smelling a deception and second handed petunia oil.
“Sorry …but I don’t drive or own a car!” replied Elliott.
“Are you trying to point the finger at me?” he continued.
Haynsey then pulled his partner’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of the cat and the septic tank area.
Poking through the mud was a bony male thumb.
Boz
]]> Sun, 05 Feb 2023 20:02:41 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5609/tanks-very-much http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5609



“Did you forget something from last time?” Asked Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.
Disgraced Former-British Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, held out the hand he had previously offered to COVID patients in 2020 expecting the President to grasp it.
He declined.
“What do you want Boris?…..did you come to Ukraine to claim ‘Non-Dom’ status like some of your former Cabinet colleagues?” continued the President in impeccable English.
“Don’t mention that weasel Cummings to me!” replied Boris, still stung by the previous back stabbing from his former aide.
“Are you in trouble again and want to distract the public attention?” Asked the wise President.
“Boris….isn’t that a Russian name…as in Boris Johnson, whose Conservative Party have had multiple donations from Russian oligarchs and likes to play tonsil tennis with their wives?” Interrupted former World Heavyweight boxing champion, Vitali Klitschko.
“Not that one….so honoured to meet you though ….always been a big fan of the Klit !” said Boris switching his hand toward the pugilist.
The handshake was once more declined.
“Friend of two beards …Lord Lebedev of Hampton & Siberia?” continued the boxer.
“Shall I punch his lights out Mr President….we ARE supposed to be in blackout!”
Zelenskyy raised his hand for the Southpaw threat to stop.
“Look at that Chicken Kyiv…he is shaking more than a Russian conscript holding a Molotov cocktail!” Continued Klitschko.
“ Did you bring any tanks with you?” Asked the President.
“No …but I assure you that they are on order….I did however bring a few jars containing tomatoes for your civilians to continue taking down those pesky Russian drones!” Said Boris still shaking like Matt Hancock having a cupboard knee- trembler.
“ You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble!” Said Zelenskyy sarcastically.
“No trouble…I put it on my parliamentary expenses anyway!”
“We have invited ‘Biden’ to the Feast - to finally win the Cold War for the West!…surely then we will get our wish to join the United Nations, NATO and the European Union?” Said Zelenskyy hopefully.
“Of course!” replied the professional liar.
Boris looked more sheepish than a Welsh Hill Farmer.
“Sleepy Joe has agreed to send 31 M1 Abrams tanks to add to the German offer of 14 Leopard Tanks so we can decimate the out-dated Russian T72, T80 and T90 tanks on the battlefield and reclaim Donbas & Crimea from Putin the Great Bear!” The Ukrainian President announced triumphantly.
“ And make him more like ‘Winnie the Pooh-tin’ when you, the Victorious Ukrainian Paddington ‘peppers the pigs’ with tank shells?” Replied Boris trying to play to the crowd with his usual unintelligible drivel.
“Any chance you could close the crack in that ‘Iron Curtain’ over there ….as the orange flames from the missile fires are blindsiding me more than Keir Starmer at the dispatch box?”  pleaded the former PM.
“So exactly when will we receive the promised British Challenger 2 tanks, so we can make UK Rain with them ?” demanded Zelenskyy.
“ Or even copy Flybe and impose a no fly zone over our Country!” 
“It will have to be after the release of the Russia Report, the Sue Gray Partygate Enquiry and of course, the inquiry into how so many Gangster Russians have entered the Upper Chamber- the inquiry into the Soviet ‘Crimea’ Lords if you like…!” Continued Boris.
“That goes against the grain!” Replied Zelenskyy.
“Is that a veiled food threat ?” Asked Boris.
“My former KGB contact…oops sorry …that evil Vlad the impaler Putin threatened me too recently ….he offered to send me on a cruise - I thought marvellous…another freebie holiday….but sadly he was referring to the missile !” 
“Did you have any witnesses present to corroborate that claim?” Asked Zelenskyy.
“”Of course not…but you can ask my former editor of the Times Newspaper or Tory grandees Michael Howard and Michael Gove….I never fabricate stories or lie…!” protested Boris.
“Back to the original question Boris….when will we get the Challenger 2 tanks?” Ordered  Zelenskyy 
“Well, the Challenger 2 tanks will take some time but we have some tanks we can offer immediately - they are the Ajax tanks built in the original Donetsk -in the South Wales Valleys!” offered Boris.
“ They are ready to ‘rumble!’ he continued.
“ I have heard of that place….Hughesovska Tydfil ….on a Friday and Saturday nights it is more of a war zone than Ukraine…It is the amateur boxing capital of Wales especially near the Kooler nightclub…I fear to go there on my own!” Said Klitschko.
“Rumble’ alright….those tanks are reputed to suffer excessive noise and vibration and have a top speed of 20mph and no reverse gear !…..my military advisers have told me they are about as useful as PPE from a Conservative Party Fast track company!” Complained Zelenskyy.
“But what you do is to ‘Putin’ your older more deafer Tank Commanders in them from the Ukrainian equivalent of the Walmington-on -Sea Dad’s Army Home Guard- the most expendable ones…like we did with Liz Truss and hide the better tanks behind them…!” Said Boris.
“Who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler?” Asked Zelenskyy.
“ I prefer the comparison to Winston Churchill if you don’t mind!” Replied Boris.
“ He wanted to ‘Nuke’ Russia too …if my reading of history on Wikipedia is correct!” said Zelenskyy.
“And ordered the British Army to open fire on his own people- the Tonypandy miners!” Interjected Klitschko.
“Yes …but at least we Brits are more decent …it’s not like we would ever invade the Crimea like the Russians did in 2014!” declared Boris.
“Now that operation would be ‘unthinkable’! “ said Zelenskyy taking the piss.
“Would you take a bullet for your leader?” Asked Klitschko beating his chest.
“For Rishi Sunak?” Chortled Boris.
“ I would die for my Country like thousands of my countrymen have before me!” said the patriotic boxer.
“ I NEARLY died for my Country when I caught COVID in 2020….in my own version of the Cold War….does that count?” Replied the narcissist serial shagger.
“No!” Said Zelenskyy bluntly.
“Sign this commitment to Ukraine!” Ordered  Klitschko.
Boris took one look at the paper containing lots of clauses all written in a foreign language and grabbed a pen.
“ I don’t do detail….as the Brexit deal and the Northern Ireland Protocol proves!”
“Us True Blue Conservatives are diametrically opposed to ‘red tape’ !” boasted Boris.
“ I assume ‘shchytok tila’ means ‘Free Trade Agreement’ in Ukrainian?” laughed Boris knowing that he had no mandate to act on behalf of the British people anyway- in the exact same way that two of his successors Prime Ministers have.
“There….I have signed it….it’s all there in black n white…or more precisely in blue & yellow!……now where can I find those Babushk’s?…I too want to get inside those Russian dolls!”  
“ Shchytok Tila means ‘body shield’ in English in the same way Lonsdale means below the belt in Boxing!” replied Klitschko.
Boris looked more worried than the time Wife Carrie cracked his laptop password.
“Congratulations President you have your Churchill Tank after all!”

]]> Tue, 31 Jan 2023 20:28:39 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5604/going-spare http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5604



“Oh Harry.. you are so gullible!” Protested his Wife, Meghan lying alongside him in the purple Heather of the Balmoral Estate.
“ I’m not meant to be a gull ….I am meant to be a chicken!” His Former Highness snapped back.
The two were dressed in blue and white bird outfits that Meghan had borrowed from a Hollywood backdrop of the Gene Wilder film ‘Stir Crazy’.
“Let me have a look at that invitation again!” she demanded.
He handed her the expensive card with its emboldened heading.
“ It’s not the RSPB ….it’s RSVP which means respondez s’il vous plait - you idiot-!” Meghan complained.
“ Well it does say it is a surprise party for Dada…and that it is Fancy Dress too!” Harry replied.
“Well it WILL be a surprise when you and I turn up …I mean they had to invite us but they don’t REALLY want us there, after your revelations in your book Spare now do they?” Said Meghan.
“Yes…it is almost as if we have become the ‘black sheep’ of the Royal family!” Said Harry sarcastically.
“Fuck Off Ginger!” came the Princess-like reply.
“Look it says here that we are to come on foot - use the tradesman’s entrance- the one Sammy Davis Junior had to use - to prevent any unnecessary press intrusion for a the event-low key after the expensive Coronation in May …it is the correct date is it?” She continued with the attitude of a menopausal woman with haemorrhoids.
“Definitely August 12th !” Replied Harry ….”I checked that bit….it seems to ring a bell for some strange reason but I can’t remember why!” 
“This bloody outfit is too hot to wear!” Complained Meghan.
“ What are you moaning about now? I thought you being an actress would love to dress up….in fact it ‘Suits’ you!” Said Harry.
The Medusa-like stare was enough, as she began to strip down.
“What’s this?” She said seeing the sun reflect off a piece of metal in amidst the Erica.
“Careful …it could be a land mine that my late Mother was always ‘banging on’ about I witnessed a few of them I.E.D devices when I was hero in Afghanistan…have I told you about the time I killed 25 Taliban?” asked Harry.
“Me and the rest of the World …ad nauseam!” Grunted Meghan.
Harry crawled forward like a commando and began to remove the top layer of the Heather from around the metal.
“The closest you ever came was a Telly Ban from the BBC for bring ‘The Firm’ into disrepute!” Replied Harry.
“It’s okay…it is only part of a stash my late Grandmother’s Sister, Margaret kept hidden around here…look it is a full bottle of a sixty year old whiskey….!” Said a delighted Harry…
“Well we are in Glen Fiddich after all!” quipped the former actress.
“ Oh you are Nut Meg!” Said Harry.
“ You too Ginger…you too!”
***************************
The golden ceremonial coach pulled up on the gravel driveway of Balmoral Castle.
Inside was King Charles III , Camilla, Duchess of Rothmans and William- the self proclaimed Prince of Wales.
“Do you mind…there are three of us in this carriage!” protested William.
His Father having vaguely heard a similar phrase before somewhere, stopped canoodling with his former mistress and now Wife.
Dropping the King Charles Spaniels’ ears in the process.
“I thought this was meant to be a low key affair a surprise party for you away from the constant hounding of the press!” queried William looking around at the journalists and their motors parked in the grounds.
As the footman opened the day from the outside, William could make out the gargantuan shape of former Rotherham Observer journalist, Jeremy Clarkson and Former Daily Mirror Editor, Piers Morgan chatting outside the Aberdeenshire Country Pile.
“ What are THEY doing here?” asked William.
“It’s not really a surprise party….it is a way of luring your brother Harry and his ghastly bride back to Britain to sort him out once and for all…you know from his Las Vegas days that he can never resist a freebie party!” Replied his alleged Father.
“After all it is in his Hewitt blood!”
“Why is the former BBC journalist Martin Bashir here too?” asked William.
“Are you trying to make a statement?”
Outside, Clarkson now the owner of a Cotswold Farm and Stores was talking to the shining star of GB News.
“Haven’t seen you on TV much lately?” asked Clarkson.
“ I was headhunted by Rupert Murdoch for his new right wing Channel GB News!” Replied Piers.
“ Have you watched it?” 
“No…terrestrial television has had its day….I myself am still in the ‘Prime ‘ of my career!” Boasted the former Presenter resplendent in his Top Gear.
“If there is one thing that I love most, since I became a Class Traitor, its the advent of the Glorious Twelfth and the start of the Grouse shooting season!”  he said lifting his 12 bore shotgun onto his tweed jacketed shoulder, nearly knocking his undersized deer stalker hat off his ginormous cow head.
“What time IS lunch?” continued Clarkson.
“I know from experience you get punchy if you haven’t been fed on cheese and meat platters, so I will hack into the Chef’s mobile phone and find out…after all I wouldn’t your modern day Grand Tour to be spoilt!” Replied Piers.
“When do they expect you-know-who to turn up?” asked Clarkson.
“Well the fake invitation said to be hear before 12 Noon but you know those actresses  they like to make a grand entrance and steal the limelight!” Replied Piers.
“Where did you get the personalised barbour jacket from ?” Asked Jeremy noticing the letter MORON written on the back.
“The Head Gamekeeper gave it to me- apparently the late Duke of Edinburgh used to keep this spare in case I ever showed up….I didn’t receive a gong off him during his lifetime …..I was hoping to be named as Piers of the Realm …but even so I deeply honoured!” Replied Piers.
Clarkson sniggered knowing he had one up on the know-it-all former GMTV presenter.
The shooting party headed for the stables heated by a concessionary cold weather payment from Chancellor, Nadia Zahawi.
*********************
“Oh Mellors, Mellors take me!” Cried Meghan orgasimically , as she stood upright against a tree being ravaged by her husband.
“ Are you fantasising again about Tory MP David Mellor?” Asked Harry.
“ No …it is a scene from my new big budget movie Lady Chatterley’s Ginger and just like me …coming soon to Netflix!” She groaned.
“ Time for a third one, as we already have a boy called Archie and a girl called Lilibet it would be nice to have a mixed one and call it after your Uncle Edward!” Meghan continued breathlessly.
“There is no greater feeling than being rutted by a stag in front of a highland herd of deer- take me …my Monarch of the Glen!’ she continued lustily.
**********************
“My heat-seeking device has located them Sir” said the Chief Gamekeeper, Clay Widgeon.
“They are at the bottom of the Glen, near where your late Sister-in - Law Margaret keep her secret stash of booze!”
“Can you narrow it down a bit?” Asked the new Bonnie Prince Charlie.
“Near the area where we raise the Capercaillie flock !” continued Widgeon
“Well done that man….you deserve a reward and I promise that the first £1.00 coin minted with my face on it will be yours!” replied the King.
“Gee thanks Guvnor’ said Clay doffing his cap to the Regent.
“Do I take the high road and you take the low road?” asked Charlie innocently.
At that point Clay was considering regicide but then thought against it.
“C’mon lads and bring that trebuchet!” 
*********************
“Bloody minge!” complained Meghan.
“How long have you been in Scotland now and still don’t understand the vernacular….these flies are called midges not minges!” Replied Dirty Harry.
“Not the flies….what do they call it at the Palace now ….front bottom….the 
Lady Di Tunnel?” Asked Meghan.
“Ooh you can be so cutting at times Meg…that was my mother…the queen of hearts you were referring to…..besides my Father used to call it the Nicholas Witchell!”
“So can you that frostbitten knob of yours has caused me more damage to the Windsors than the Netflix series ‘the Crown!” Replied the Throne Wrecker.
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted as the August Sun went dark.
In a split second, Harry puzzled if there was a solar eclipse but as the dark cloud landed with a splat.
“Let them eat kak!” Declared Camilla as the Trebuchet full of Highland Cow manure landed on the recently copulating former Royal Couple become the Duke & Dookies of Sussex.
“Bullseye- !” Declared Fi Calmatter, the new Groom of the Stool, to the HRH and the gathered cabal of former muckrakers.
“I hate that woman on a cellular level !” Declared Piers…”not just because she opted for Oprah over me but because I couldn’t hack her phone!”
“This is the part I have been dreaming about -parading the new Wallis-Simpson through the streets of Aberdeen naked covered in excrement!” Replied Clarkson.
Dripping in slurry and smelling worse than Gary Lineker’s 1990 World Cup caught shorts, Meghan was fuming.
With steam coming out of her bejewelled ears she wasn’t the only one going ‘spare’.
A new chapter in the Meghan Markle debacle.
As King Charles III muttered from his elevated position.
‘Suits’ you Luv!”

]]> Sat, 28 Jan 2023 20:49:08 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5538/trail-blazing http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5538



The young apprentices at Hoovers in Merthyr Tydfil looked on in awe.
They had heard the phrase, ‘necessity was the Mother of all invention’ and this was in fact the ultimate Mother.
Sat in the now empty Pentrebach Factory, that had once employed thousands of local people, was a brand new car- the like of which the World had never seen before.
If the Sinclair C5 Electric trike produced in the 1980’s was to be the saviour of Hoovers- then this new invention was bound to clean up.
It was the brainchild of local man Ian Venter, who had used the discarded scrap parts of old washing machines, tumble driers and vacuum cleaners to create the ultimate ‘Hoovercar’.
The apprentices could not believe their teenage eyes- it was like something from an episode of Futurama.
A vehicle that could hover above ground – just like the vehicle driven by Luke Skywalker on the planet Tatooine in the first Star Wars film – it really was a ‘New Hope’.
A new hope alright to employment in the small but historic, South Wales Valley Town that had been in recession for over two hundred years.
“I don’t believe it!” said local lad Vic Meldrew.
“There is something in the Air!’ expressed open-mouthed Aled Jones Junior- singing out in his dulcet Valley tones.
The car was not surprisingly made up of metal from white goods and had two vacuum hosepipes as the exhaust to filter out the gases.
To limit the effect on the environment, the patent holder, Ian Venter had it linked to a tank of Lenor, which gave it a softness and a freshness that people just couldn’t ignore.
It had a twin tub engine, which was fuelled by a new secret biofuel which Ian Venter didn’t want revealed to the World, unless he was to mysteriously Die Son.
“Does it really float of its own accord?” asked Vic- doubting even more than his mate Thomas standing next to him.
Ian produced to the apprentice a skipping hoop acquired from the local Afon Taf school.
Just like a magician’s assistant, he passed the hoop over the car to show that it was not being held up by invisible wires attached to the Factory ceiling.
“Unbelievable!” said Chris Kamara Junior.
“There is a lot less Bovver with a Hoover!” said Ian proud of his creation.
“When are you going to reveal it to the general public?” asked Thomas sceptically.
“I plan on a big publicity splash soon and seek to recreate the original bet between Ironmaster Crawshay and Richard Trevethick but this time have a sponsored race with an Tesla electric car retracing the original route from the Tramroad at Penydarren to Abercynon- but using the existing road network- I will of course stick to the Taff Trail- so it is a Musk Win for me!” Ian continued.
“Sounds great!” the wide-eyed teenagers felt like they were witnessing an important event in human history.
A vehicle that was not only eco-friendly but might offer one or two of the acne brigade a chance to impress teenage Scandinavian green Viking warrior Greta Thunberg.
“How did you come across the formula for your bio-fuel?” asked Victor.
“My Grandfather was a soldier in the British Army that liberated Berlin in 1945- he came across a famous German Physicist, Otto Von Jizzmark, who had unfortunately just taken a cyanide capsule rather be taken alive by the Red Army- in his laboratory coat pocket was a series of algebraic equations that Gramps had not seen before and which the dead scientist had been testing on a metal bell which apparently floated in the air unsupported- only the Nazi Swastika symbols could he recognise- but when he came home he gave it to Grandmother who kept it safe- it had weird alien spray writing on it too!” continued Ian.
“Do you think it has extra-terrestial origins?” questioned Victor further.
“Either that or my Grandfather found the original ‘Banksy’… Ian replied.
“But first, I need a volunteer pilot to test drive the car!”
“Any takers?”
All three teenagers shouted ‘Me’ at once.
None of them had full driving licences but both Chris and Vic both had passed their theory driving tests on Glebeland Street and held provisional licences.
Chris had the advantage though, as he was much lighter than Vic and had driven his Father’s milk float around Galon Uchaf on more than one occasion- as his Father needed someone to ride shotgun.
Not to just sit on the front passenger’s seat but also to ward off ‘the Humphries’ or milk thieves that lived near the Frontier Town’s Wild West Trading Post.
The ‘last straw’ for him was watching the Humphries ‘cream’ off all his weekly profits by pinching his ‘white goods and cheeses’ from the back whilst distracting him at the front of the vehicle.
He had got one of them back by reversing over his head whilst he ‘supposedly’ reached under the milk float for his football.
It didn’t kill the young soccer thief but it was very ‘Messi’ and his new triangular shaped head had earned him the nickname ‘Dairy Lee’ locally.
Chris didn’t know it at that juncture but being appointed the first ever test pilot of the Hoover Car would secure his place in history and of course the Guinness Book of Records.
Ian lowered the car to the ground and switched the engine off.
Chris moved quicker than an England Football Fan without a Euro 2020 ticket at Wembley.
As he clambered aboard, Chris was reminded that unlike Princess Diana, he must wear his seatbelt.
Chris looked at the series of dials on the dashboard.
There were red buttons, green ones and amber ones too- but was more scary than the ‘Squid Games’.
“Whatever you don’t press that button with the ‘Red Arrows logo’- or the one emblazoned with the faded words ‘Spin Cycle’….as it turns the car upside-down’ and is only to be used on an official fly past above the Queen of England!”
“Press the circular one to start the engine!” instructed Ian.
“The one marked ‘Up’ is what you press very slowly…if you press it too hard you would shoot up like a Harrier Jump Jet and will be crushed by the asbestos ceiling tiles!” the creator explained.
Chris did as he was told and raised the car three feet up off the factory floor.
All he could manage to utter was the word ‘cool’.
He hovered there suspended in mid-air like a fart in a vacuum.
Whereas he was in fact a fart in a different kind of vacuum.
His pals looked jealously on at the chosen one.
“What is its top speed? Shouted Chris from mid-air of the designer.
“Don’t know yet!” Ian replied.. but I have the ideal test track on the former Hoover’s cricket pitch..I should be able to discover its ‘run rate’ then easily!” he continued.
Schrodinger’s Chris was encouraged to return to Earth and landed like an expert.
“When is the test scheduled for?” he asked excitedly.
“Saturday, so be there promptly for 7am, I don’t want too many of the HGV lorry drivers to see my invention as they should all be stuck in Dover post-Brexit by then!” Ian declared laughing.
The students went home each fantasising about joining the Mile High Club with the young Thunberg for ‘Swede Dreams’.


When Saturday came, Chris was dressed to impress his Teacher.
Dressed in a Second World War jump suit obtained from the Army & Navy Stores bearing the word ‘Stig’ written in Sharpie Black pen on the top he stood with his Uncle’s Helmet ‘borrowed’ from his Vespa Scooter.
In his eyes he felt he was wearing ‘Top Gear’, whereas in fact to all and sundry he looked like a complete pillock, as he ambled down Pentrebach Road past the long red-brick building.
Ian was waiting for him as he entered the ‘Field of Dreams’.
As a child Chris had not been breast-fed but raised on Formula One and felt that this race was his destiny.
His shot to be the new Lewis Hamilton and move all his assets and domicile to Switzerland- where he would live the good life in the land of milk and honey surviving on Milka bars & Toblerones to keep his big race energy up between Groupies.
Chris climbed into the cockpit feeling just like Tom Cruise in Days of Thunder or Steve McQueen in Le Mans.
He was familiar with the controls and upon the lowering of the chequered flag by Ian, he set off in a clockwise circular direction around the field.
His trusty steed handled like a dream.
He felt cocksure with the arrogance that comes with youth that he could beat any mortal in a fair race.
Even a Tesla.


The Morning of the promotional race came around and Chris was sat in his prototype whilst he had learned that his rival was Malcolm Campbell Junior, Junior, from Pendine Sands Carmathenshire- a very religious driver who had christened his Tesla ‘Sunbeam’ in the hope of getting approval from his big boss upstairs.
As everyone knows Jesus loves a Sunbeam.
He genuflected before putting on his helmet, clutching the steering wheel theatrically and revving his silent engine, just like Marcel Marceau would have done.
Chris started to get nervous- looking at the model of Trevithick’s Engine in Pontmorlais he said a silent prayer of his own but given his green credentials to the Greek Earth Goddess Gaia.
The race was on.
Whilst the Tesla sped away silently like a chapel fart, it soon becoming entrenched in Merthyr Town Centre’s demonic one-way traffic system which must have designed by Chris Rea.
Malcolm Campbell didn’t like having to stop at the Pontmorlais ‘Circus’ zebra crossing as high above his head was the red-and yellow brick former Young Man’s Christian Association building once listed now just listing and looking like it could collapse at any moment.
Even the pigeons that roosted there would confirm that it was no longer ‘fun to stay at the YMCA’.
On the other hand, being much narrower and more flexible, the Hoovercar could use all the escape lanes known only to local taxi drivers and car thieves to get ahead as it sped down the Tramroad behind the Red House, Old Town Hall, whilst the Tesla was still log-jammed at the top of Town.
As it sped along, Chris suddenly realised what the environmental benefits the Hoovercar could bring to South Wales.
As it went along it sucked up all the discarded fly-tipped plastic bottles and containers and used them to burn away the air miles.
It was a real shame that Erin Brockovich wasn’t present, as the plastic fumes from the twin tub exhaust filtered upwards and started the fill the hole in the ozone layer as it solidified.
Used discarded syringes were no trouble for the Hoovercar, in fact they gave Chris’ vehicle an ‘injection’ of pace and left the Sunbeam ‘Chasing the Dragon-Park Silver Machine’
Sweeping and cleaning as it went, it would have saved the Council a fortune in street cleansing- if only they hadn’t stopped street cleansing due to austerity measures five years before.
Flying across the junction markings without stopping, just like the average Audi driver, Chris sailed on passed the temporary car park at Tesco that has been up for over two decades.
Using the pavements and side alleys he flew on without impediment as he made much swifter progress than the conventional cars gridlocked and frustrated by streets and lanes designed for horses and carts.
Being faithful to the route taken a few centuries back in Victorian Times, he was cheered on by a time-travelling member of the Conservative Party replete in Top Hat, tails and pin stripe trousers all laid out for the Right Honourable Member for Somerset North by his Nanny that Morning.
He made good time whilst his race rival was trapped in the Wacky Races behind the Merthyr Tydfil version of Penelope Pitstop, busy putting on her make-up in the rear-view mirror.
Sounding his steering wheel horn, Campbell received a dirty look that would have put Medusa the Gorgon to shame.
Chris had now reached the Rhydycar zebra crossing and floated across the road, narrowly dodging myopic pensioners who only passed their tests when accompanied by a leading man with a white flag and cyclists from the Taff Trail who refuse to dismount or slow down.
Complete cycle paths the lot of them.
As he passed over the River Taff, he admired the number of migratory supermarket trollies caught up in the torrent, that hadn’t yet reached the Merthyr salvage yards in Penygarnddu.
Now on the Taff Trail behind the Rhydycar Leisure & Swimming Pool which sadly had built too small to host Olympic Competition, he began to become worried that he would run low on fuel but fortunately there was plenty of nitrogen and methane available thanks to irresponsible dog owners in the form of discarded dog-shit.
Chris had once thought that dogs were dumb animals but realised that he had never ever witnessed a dog stepping in human shit.
His machine, originally modelled on the Sinclair Trike, had a top speed of 20mph and floating above the tarmac he didn’t need to worry about lumps or bumps unlike the Tesla, who had to negotiate the surface roads with less tarmac than the ones in Kiev during the Russian Invasion.
Malcolm Campbell loved a challenge but driving on these Valley roads left him shaking more than Billy Connolly coming back from a wanking contest.


Unfortunately, his progress was also hampered by the knock- on effect of roadworks on the A465(T), the A4060 slip road, the A4102 at Jackson’s Bridge in Georgetown and the A470 (T).
He couldn’t understand why all works were scheduled for the same date- especially on the day of the exhibition race.
The effect was total gridlock on streets designed for horses and carts with only fools and horses driving them.
Even the speed camera van had given up the ghost – there would be no soft motorist targets with cars moving less than 10MPH.
Malcolm Campbell was however, very competitive and even more resourceful.
As new laws had been brought in banning the use of handheld mobile phone devices in moving vehicles- he realised that there was still a loophole in the law, sat in his log-jammed car he googled the sound of an ambulance siren and set his phone to the loudest noise setting.
He knew in a lawless Town like Merthyr Tydfil it was no good calling up a Police Siren, as it was an everyday sound and no-one would voluntarily pullover to assist the Cuntstabulary in the lawful execution of their duty.
He would now drive like he did on Gran Turismo, forcing vehicles off the road in a fraudulent ‘Dai- version’
Using this technique, he soon reached the ‘A470’ at the Trago Mills roundabout glancing up at the grey towers of Merthyr’s version of Cinderella’s Palace.
He was now able to start making ground on the Hoovercar, which was now speeding down the Taff Trail, passed Upper Abercanaid- with hums and arias, as it nodded in the direction of its birth place and the land of its Father.
The Hoovercar was now low on fuel as a local charity ‘Bags under your Ayes’ had been busy clearing the illegally dumped plastic containers, beer cans and soft drink cans tipped merrily down the side of the embankments of the Taff Trail by a local publican enraged at the cost of commercial waste collection by the Local Authority.
The Gethin Woods now looked like it was sponsored by Pepsi to the Max and of course Red Bull.
The Charity collection organised by a group of local politicians to assist with a donation to the MP’s ‘Commoners’ bar at Westminster.
After all, the cost of living crisis meant that the price of alcohol had risen, together with sharp fuel cost rises and with a mere 15% increase on their salaries some MP’s were struggling to heat their stables effectively.
The Hoovercar began to chug and splutter like Boris Johnson at the dispatch box, as the rubbish began to run out.
Chris scanned the immediate location and suddenly struck gold as a local fly by night removal company had tipped a load of unwanted items previously destined for the Antiques Roadshow which had been looted years ago from Cyfarthfa Castle archives.
A signed first edition copy of Charles Darwin’s book the Origin of the Species – previously thought to be a study on the finches of the Galapagos Islands- but was actually about the building of the houses in the Gurnos and the Council policy about bringing up the standard of the poorest by rehousing gypsies and battered wives amongst the managers of the Imperial Chemical Institute (ICI) and their Stepford Wives.
Next came, Lord Nelson’s telescope and eyepatch last used in the 1805 Battle of Trafalgar.
Then to boost the fuel was fed the handwritten missing ending for Charles Dickens’ the Mystery of Edwin Drood together with the ostrich feather used to pen the same.
Dozens of stuffed animals-a taxidermists’ nightmare- ‘stuffed’ into the fuel tank as the Hoovercar regained the initiative on the Tesla.
The Taff Trail ended and the two vehicles came side to side on the Cynon Valley Road as the Mountain Ash Dash intensified.
Who would cross the finish line first?
Rounding the bend serving the Mountain Ash Rugby Club the rivals suddenly realised that there were pedestrians in the road ahead.


Joe Rassic-Park had a chip on his shoulder.
His Mother had in the 1960’s, whilst pregnant, taken a drug to ease her morning sickness and as a result he had been born with two tiny arms but oversized hands.
He looked like a cross between Kenny Everett character Brother Lee Love and a tyrannosaurus rex.
Today, he had a chip on his shoulder principally because that was the only way he could eat his food.
The environmentalist and green campaigner had tried to make a difference all his life raging against Big Pharma and the Multi-National Corporations that were destroying our Planet with their plastic pollution, car fumes and engineered wars.
This is why at the age of Sixty, he had joined the protest group Insulate Britain to become a cool cat.
Money was no longer of any concern to him following his early retirement – as he had just discovered that his occupational pension pot was empty after being looted by the Trustees, and who were now based in the Cayman Islands- so angry that he had just decided his moral crusade was justified for the next generations of children that regional and National Governments were failing.
Despite having a small amount of money, he was in fact insolvent.
Stuck to the tarmac road by his face, he refused to move as he lay right eyelid glued to the road surface of the A4059 Mountain Ash Road.
If only inventor Percy Shaw could see the alternative cat’s eye stuck in the middle of the highway.
Little did Joe realise that today like suffragette Emily Davison, he would literally die for his cause.
The glass of water perched next to him to ease his dehydration began to ripple.
Something big was coming his way- he couldn’t hear it but he could sense it.


Since the introduction of electric vehicles and their silent running, pensioner deaths had trebled.
The Government’s master plan of Covid Herd immunity had saved the Non-Dom Chancellor of the Exchequer at Westminster a fortune in pension pay- outs so much so he could afford tax cuts for the Times Newspaper ‘Richi’ List.
It was now onto the next phase of the cull of the surplus population, the roll-out of fully driverless cars and smart (no- hard shoulder) motorways.
The planned reduction of the number of cars on our roads by lethal but legal means.
Malcolm Campbell’s silent machine of death had already left a trail of dead hedgehogs in its wake.
The poor creatures had merely stepped out from their Chris Packham Springwatch nature-built apartments to meet with their friends for a short time but instead ended up visiting their ‘flat’ mates.
Now it was the turn of the ‘Swampy’ pensioner to fill the potholes.
The Tesla ploughed into the OAP shocking him than a monkey in a test laboratory experiment.
Never mind being tasered by the Met Police- being Tesla’d was much worse.
Chris in the Hoovercar just floated over the human roadblock and crossed the winning line to the sound of a loud cheer from his sponsor- Ian Ventor.
In triumph however, Chris made one fatal mistake.
Glancing back over his shoulder and giving his rival the bird, being a youngster he took his other hand off the wheel for a mobile phone selfie to upload to Instagram and just like 1970’s T-Rex frontman, Mark Bolan ploughed straight into a Mountain Ash tree the village was named after.
That too was to be his biggest ‘hit’.
His car burst into a ball of flame at the edge of the Taff Trail.
To the horror of Ian Ventor, the plastic prototype melted quicker than a Kardashian standing too close to an open fire.
Chris had become a Trail blazer indeed.



]]> Thu, 14 Jul 2022 22:23:34 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5367/so-near-so-spar http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5367
“What time is he coming?” questioned retired nurse, Hannah Philatic.
“For the third time this Morning… 11.00 am!” replied her Partner-in-Crime, Joe Boxer.
“ I am the one that suffered multiple blows to my head not you!” he said hands shaking violently.
“Sorry, but it’s this Long-Covid…it’s a bugger with your memory!” said Hannah.
“ And I am nervous too!” she continued.
Hannah checked the letter headed by a green Westminster Portcullis.
“I never thought that I would get to meet the Health Secretary, Mr Handjob, in person!” she squealed excitedly.
“It’s not Hand-job -It’s HanCOCK !” scolded Joe “And don’t call him that for F***’s sake or he will definitely stop our funding!”
Following his retirement from the ring, due to the early onset of Parkinson’s disease, Joe and his business partner, Delroy Boyd from the house clearance business, they had turned into a pair of entrepreneurs.
Movers AND shakers if you like.
Their latest venture had been to turn the former Green Boxing Hall at Eighth Avenue into a vaccination centre for the local population on the Galon Uchaf Estate.
It was known locally as Jabber the Hut.
The Secretary of State for Health was so impressed with their reported performance levels in administering the vaccine shots that he wanted to see the place for himself.
Wales was ahead of England yet again and not just in terms of Six Nations Rugby and he wanted to understand why.
It was also an opportunity to turn yet another traditional Labour heartland into a Tory Blue voting area.
After all, Merthyr Tydfil had voted on a majority basis for Brexit – principally because they believed the Conservative lie that they would be able to stop immigration.
If there was one thing the residents of the Estate did not want, it was Foreigners coming over here and taking THEIR benefits.
Considering there were only a thousand residents within Motability scooter battery distance, they had done very well in their returns to the Department of Health.
Especially as there was only 500 people actually living on the Estate.
To ensure they were AL L inoculated within a week was extremely impressive and worthy of praise from Central Government.
After all, large swathes of the Country were misled into believing that the vaccine was made up from a combination of dead baby stem cells, Bill Gates Spunk, Arsenic and a tracking device.
Certain sections of the great unwashed didn’t believe that there was in fact an invisible germ that was killing them just because they were all obese.
Besides who wanted to live to the age of 35 anyway?
These people didn’t want any microchips, unless of course they were from McCain that is.
Nor did they want anyone checking on their every movement, whilst they were on Facebook or their Mobile Phone.
How else could they moonlight as a window cleaner, painter, hairdresser or nail beautician otherwise?
Their employee-Hannah was a large lady indeed.
Like most ex-nurses that had actually survived the pandemic, she was grossly overweight.
Her arse was so big that you could balance a cup of coffee on it without her knowing.
In contrast, Joe being an ex-pugilist was built like a split-pin.
His body was his temple and his claim to fame was that he had once had a part as body double for World Champion Merthyr boxer Johnny Owen – in the film ‘Snitches get Stitches’.
Both Joe and Delroy had been forced to live by their wits.
Dodging and weaving in the Business World just as they had in the ring.
It was strange how close the two former boxing rivals had become after retiring from taking low blows, and had both come up with joint ventures that had kept them one step ahead of the local rent collector.
After throwing in the towel, they had become designers of men’s underwear- and marketed a brand of men’s underpants that stretched automatically as they bent over.
It was named after a ‘left/right combination’ of famous people.
A Labour politician and a millionaire boxer.
It was goodbye to Builder’s cleavage when you owned a pair of ‘Wedgie Benn’s’.
Facebook had afforded them the business opportunity their parents and grandparents never had.
But the pair never rested on their laurels.
They were always looking to their next big venture and they realised that the time was right, just like everyone in the Government to cash in on the Tax-Payer during the pandemic.
They saw it as a way of getting some tax money back from Central Government -even if they hadn’t actually paid any themselves.
It was surprising what a bout of hysteria in the media could do to drum up business.
They had tried their hand at creating PPE out of old boxing head guards and gloves, but found that no-one in the local Queen Camilla hospital wanted to go into work looking like Muhammed Ali.
Not even Doctor Muhammed Ali.
The next best thing was to create their own supply of vaccine to the Third World – or Galon Uchaf- as it was known locally.
They had an insider in the hospital- a friend of Hannah, who was happy to smuggle a phial of the experimental Oxford Vaccine out and a Sixth- Former in the local Penydre School with a C at O Level in Chemistry to create their own knock-off version.
They could then undercut the competition by reducing manufacturing costs and jump the waiting list by purchasing directly from the pair under their Company name of Jabber the Hut Limited.
The advert on Facebook for their product boasted of a special ‘Happy Hour’ deal.
They had even added their own ingredients to help fight off the different variations of the germ that had developed in the former United Kingdom.
The Government recommended that a person be given a first shot of the vaccine which could provide up to 75% cover for six months and a further jab within twelve weeks to bring up immunity to 93%.
With the Jabber the Hut vaccine- which contained coffee and diet-coke and crystal meth- two shots was never enough.
Some people just coming back for more as they had become addicted.
Now in Galon Uchaf money had gone by the wayside.
They had reintroduced the barter system, as it didn’t affect their state benefits.
There was no Universal Credit level cut-off when it came to the number of chickens that you kept in the garden.
Outside the hut, queues were starting to form- all two metres apart that had been spray painted onto the pavement like a Premiership referee marking a wall from goal.
The fear of the Kent variant, meant that long queues just like that of the HGV lorry drivers near Dover were forming all the way down First Avenue.
A black limousine, now missing one of its wheel trims, arrived at the Hut and out stepped a weasel looking man surrounded by more bodyguards than Maria Carey.
He was ushered into the Hut to meet the owners but obviously to avoid shaking their hands.
‘Good Morning….said Hancock swiftly changing into a white lab coat for the photo opportunity before adopting the Tory Power stance which made him look a politician desperate to hold onto his deposit.
“Welcome Matt!” said Joe hands already shaking but not making contact.
Hannah curtsied and the sound of ripping of material could be heard in the street.
“I always wanted crotchless panties Mr Cock…!” she blurted out without thinking.
The glare from both Joe Boxer and Delroy Boyd was worse than the face-off at the Nigel Benn and Cwis Eubank fight.
Hancock then point up at the Price Tariff Board and enquired if it was a joke designed to raise spirits.
He read aloud:
‘One shot of Astra Zenaca for £3.00 or two for a Pfizer’.
He was surprised to also see a list of vegetables underneath and their vale on the Galon Uchaf equivalent of the FTSE index.
He then enquired as to where the vaccine was stored as it had to be below minus 80 and minus 60 degrees.
Joe opened the door and proudly displayed his storage area.
It was a former ice-cream van marked on the side as ‘Crony-Bell’.
“If you are a good boy you can have a ‘Moonshot Rocket Ice’ with it in exchange for one turnip- thanks to you we have lots of lolly!!!!” said Anna trying to be helpful.
“What about people who do not possess green fingers?” chuckled the Health Secretary.
“Then we have a watered-down version of Astra Zenaca for them…in Wales -we call it the ‘Poor Dab’!” replied Del.
“We do however warn them that there are some potential side effects- such as not being able to ever work again but strangely enough most people in this area are happy to accept such a risk!” interjected Joe.
“Who administers the vaccine?” asked Hancock.
Hannah stepped forward wearing a pair of Alan Titchmarsh gardening gloves and a phantom of the opera mask autographed by Michael Crawford covering her eyes only.
“Me!” she said proudly.
“I used to be a nurse and I had the pleasure of training under my good friends Baroness Munchausen Beverley Allitt and Dr Harold Shipman in Manchester!” Hannah continued.
“So that is how you got on the approved supply list….a Baroness!....of course!” said Hancock.
“Of course, I only put this gear on not to frighten the kids, as I tell they that I am really the ‘Masked Syringer’ off the Saturday Night Show of the same name!” continued Hannah.
“Although a lot of them already know how to find a vein, lots of them have seen their parents chasing the Welsh Dragon!” she continued in a matter of fact fashion.
“That was why we set up this Gym in the first place…interrupted Joe Boxer…to teach the females in the families how to dodge punches in the ring….otherwise it would be a bloodbath in this pandemic!”
“ A regular Quentin Quarantino!” if you like!” interrupted Del pleased at his comedic ad lib.
“Do people REALLY live like this in the 21 st Century?” asked Hancock of one of his aids horrified at the prospect.
“Never been to Merthyr before then Butt have u?” said an elderly woman sticking her head around the door.
“Who the Hell are you?” asked one of the Bodyguards from Serco.
“Mrs Paula Grady!” fired back the resident.
“Who wants to know?” she spat back with all the viciousness of a cat in the middle of a cat fight.
“Her Majesty’s Health Secretary” came the reply.
“Look…replied Paula….I queued up overnight to make sure that I was first in line for the jab…to give you an idea of what it was like - imagine the queue for Wimbledon or outside Harrods on Black Friday before Christmas….except with more Police sirens and Fire Fighters being pelted with stones!”
“Or in Merthyr the queue for the Dole Office!” she continued.
“Please let her in Officer….she has been outside since 5am in sub-zero temperatures…she will be our first guinea pig of the day!” said Hannah.
Joe tried to distract the Health Secretary from that comment.
“Before we inject them with the vaccine…we try to put the patient at ease by asking a few simple questions!” Joe said showing his authority.
“Name?” asked Joe shaking whilst holding the clipboard giving the appearance of the former football scores vidiprinter.
“Paula Grady!” replied the elderly woman.
“Address?” asked Joe.
“53 Thirteenth Avenue!” she replied.
Joe raised an eyebrow suspiciously as the Avenue count only went up to Twelve.
“Age?” Joe questioned further.
“Eighty years of age!” replied the old crone.
“Date of Birth!” he continued left eyebrow raised higher than Everton manager, Carlo Ancelotti.
“01/04/1991…sorry I meant 1941!” said Paula.
Joe reached across and snatched at the elderly woman’s beard sharply.
It revealed a much younger woman in her early thirties.
“Well Mrs Doubtfire…where do you think this is?..... America?” he said booting the woman up the arse out through the door of the hut.
“I thought it was suspicious….no-one has all their OWN teeth at that age on this Estate!” said Joe triumphantly.
“When can I have my vaccine? Because I am in category Ten!” moaned Paula (whose real name was Dani La Rue).
“Come back after Meghan Markle gets accepted back into the Royal Family with open arms!” said Joe.
“Come back any sooner and you will get a different jab!” shouted Delroy, as the attempted fraudster slunk down the street.
“So near…. so Spar!” Paula moaned shaking her head to the next imposter in the queue.
“I think we have seen enough!” said Hancock signalling to his lackies.
“What about our licence….will it be renewed?” asked Joe nervously.
“Can you make a donation to the Conservative Party?” asked the Health Secretary.
“Will a sack of turnips, some prizes from Castle Bingo and a chicken do?” asked Hannah.
“ I think we already have enough vegetables in the Cabinet already!” came the reply.




]]> Wed, 10 Mar 2021 19:59:34 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5362/black-black-friday http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5362


Statue of Eddie Thomas, Merthyr Tydfil cc-by-sa/2.0  - ©  Ian S  -  geograph.org.uk/p/4001542



“ When shall we three meet again?” asked Daniel Druff dramatically.
The remaining two members of his drama group at Merthyr Tydfil Technical College stared back from their online Zoom meeting and shrugged their shoulders.
“I think it best if the ‘Read Brigade’ meet in person to discuss our proposal, in order that no third party can infiltrate our Group or stop our plan…agreed?” continued Daniel.
His fellow Brigade members of Grant Aide and Douglas Deep nodded their approval from their respective bedroom laptop computers.
“5.00 am at the statue?” he suggested.
Daniel was the ringleader of a plot to get even with society over the issue of the unfair treatment of Black & Asian people caused by the British Empire and all it stood for.
His lecturers (when he saw them on the Merthyr Tydfil equivalent of the Open University) called him Danny Boy.
Post-Brexit English Nationalism was on the rise and like everything in this World this was the check and balance.
Danny Boy was the antidote to fascism.
He wanted to push back.
Daniel was so incensed after watching the 1970’s Alex Halley mini-series ‘Roots’, that he felt that he should make his stand with his Bristol brethren, who had demolished slave trader and capitalist Edward Colston’s statue and thrown it into the harbour.
Daniel wanted to do the same with other forms of slavery- just like the 19 th  Century English Ironmasters, Crawshay, Guest & Homphfrey had done to Dowlais, Cefn Coed & Merthyr Tydfil but couldn’t find any statues to tear down of these evil tyrants.
The ‘Read Brigade’ decided that they would have to make do with the former Coal Mine- Owner Eddie Thomas statue in Georgetown- on the justification basis that he was always surrounded by people with black faces which were beneath him.
They felt that miners should be included in the definition of BAME- Black and Mineral Extracts- after all the history books showed that the members of the NUM had taken ‘Rodney King-style-beatings’ from the Police at Orgreave Colliery and other places around Great Britain in 1984.
There was no doubt that Daniel Druff had rebellion in his blood.
His family had descended from Irish immigrant ancestry that had come to Merthyr to work in the Ironworks after the terrible Potato Famine that had hit Ireland.
He was fed up of decades of Tory Rule and was particularly incensed, as the current Government had taken away his one chance of going abroad by removing the Erasmus Programme Post-Brexit.
No longer could he or his fellow students have the freedom to roam Europe or have roaming data but the inept handling of the coronavirus issue by the same Eton Mess,  had meant that a visit to the European Continent was now out of the question for the foreseeable future.
He was determined to follow in the footsteps of the Chartists, who had met at the nearby Cambrian Arms Public House (currently closed in its modern- day form of the Lantern) and raise his own ‘Read Flag’ of defiance to the powers that be.
5am was a little early but if he wanted his disciples to be ‘Woke’ then this the appropriate time.
Besides, they would get a march on the Police at that time in the Morning, who were probably dozing in their vehicles on night shift.
Z ZZ- Cars most likely.




The call sign of the Read Brigade was that of an owl.


They really did give ‘two hoots’ to make sure their subversive agenda was met. 
They had all agreed to dress the same.
Balaclava Road black ski-mask and khaki camouflage coats with tracksuit bottoms for warming their hands down the front- in true Gurnos tradition.
They wanted to give the appearance of Irish Terrorists but not too fashion trendy-they didn’t want the Sun newspaper to refer to them as the ‘New Look’ IRA. 
Daniel was first on the scene and had brought with him the tools for the job.
His neighbour’s van had a sticker on it saying that no tools were left overnight in this van.
Daniel had made sure this statement was true by pinching them.
If there was one thing young Daniel had taken from his schooling at Penydre High School, it was his ability to break into vehicles.
He had a jack-hammer, sledgehammer (once registered to one Peter Gabriel) and a series of guy ropes. 
He stood next to the tall figure of Eddie Thomas former boxing promotor, mine-owner and former Mayor of the Town.
He stood hands out as if sparring in the air.
Daniel was determined that this stand would make a show that the underclass of Merthyr Tydfil had risen again, once more against their puppet masters in Westminster and Cardiff.
They no longer spoke for him.
Talk and debate never got anywhere- it was time for direct action.
Grant was second to arrive and hooted loudly before he emerged from the thick bushes on Avenue De Clichy, left to go wild after the initial landscaping budget had run-out.
That was the way with Merthyr.
Nothing was ever maintained the way it should be.
Always cutting corners and opting for cheap rather than quality.
Grant had his own hidden agenda.
He wasn’t as committed to the cause of his fellow students as Daniel was.
His plan was to achieve notoriety and achieve a career path of his own.
Activist.
Media Exposure.
Reality Show influencer.
Strictly Come Dancing.
I’m a Celebrity get me out of here.
Welcome Break Magazine Cover model.   
Retire to Emmerdale.
Unlike Norwich Union- Grant really wanted to make a drama out of a crisis.
With that, forgetting to hoot came Doug Deep.
But then again there was little need -as you could hear him coming from a mile away, after all it is difficult to silent pushing five stolen Iceland trollies.
“ It’s no wonder Peter Andre is ripped….pushing this bloody lot uphill from Town!” he said gasping for breath like an asthmatic smoker with one lung.
“That Long- Covid really takes it out of you!” he rasped noisily.
“What’s that Gibberish written on the front handlebar?” asked Grant.
“Bee Gee language of course from the Isle of Man!” replied Danny Boy pulling their legs.
Grant and Doug looked blank.
“Welsh…c’mon boys it’s your Mother tongue!” said Daniel.
“What does it say then?” asked Doug.
“I have been trying to read what it says while I was pushing them!” he continued.
“May contain horsemeat!” stuttered Daniel trying to convert it into English for the pair of numbskulls.
“That’s not horsemeat!” proffered Grant as he pointed into the final ‘fifth columnist’ trolley.
“What the F*** is that!?”  asked Danny.
“It’s my Jamiriqui hat for the start of the Friday, Bloody Friday rebellion….I bought it on e-bay for £5.00….only cost me £40.00 in postage too….bargain…!” replied Doug.
“Besides, you told me that you wanted us to get on national television and what better way than wearing a Red Indian Buffalo Hat?” Doug replied.
“Didn’t you think we would lose the support of the vegetablists?” said Danny wisely.
“Most of Merthyr is now vegan after seeing the looks on the faces of the sheep and cattle being transported up the Slip Road  to Cowsvitz in Pengarnddu!” agreed Grant. 
“Any way, no time to lose, the sun is coming up and we need to separate the statue from the Plinth of Wales before the Cunstabulary release what we are doing !” ordered Danny.
As he unloaded the jack-hammer, Grant – the electronics wizard- began to patch the power supply into the adjoining traffic lights shorting them out.
Just like the film Ocean’s Eleven, another Danny had a masterplan to help their cause by creating mayhem with the traffic in Avenue De Clichy which would prove even worse than the existing confusing road layout.  
Ocean’s Eleven had nothing on River’s Three.
As Doug Deep dug deep, it came as a shock to the three would be rebels that the ground around the statue was so soft it took minimal effort for the statue to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the Merthyr equivalent- the mining subsidence hit Edwardsville Swimming Baths where the shallow end was now 45 feet deep.
“Stop!” warned Danny, as the statue began to list at a 3.99 degree angle.
Both of the others ran into position to support the statue and were shocked to see how light it actually was.
“It’s hollow!” declared Danny surprised- noticing a tracing crack around the neck of the former Mayor- where his goldie looking chain would have been.
“A bit like Nigel Farage’s life is after achieving Brexit!” he continued.
“Bring the trollies around to the front!” ordered Danny, just like a foreman of the Council watching others toil away filling the potholes in the road with fairy dust.
Grant manoeuvred the Iceland metal carts with a mind of their own under the structure and lowered the statue onto them to take the weight.
“Take the knee!” shouted Danny back straining under the weight.
Doug immediately dropped to the floor like a Pre-Match Premiership footballer.
“No….you dopey bastard…HIS knee!” screamed Danny to avoid a sucker punch from the Welsh Muhammed Ali.
There was no cheer like the fall of Saddam Hussain in Baghdad, just a few grunts that would turn into full-blown hernias in 20 years time for the foot soldiers of the Read Brigade.
Now controlling one Iceland Trolley with a wonky wheel is hard enough, but attempting to guide five of them downhill on a slope towards the Civic Centre is a Herculean task best left to Greek hero of the Underworld Sisyphus.    
The runaway train of carts began to pick up pace with the incline and like most drivers in Merthyr refused to stop at the junction with Avenue De Clichy.
There was a massive ‘wind rush’ as the students flew pass the Council Offices and out onto the Fire Station Bridge without stopping, mounting the pavement and finally only coming to a halt when it bashed into at the metal bridge railings- leaving the statue teetering like the van in the 1968 Italian Job film over the edge of the parapet.
“Oi…what are you bunch of teenage delinquents up to?” shouted local Official, Hectorz House, who appeared to be cleaning peanut butter off the outside of the windows of his office attached to what looked like a bungee chord.
“I may be suspended but I am not having that….Not In My Back Yard!” he screamed at the trio.
The volatile situation was bad enough as the three students had to use all their puny muscles to keep the statue from going over too early.
They wanted maximum publicity and the arrival of local ITV news correspondent, Hanna Barbara to film the event.
She had received a tip-off to be at the bridge at 5.15am for some excitement which would go far beyond the usual local news stories such as a goat being born in Vaynor with the face of Jesus Christ.
As she arrived the bridge, the Mexican stand-off with Hectorz and the Fire Brigade, just like the River Taff was in full flow.
“What are your demands?” asked Hanna pointing a microphone in the face of Doug, still partly covered in goatshit.
Doug just smiled weakly, as the cannabis from Amsterdam he had smoked early that morning to give him Dutch courage kicked in, as he tried in vain to hold onto the feet of the deceased boxer.
The Fire Brigade had already worked out a plan to defuse the situation and Fireman Sam ‘Sparkes’ Toomey was busy twirling a lasso around his head.
Its purpose to ‘rope a dope’ if he had too.
Hectorz House too was closing in on the students from the other side of the road.
“That’s close enough!” warned Danny, reaching into his pocket with one hand and producing a neatly typed list in Gaelic Font.
“The demands of the Read Brigade are as follows:
One : the immediate demolition of all statues of slave traders and Ironmasters in Wales.
Two: A declaration that Winston Churchill and Tony Blair be deemed War Criminals.
Three:  That all student loans be wiped and replaced by Student Grants – except for those doing a degree in David Beckham Studies.
And
Four : The release of all political prisoners currently held on Gogglebox.


“ It is Merthyr Council Policy not to negotiate with Terrorists or Blackmailers!” replied Hectorz.
The crowd suddenly gasped as the Official had used the B word in public.
A Note was immediately added to his extensive Personnel File by a member of the Council CIA (Council Interview Associate).
“Now if you drop that Statue into the River Taff you will never get that job at the Guardian Newspaper as a Fifth Columnist  and will be in big shit!” Hectorz continued.
“ I will see to it that you lot get more F’s on your college report than if it was marked by Gordon Ramsey!” hectored Hectorz.
The flooded River had turned black from the overflow of 58 unsafe spoil tips that still blight the Unitary Authority Land.
It was also receiving raw sewage from the Morlais Brook outlet , with turds now racing the squadron of plastic bottles dumped on the steep side of Abermorlais Tip.
Daniel was not an easy one to imidate.
He decided to fight fire with fire.
“Very soon we won’t be the only ones!”- he said pointing the boxer in the direction of Cardiff Bay.
As he did so, the top of the Boxing Promoter suddenly fell off into the raging River below.
Miraculously, just like a miracle of Fatima, the gathered crowd watched as Eddie Thomas face did a reverse Michael Jackson and turned from white into black.
Some began genuflecting. 
Then even more miraculously for Merthyr, a series of Ten Pounds Notes began shooting out of the head of the statue like a broken cash machine.
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” said Hectorz, trying to hold onto his trousers- as the Monica Lewinsky career following female assistants from the Council surrounded the Dreamboat.
“I think you have discovered the fabled Reddy Money from the Atlanta Match in 1987!” he continued.
“Quick Fireman Sam….jump in and retrieve the monies we could plug the Gap in the Council Budget with that lot!”
Too late.
 The three students in a pre-determined plan all smiled at the ITV Camera, produced their mobile phones and shouted ‘Selfie!”
As they did so, gravity took effect and the remainder of the headless statue toppled into the fast-flowing Taff waters, before landing upright on a small island- standing there stranded just like Robinson Crusoe.
The Iceland Trollies, one by one, tried to follow the statue into the raging black waters as if drawn in by some ghostly invisible drunken hands on a night out at Koolers.
Just like the three students- they had to be forcibly restrained.
It was just another Black, Black Friday in Merthyr alright.
]]> Fri, 05 Mar 2021 23:34:44 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5345/on-your-bike-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5345
Richard Hopkins , CC BY 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons


There is a strange order of hatred on the motorways, highways and by-ways of England & Wales these days.
HGV Lorry drivers hate white van drivers, white van drivers hate slow moving buses, buses hate tail- gating BMW and Audi drivers, BMW and Audi Drivers hate Citroen Picasso Mobility car drivers that hog the middle lane.
But they only have one thing in common that unites them all.
All road users hate cyclists.
And today on a Sunny Autumn day of 2020, in the sleepy former Mining Town of Merthyr Tydfil there was to be no exception.
Cyclist, Hal Ford, had all the cycling gear on that made him look like he was busy competing in the Tour De France.
Yellow jersey, green lycra suit, last seen in a fitness video worn by TV Green Goddess, Diana Moran, and of course the obligatory state- of- the art cycling helmet.
As he came to a stop at the Taf Fechan Pontsticill reservoir, he dismounted his trusty Raleigh steed that had served him well for 150 miles.
He needed to stop not just to take in the beauty of his natural surroundings, but to give his meat and two veg a rest after the intensity of the journey too.
He looked down and did a quick tally- unlike American cyclist Lance Armstrong, they were all present and correct.
He then lit his roll-up cigarette with his 2014- Leeds Tour de France Souvenir Lighter.
He looked around at the trees still in leaf- red, yellow, brown and green of all different hues – he asked himself ‘why did people bother to fly to the West Coast of the USA -New England especially- to become ‘leaf peepers’, when they had this artist’s pallet of colour on their very doorstep in Old Wales.
Hal was now in his late Seventies and was always being stopped for photographs by people who thought he was former Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn.
In the beginning, he had pointed out the error of their ways, but now had endorsed his new celebrity status by smiling for ‘selfies’ with his new- found fan base.
He sighed, as he lifted the lid of his cycle seat and produced his packed lunch.
In lockdown Wales, everything was closed – pubs, restaurants and even shops alike.
A bit like it had reverted to its’ natural state in the 1970’s.
Before Sunday Opening Hours came into effect and Chapels were the only place left open on a Sunday.
Legally speaking, as he had cycled down from a Tier Five Covid-19 area- he was not supposed to even be in the Principality at all, but he didn’t’ see the harm in it, as most of the youths in his native Liverpool Dock area were massed up closer to each other than a Ryan Air Economy Flight to Majorca.
The arrogance of youth.
Hal himself had suffered from it once but that was long ago- way before his testicle sack had dropped and he was forced to tuck them in the tops of his Liver-bird emblazoned football socks for safe keeping.
Unlike the Conservative Government, who had adopted a Laurel & Hardy approach- he had his own UK- wide Coronavirus strategy to survive the pandemic.
He would take a leaf out of Thomas Hardy’s book and head ‘far from the madding crowd’ and take sanctuary in the sparsely populated rural upper highland communities of the Welsh Valleys.
Exercise, good eating, and plenty of vitamin D sunshine would stand him in good stead, while the rest of the Country, spread the disease like a pre-potty-trained toddler left without a nappy.
The noise and vibration of bass music pounding broke his idyllic bucolic existence, as an overloaded Tory blue Vauxhall Corsa pulled up alongside him onto the reservoir road bridge.
For a minute, he thought he was back on Merseyside.
No sooner than the car had stopped, then four baseball -hatted youths tumbled out of the back seat of the car.
“What’s ‘appening Gramps?” nodded the first youth approaching the geriatric septuagenarian.
“ Two metres please!” countered Hal.
The youth had an unusual swagger about him like he was carry a rolled- up carpet under each arm.
“Steady on ‘Puff Daddy’!” sneered a second youth, whose bumfluff moustache and blackhead pimples made him look like a hyena pup.
As he approached the stone reservoir wall that had been raised up by the Private Utility Company (somewhat bizarrely advertised as being ‘not for profit’) to the height of four feet in case of the risk of a thousand- year flood.
The Hyena youth then openly produced a small clear bag of white powder and laid it out on the wall in a line before snorting it up through a McDonalds milk shake straw into his broken nose.
“That Devil’s Dandruff will kill you!” warned Hal.
“No! HE will kill you!” said Hyena.
“Do you know what a tear tattoo means?” said the first youth-as the driver of the car- Swastika, also sporting a blue Nazi emblem on his far right of his cheek close to his ear.
“He is an Everton fan?” asked Hal sarcastically.
Hyena ignored the remark as his head was buzzing with more Charlie than the Vietnamese Jungle in the late 60’s.
“It means he has killed a man!” Hyena boasted proudly.
“Good for him!” said Hal at the first sign of danger mounting his Raleigh bike.
“Now if you don’t mind, I must be on my way!”
“Oi Corbyn, ain’t you gonna have a selfie with the Crew then or what?” demanded Swastika.
“No!” said Hal pushing off from the kerb and pedalling away from the Corsa, as fast as his plastic hip replacement would allow.
“Oi Corbyn…I thought you were a man of the people?” protested Hyena.
As ‘Corbyn’ disappeared around the bend of the road heading towards Taf Fechan Houses, Hyena was not a happy bunny.
“I thought HE was supposed to one of us lazy lot, supporting the people that don’t want to work and cop handouts from the English for free?” said Hyena.
Out of the car appeared four more of the great unwashed.
From a safe distance away hidden by the tall deciduous pine trees, Hal thought it reminded him of a Roy Castle’s Record Breakers attempt to see how many people could fit into a Mini.
Completely pointless but compelling 1970’s children’s TV.
He looked back to see if he was being following by those ‘Woollybacks’.
That was an abusive term for Welsh people but specifically for louts like the ones he had just encountered.
Every City, every Town had its fair share of scum- and clearly Merthyr Tydfil had theirs.
It was such a shame that the great beauty of the Welsh Countryside was being ruined by the likes of this kind of people.
Halford recoiled in horror, as he witnessed the car being cleared of rubbish at the expense of Mother Nature, as out of the Vauxhall Corsa was dumped a brown MuckDonalds bag, week old KFC buckets with chicken bones and of course used Lottery Scratch-cards.
He wondered what sort of upbringing these youngsters had received and what the future held for them.
With almost all manufacturing jobs now all transferred to Child Labour in Asian sweatshops by ‘British’ Entrepreneurs- there was little or no-hope for this generation of rebels in finding work even if they wanted to.
Most of their families were third generation that had not had a working parent.
An endless cycle of ever-decreasing circles of poverty, food banks and alcoholism.
His home- town of Liverpool had suffered under decades of Tory rule- as if still being punished by the Government of the day for the stubbornness of Derek Hatton and Co in the Eighties.
The Welsh Valleys - strong Labour heartlands too- were no longer the last great bastion of the working man and trade unionism- there were precious few still employed and with the inequality of the Council Tax funding system they were rapidly turning into Rotten Boroughs.
Hal Ford still saw a glimmer of hope for the upland Town- it was perched on the edge of the Brecon Beacons National Park and the future -once the Covid-19 Pandemic was over- then the Town had a chance to remarket itself as a Tourist Town.
The reason he had decided to come to South Wales was the lure of the clean air, the open road, the Taff Trail and a chance to visit Bike Park Wales.
Whilst all the jobs had gone to Asia on the plus side, so too had the pollution.
Halford decided he had better get on, as the Scummy Six were all re-entering the car and that meant they would soon be behind him on this B-road in a few minutes time.
He started to pull away on his bicycle and soon realised as he began to slow, that the road would lead to a sharp incline after a series of bad blind bends.


Inside the Corsa, the four that were jammed onto the back seat were busy fighting for whatever space their different body shapes would allow.
Pencil was fine- he was so thin from malnutrition -he could fit anywhere.
The object of most complaint was the room that supersized ‘Jack the Lard’ was taking up and that he was becoming a little too handy with ‘Easy Rider’.
The complaints only subsided after Stinkbomb did what he was famous for and a dropped a silent but deadly chapel fart that not only stopped the car mid-acceleration but also created a mass rush to open the windows.
Both driver Swastika and Hyena in the shotgun position were fine but trapped in the back of the tiny car with child-locks on – the smell malingered in the back- causing each of the trapped occupants to gag and retch- whilst Stinkbomb sat proudly savouring his own faecal aroma.
“Why is it that a fart only smells bad to those that didn’t do it? He pondered the age- old question aloud.
“You are only one fart away from a shit!” complained Pencil.
“You better not stain my seats again Stinky or you will be the second victim killed by me!” warned Swastika.
Stinkbomb went quiet both ends, as he shivered at the prospect of such a threat.
He knew that Swastika had a violent temper, which he had inherited from his abusive Father- a former amateur boxer that had taken one too many punches to the head.
In a Town like Merthyr, one of the few paths out of the gutter was the ancient gentleman’s art of pugilism.
Swastika had killed a man in only his second fight in a bout at Rhydycar Leisure Centre- hence the tattooed teardrop on his face, which was in fact a boxing glove gone wrong.
He didn’t deliberately set out to kill his opponent, but he was caught up in the legalised violence of the moment and with the furore of the crowd egging him on he just went for it.
Stinkbomb had the capability of killing people with his ring too- if only someone had informed the Bio-Weapons research facility at Porton Down in Berkshire, then they wouldn’t have had to engineer the Covid-19 virus in the first place.
Front windows down, the Corsa made its way along the length of the reservoir road with driver Swastika trying desperately to pick-up speed with the weight in the car in a car fitted with a 50 MPH speed limiting device.
Up in the distance, Hyena could just make out the lycra- clad rear end of Halford, as he struggled up the steep incline.
As he got closer, Hyena was puzzled as to what was going on in the outfit that ‘Corbyn’ was wearing.
Standing up off the seat trying to pedal hard, Hal Ford had developed a tear in the material over his long journey.
Clearly his testicles had gone South for the Winter and surrounded by a mound of white pubic hair it was quite a revolting sight.
Hyena asked Swastika – “Is that old geezer smuggling a nest of baby swans?”
Hyena loved birds.
So much so, he was always stealing eggs from nests in the Spring and after watching the plethora of cookery shows on television, made a fine Tree Sparrow Omelette too.
He used to trap ‘Greenies’ -Greenfinches and Siskins in his nets and sell them on to International Traffickers via Swansea Market.
Well -he had to find a way of sourcing his drug habit somehow.
As the car eventually drew alongside the puffing pensioner, he snorted in a deep breath and from the back of his throat compiled a huge ‘Greenie’ of his own and let fly with a loogie that struck the glasses of Hal Ford with some force.
Blinded by the snot, Hal Ford careered off the bend and into some old buddleia bushes which thankfully broke his fall.
“This is OUR turf!” shouted Hyena as the car chugged up the road as if powered by kangaroo petrol.


After checking he was uninjured, Hal Ford wiped the phlegm off his glasses and shaking with rage he set off furiously after his assailant.
“Doesn’t that scumbag know there is a pandemic on!” he fumed as he set his bike to automatic battery power.
As he caught up with the struggling car towards the prow of the second hill, he held out his right hand which contained the corkscrew of his Swiss Army knife (which he had obtained free with a Year-long- Subscription to Reader’s Digest) and proceeded to scrape the full length of the car with the point.
“Have a taste of your own medicine!” shouted Hal Ford, copying pensioner vigilante Harry Brown, as his light-weight bike flew past the overladen Corsa.
Inside the car, the sound of metal on metal was met with horror by the driver.
“Look what you have done!” screamed Swastika at Hyena.
“ You have started another Turf War over a couple of baby swans!”.
“There is no need to have a Cob on!” sulked Hyena at his admonition by the Gang Leader.
Hyena knew he would have to displace the anger onto Corbyn otherwise he would feel the wrath of Swastika.
A bit like what the Mainstream Media had done with foreigners before the Brexit vote.


Hal Ford felt great.
The worm had turned- all his life he had shied away from conflict situations but now in his Seventies, he no longer cared about his own life.
How much time did he have left anyway?
He was only a short bike ride away from the Nursing Home after all.
Those scumbags had started it and he was determined to finish it.
It could have been the onset of early dementia, but he now saw himself as Don Quixote and his trusty steed- his Raleigh Chopper – that of Sancho Panza.
As he chuckled maniacally to himself, Hal Ford reached yet another crossroads in his life.
Did he turn right through the village of Ponsticill or left towards the Dolygaer Outdoor pursuits centre?


“Which way did the old bastard go?” said Hyena as they reached the same crossroads.
“Ask that bloke in the Beanie Hat!” suggested Easy Rider from the backseat.
“Oi Butt...have you seen a pensioner on a weird bike?” asked Hyena of the village simpleton, Paul Henry.
He stared back at them for a minute before coming closer to the car.
The Village Covidiot stuck his face in through the open window and began to count the occupants.
“One...two...four...three!” he said.
“Never mind!” said Hyena.
“It’s Corbyn....he must have gone to the left!” suggested Pizza-Face.
“Left Turn Clyde!” ordered the runt not realising it had a film reference.
Hal Ford now had a five- minute head-start on the Hyena Pack and was determined to make it count.
He knew he could outrun his pursuers going uphill but not on the flat or going downhill.
As he left the village of Ponsticill, heading towards Pontsarn, he lifted his legs up off the peddles and free-wheeled, just like Paul Newman in Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid.
Very soon raindrops were falling on his head too, as the grey Autumn sky decided to add some more profit to Welsh Water plc.
He flew down the hill slowed only by the Meredith Lake near Bragdy Cottages, Vaynor, out of the thin mist appeared a semi-derelict Spanish Villa and decided he would hole up in its grounds until danger passed.
Sure enough it was a wise decision, as the Corsa suddenly passed the front gate at speed, taking the corner on two wheels with only gravity and the weight of Jack the Lard-Face bring the car level again.
Fortunately, there was no car coming the other way on the bend.
Swastika clearly hadn’t passed his driving theory test studying the correct Highway Code Manual, but from hours playing the video game ‘Grand Theft Auto’.
It was an uncomfortable ride for the front seat passenger, but in the back of the car it was terrifying, as they were thrown this way and that.
Stinkbomb was the only unmoveable object and that was because he had followed through and was now stuck to the seat.
He was now subject to a flurry of arm punches from Easy Rider, as the loose woman joined him due to seepage.
“Open that window for F**** Sake!” pleaded Pencil.
“I could chew that one!” he protested giving his fellow gang member an evil look.
The Corsa now reached another Crossroads.
“Did Corbyn go left up the Sanatorium Hill or on and up through Trefechan?” asked Swastika intent on revenge now that his car had been scratched AND his back leather seats ruined.
“Perhaps we passed him?” suggested Easy Rider.
“He can’t have got THIS Far without us catching him!” said Swastika punching the dashboard angrily- almost setting off the passenger side airbag.
“We could stop, wait for him and get out of the car?” pleaded Stinkbomb sitting in a puddle of his own shit.


“Senor Corbyn....so what do I owe this great privilege ?” came a Spanish Voice from behind him.
Hal Ford looked up and noticed a pug-ugly dark- haired woman, high up on the veranda of the building.
“I last saw you at Glastonbury when we all sang O Jeremy Corbyn!” she continued.
“I will be down now!” said the only European still left in Britain.
In the distance, Corbyn could hear the sound of a labouring Corsa engine getting closer.
He hid his trusty steed in the bushes out of sight of the road.
The door was opened and Corbyn stepped inside without invitation.
Unfortunately, he was spotted by Hyena entering the Villa, just as he rounded the bend.


“The canny old bastard just ducked into the old Addams Family House!” Hyena raged.
“What do we do?” asked Stinkbomb, desperately hoping to be allowed home by the gang leader to ‘clean up in aisle one’.
“Just like we always do with the grannies on pension day, we wait for them to come out and then mug him!” suggested Hyena.
“I’ve got a better idea!” said Swastika, der Fuhrer of the self-named Cyfarthfa Corsa Crew, eyes rolling black like an epileptic Great White Shark.
“We dump one or two of the foot soldiers off to stand guard, while we nip to the petrol station to buy a can of petrol and burn the bastard out in true Gurnos-style!”
Each of the ‘foot soldiers’ shit-welded together in the cramped seat, glanced nervously at one another.
It was one thing being involved in deep shit for the gang that controlled their activity, but this kind of arson was a whole different ball game.
“Out Jack the Lard...you’re on first watch!” order Swastika.
“Why me?” protested the obese sixteen- year- old, whose age had now been surpassed in stones on the weighing scale.
“Because the car will move faster without your weight- you great fat lump!” cackled Hyena- who had earned his nickname from the sound of his evil laughter.
Since he had teamed up with Swastika, the two had developed a reputation locally as the evilest duo since Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.
In their Pen-y-dre End of Term School Report, Swastika was described by his frustrated teacher as being the most likely pupil to commit a McDonald’s massacre.
After much struggling out of the Corsa tumbled Jack with a huge sigh of relief from the other three who no longer needed to take turns to buddy breathe.
Swastika before setting off, opened the glove compartment of the Corsa and reached inside.
He then boastfully produced a gun and waved it in the air just like he was part of the overthrow of an African Military Dictator.
“What are you going to do with that?” asked Easy Rider nervously.
“I am going to pop a cap in his wrinkly ass!” he said with all the nonchalance of Woody Harrelson in the film Natural Born Killers.
She gulped with fear.
Stinkbomb was a little less concerned, as he recognised that the gun was in fact a Diana SP50 slug-gun.
It also explained the mystery of who had been responsible for the recent spate of cats on his local estate that had died from constipation.
The car sped off in search of the closest petrol station.


Inside the Spanish House, Hal Ford was sat on the sofa holding a fine bone- china cup of tea.
“Please tell me Mr Corbyn, did you come down here on a rally?” questioned the Spanish Senorita.
“Well- a Raleigh...yes!” said Hal Ford trying not to lie by referring to his bike.
“I am Barca Loner and have been a big fan of the Hard Left for a long time!” she said putting her hand on the knee of his lycra-clad outfit.
Hal looked at his temporary host and realised he was in trouble.
Hal had jumped out of saucepan straight into the fire.
Did he remain in the house at the mercy of a local ‘cougar’ or take his chances outside with the pack of hyenas stalking him.
He felt trapped.
“So, what brings a European to come and live in Wales -especially after Brexit?” asked Hal trying to change the subject.
“My Family originally came to Merthyr from Toledo, Spain to work in the great Steelworks here- along with many other families- we were trying to avoid the clutches of General Franco and the Far Right-and Merthyr with its left-wing leanings seemed the perfect place!” said Barca.
“I have heard you are a lover of your allotment and am interested to discover what size Marrow you have?” asked the desperate Widow.
“Is that Picasso Cubist painting an original up there?” enquired Hal once again trying not to be drawn into a conversation about a bodily function that his body no longer had any relevance for.
“That is a portrait of my family!” said the surprised Senorita.
That figures thought Corbyn.
“Do you think it is well hung?” asked Barca moving her hand up closer to his crotch- but unwittingly further away from Hal’s genitalia.
“So, tell me Barca how long have you been a Labour voter?” asked Hal.
“For decades now- I was drawn in by the dashing good looks of Harold Wilson in the 1970’s and have long had the urge to be a real supporter of a good union....I love a Red Wedge me!” she said pressing her body against Hal seductively.
“Could I use your bathroom?” said the nervous pensioner.
“Dodgy Prostate!” he said dragging himself up off the sofa.
“Third door on the left!” said Barca frustratedly.


Outside the Spanish Villa, Jack the Lard was struggling to read the name of the Property on the dilapidated name plate- ‘Hy Brazil’ he concluded.
“Sounds like a made-up place!” he thought to himself, as he sat down on the wall of Dol- Y- Coed House close-by.
No sooner than he had done so than he heard a frail voice from the side entrance.
“Oi, Humpty Dumpty get off my wall now before I call the police!” said the voice.
Jack turned his head only to see a male pensioner on a walking-frame in a dressing gown and slippers despite the fact it was nearly 2pm.
“F*** Me....if it’s not Captain Tom!” said Jack unperturbed by the threat.
Even so he stood up off the wall.
“What are doing hanging around here?” queried Jerry Attrick, the original founder of Vaynor Neighbourhood watch.
“Would you believe admiring the architecture and history of one of Merthyr’s Historical buildings?” replied Jack.
The pensioner softened his tone.
“Not for one second!” said Jerry.
“Are you casing the joint?” he continued.
“No...said Jack the Lard....I am no burglar....but I AM hungry!”
The pensioner disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with a plate of biscuits which he left on the wall six feet away from the teenager.
“Here you are then but be warned if you try and break into my house, I will set my dog on you!” threatened Jerry pointing into his garden before returning into his house.
Jack could see a huge dog standing upright was attached to a chain.
An attack dog that is silent and doesn’t move?
That’s odd thought the teenager digesting his third digestive.
I wonder what breed of dog it is?
He pondered.
Perhaps it was a ninja?
Or it was stuffed?
After all you had to be very strange to live out in the Country.


Back inside Hy Brazil, Hal Ford was stuck in an uncompromising position.
One leg inside the bathroom and one leg outside reaching for the external window ledge.
His lycra suit was not the best material in the World for climbing.
His ‘Beth N Gallows’ was scraping around the metal catch.
He was determined to get away with his dignity intact.
“Are you okay in there?” shouted Barca through the locked door.
“Fine....just waiting for the engine to start!” he called back trying to sound calm.
For a brief second, he just hung there like the last turkey in the shop, before thankfully the lycra material finally gave way and gravity took effect and aided his great escape sending him tumbling towards the floor into the rear garden of the Villa.
He was soon surrounded by a colony of huge Black Celtic Rabbits- a strange sight even for Hy Brazil.
He blinked his eyes and they all magically disappeared.
He raced towards his Chopper with his own chopper hanging like a limp game bird on a poacher’s belt.
Retrieving his bicycle from the front bushes, he set off past the heavyweight schoolboy who was busy devouring the last of the biscuits and too stunned to react swiftly.
As he sped around the corner, he was pursued on foot by Jack the Lard, who suddenly disappeared from the bike’s rear-view mirror.
As the gabion wall reinforcement for the tarmac road gave way, Jack the Lad tumbled down the Pontsarn Viaduct embankment doing the ultimate roly-poly.


Hal sped on towards the Pontsarn Inn and as he rounded the corner was horrified to see that the Vauxhall Corsa was coming in the other direction.
He swerved away from the oncoming car, who had tried at the last moment to run him over.
Like a modern- day joust, the car did a doughnut turn in the former car park of the Inn before chasing after the pensioner on the bike.
Hal knew had a split-second decision to make.
Did he turn sharp left passed the Aberglais Inn or continue on towards Trefechan.
He decided that the sharp bend would be more difficult for the heavily laden car and opted for the direction towards the Blue Pool and the steep Sanatorium Hill.
The narrowness of bridge might also cause the car difficulties too.
He sped on around the bends at ridiculous speeds skidding on fallen wet leaves as he went.
He knew he would have to get across the ancient bridge first, if he was to have any chance of escape.
The car had to do a nine-point turn at the Aberglais crossroads sign, which slowed up its’ high -speed pursuit significantly.
Hal Ford could hear the Corsa Engine closing in behind him but could sense victory as he reached the narrow bridge.
He was however startled when he heard the loud bang of the car colliding with the bridge wall and wedging itself sidewise in the structure.
So much so that he wobbled on his bike, losing his balance and struck a rusty metal signpost warning of the narrow bridge- sending him flying over the handlebars and buckling his front wheel in the process.
When Hal regained his senses, he suddenly realised that the driver, Swastika had managed to free himself from the car wreck and was standing next to the wedged vehicle pointing a pistol at him.
He also noticed that there was a liquid leaking from the car spreading out onto the bridge road surface from an open cannister.
Hal reached into his belt before putting his hands up in the air in an act of surrender.
“Give me a sporting chance!” pleaded Hal of the cold- blooded murderer, as he stood there defencelessly with his bollocks hanging out of the enlarged hole in his undercarriage.
“Okay!” said Swastika, enjoying the power trip and finally having his nemesis at his mercy.
“Swing ‘Em!”
Looking down at his human cat’s cradle, Hal still had one trick up his sleeve.
He struck the lighter flint and flung it at the car.
Almost as if in slow motion, the metal slug projectile passed the lighter in mid-air as it lodged in the left gonad of the pensioner.
Hal hadn’t had any feeling in his numb nuts for years.
The lighter too found it’s target.
It ignited the fuel pool and the subsequent explosion blew the car and its occupants apart, sending Swastika high into the air and off the bridge towards his death in the Blue Pool below.
Hal was once again knocked to the ground.
When he came around some 20 minutes later, he suddenly realised he was being shaken by a masked policeman.
“What the Hell happened here?” PC Wise questioned.
Hal just shrugged his shoulders and pleaded ignorance.
“Sir, Name & Address?” asked the Copper.
“Jeremy Corbyn- Islington North!” replied Hal in a posh London accent.
“Okay....on your bike!”



]]> Sun, 31 Jan 2021 23:03:33 +0000 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5284/davey-jones-locker http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5284



“Wake up,  you selfish bastard!” said his wife pouring a cup of cold water on her husband’s face.
There was still no movement from her Spouse.
Shelley Jones was beside herself with emotion.
It was a combination of anger and worry, but mostly fear at the situation she found herself in.
She had a bad feeling about booking her holiday on the Cassandra Line Cruise Ship, the Corona Vires, but now her premonition was coming true.
She had checked his wrist for a pulse and even put her make-up mirror under his nose to see if he was still breathing, but there was nothing-no sign of life from the love of her life Davey Jones.
The pair had been married for over 60 years and her spouse had promised her for decades that he would one day take her on a Mediterranean cruise around the Amalfi coastline of Southern Italy and now reality was hitting home that that he would never take her anywhere ever again, let alone on holiday.
Worse still she was frantic, as the pair had taken a chance by going on the trip of a lifetime without travel or life insurance.
It had not been economically viable, as with all their ailments, the cost of insurance was more than the actual cost of the cruise.
A gentle rap of knuckles on the cabin door broke her thought pattern and put her into even more of a panic mode.
“Mrs Jones, it’s only the Ship’s Steward, Camp David, checking you are both okay, it’s just that your husband looked a little peaky last night at the Wild Weekend 1970’s Strictly Come Dancing show!” said the crewman talking through the door.
“Everything is fine, thank you David, my husband was sitting next to the that John Travolta tribute act last night, so I guess he probably caught ‘Saturday Night Fever’ off him!” said Shelley trying to joke and sound as normal as possible in the circumstances.
“Good one…. replied the concerned Steward “Is he with you now?”
Shelley had to think on her feet.
“Oh no….!”
“He said he was going for a walk on the deck earlier!” replied the troubled woman.
‘Strictly’ speaking, it was not a lie as Davey WAS no longer with her.
Camp David thought this was odd, as for the entire journey Mr Jones had been confined to a wheelchair.
He decided he would check with the occupier of the next cabin instead.
The steward rapped on cabin door number 12 and a friendly face appeared.
“Sorry to bother you Mrs Sun but do you know if everything is okay with the Jones’s next door?” asked Camp David.
“Well I think so…. said the North Korean….I am sure that I heard Mrs Jones giving orders to her husband about an hour ago….so I think everything is normal!”
Camp David left the corridor and went back to his job preparing for tonight’s extravaganza in the Ballroom.
As the sound of the footsteps faded in the corridor, Mrs Jones let out a huge sigh of relief.
So did Mr Jones too, but unfortunately his was a death rattle, as the remaining oxygen left the deceased’s body. 
Shelley was in a difficult predicament.
What did she do?
She had heard rumours of a possible viral infection on board ship, which led to whispers of a pandemic, which could lead to quarantine and an inevitable lockdown on the Cruise Ship.   
At that point, her biggest regret was not being able to afford a cabin on the outside of the ship, so she could have disposed of her husband’s body neatly.
She didn’t feel guilty about the thought, because her husband had always reminded her of the saying ‘See Naples and Die’ but she didn’t think it was his intention to follow orders, after all he never listened to any of her commands over the last six decades, so why would he start now?
Besides, he was as much of an old trout as she was, as he loved his swimming and spent more time at his local swimming baths than Coronation Street’s Len Fairclough.
Whilst she didn’t want to ‘go overboard’ but she knew that her late husband would have to do a Robert Maxwell, otherwise she would be in real trouble.
As she sat on the bunk bed next to the corpse of her late husband, she knew deep down that he would understand and do the same for her in the circumstances.
She looked at the bag of bones that her husband had unfortunately become.
He had not quite reached his 80 th  birthday but had less meat on him than a vegan sausage.
Even during his lifetime Davey Jones had never been heavier than seven stone and people reckoned that he made his fellow hometown boxer Johnny Owen look fat.
Shelley was two years his junior and at nearly 78 was nearly double his weight.
Davey had one of those magic metabolisms that he could eat anything he wanted but never put any weight on, whereas she would only have to look at a mars bar for the calories to register on her childbearing hips. 
That’s why he always looked so dashing in his bowtie and evening suit, whenever he played his violin at the Brangwyn Hall in Swansea.
He was proud of the fact that for nearly 50 years, he had been a paid professional musician, playing second fiddle only to his Wife.
Davey Jones was not quite a virtuoso, but he had supported the best that Welsh talent had to offer including Katherine Jenkins, Charlotte Church, Aled Jones and of course Maggot from Goldie Looking Chain.
But now Shelley was worried about a different kind of maggot that was appearing beneath the skin of her dead partner.
She knew that very soon the corpse would begin to smell, as just like his favourite conductor, Andre Previn and his favourite classical musician Mozart he too would soon start to ‘de-compose’.  
“Roll over Beethoven!” she said aloud, as she pushed his tiny skeletal legs further back on the lower bunk, as she wondered how she could get away with disposing of the body without being put into the frame for his potential murder.
She hadn’t killed him of course, but she had threatened to do so on many occasions during their marriage, especially when he had farted under the bedcovers waiting for her to detect its unwholesome aroma, before collapsing into fits of laughter.
Even now in death she could smell his unique odour- albeit strangely more palatable than his usual brand.    
The alarm clock next to the bed sounded shrilly and Shelley jumped nervously.
Unlucky cabin 13 almost claimed another victim, as Shelley hadn’t taken her heart tablets with all the events of the early morning.
She remembered then that both her and Dave had booked earlier in the week to go ashore together and visit the ancient Roman site of Pompeii & Herculaneum.
It was a must for history lovers to go and witness the unlucky people in 79AD, caught in a pyroclastic flow whilst eating Anno Domino’s Pizza.
Dave particularly wanted to go as he had heard that one of the dead bodies frozen in volcanic ash from Mount Vesuvius had had his boner preserved for over 2000 years.
He always said that the fellow should be recorded in the Guinness Book of Records for such a feat, as he himself couldn’t last much longer than 20 minutes.
What a way to go he had marvelled.
Shelley now faced a difficult choice.
Did she fold her late husband up like a medical student’s anatomy chart and hide the remains under the bed and tell everyone truthfully that her husband had ‘done a bunk’ or did she dress her dead husband up and try and pass him off as a living corpse?
After all she had been a talented ventriloquist back in the days when she had trod the boards of the old music halls.
It was how she had first met Davey Jones backstage waiting to go and perform her act with a camel puppet called Hump-Free.
His compliments had ‘resin-ated’ with her, and soon after, he played with the strings of her heart too, as the couple got married with their respective parent’s permission at the tender age of 18.
Most people said it wouldn’t last, but they were all now dead, so they never got to see the longevity of their marriage, principally down to the intake of secondary smoking which was prevalent in the theatres at that time.
Shelley used to have to wash her puppet weekly as it stank of cigarettes -a different kind of Camel smell.
The puppet eventually died too of nicotine poisoning.
After years of puppeteering, Shelley’s next logical move was as a prostate examiner at her local hospital, she did this for two years but she then had to give up the job as it was costing her too much by way of lost jewellery.
All this time, Shelley had wanted children of her own, but as Dave was now earning more from his musical tours of Great Britain and the occasional trip to the continent, it was put on the back burner.
The road was not the place to bring up a child.
And all of a sudden at 40 years of age her body-clock had stopped ticking and that was that.
They still enjoyed practising of course, but her ovaries no longer bore neither eggs nor fruit.
“Are you ready?” asked a female Korean voice in the corridor.
Shelley knew she had to act quickly and decided to lift her husband into his wheelchair, dress him up in a carnival mask, acquired a couple of days ago on their stop in Venice and prop him up with pillows to keep him upright.
She opened the door and the suspicious Mrs Sun suddenly gagged at the smell.
Sensing the fact that her new neighbour was close to vomiting she bluffed the stink off.
“That’s the last Gwyneth Paltrow candle I buy from Goop…does something smell fanny to you too?” said Shelley fronting up.
She quickly shut the door but being extremely careful not to push the corpse forward and out of the wheelchair. 
They walked in silence for a few floors until they reached the lift.
“Is there a reason why your husband is wearing that mask in this heat?” asked the Widow Sun.
Shelley wanted to punch her, but didn’t want to start World War 3 with Asia.
“That’s private!” snapped back the newest member of the Widow Club.
Shelley tried to distract her fellow tourist with small talk until they reached the gangway ramp.
“Are you looking forward most to seeing Pompeii or Gracie Field’s holiday island?” asked Shelley.
“Where’s that?
“Capri… Sun!”  said Shelley taking an orange squash from a waiter holding a drinks tray for those tourists embarking on the day trip.
Now came the tricky bit.
Keeping her dead husband upright on the slope.
She couldn’t bring him down backwards, as it would be too suspicious- so she plonked a rucksack in front to wedge him in.
“I always take supplies with me when I go ashore!” she said to Mrs Sun as looked on at the roughness and speed that she did so.
There was no reaction from Davey Jones.
“Your husband is a bit quiet? …. isn’t he?” said Mrs Sun.
“Are you OK indy chair Mr Jones?” she continued in broken Eeenglish.
The Welsh Widow then came out with the internationally recognised phrase used all around the modern World.
“F*** Off ….!” before adding “Short Round!” said Shelley out of the side of her mouth make it sound like it had emanated from beneath the Venetian Carnival mask.
Mrs Sun was taken aback at being sworn at and mistaken for the Asian boy character in the film Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom. 
“Sorry for that!” but my husband helped build the bridge over the River Kwai in the Second World War and as you can see, he wasn’t ever able after to put any weight back on due to the trauma!” said Shelley talking and lying through her back teeth at the same time.
“This way to the mini-bus for Pompeii & Herculaneum!” interrupted handsome Italian tour guide, Toni Belle.
Shelley fiercely resisted any attempt to help with her husband and motioned to Tony that she wanted a private word in his ear.
“My husband is a very private individual and is deeply embarrassed that he has developed late in life a flatulence problem- it is so bad he cannot stick his own smell- hence the Venetian Mask-he asked me to ask you if he can travel in the trailer instead!” said Shelley.
“This ees no possible Madame…the Polizia would… how you say pull me ….if we didda that!” replied the Italian Stallion guide in pidgin English.  
“I’d pull him!”  offered the frustrated Widow Mrs Sun.
“Mrs Sun would you be kind enough to tell Mr Belle what my room smelt like this morning!” countered the North Korean.
Mrs Sun did a Princess Diana mime of placing her two fingers down her own throat.
“If you don’t believe me sniff him yourself!” said Mrs Jones in an assertive way.
Tony Belle did what he was told and lowered his head above the Welsh version of Ironside.
“F*** Off!”….” Mussolini!” said the ventriloquist.
Tony Belle recoiled not only in shock but also due to the deathly aroma of the corpse.
“Vecchia Scoreggia” he said in Vulgar Latin to the mini-bus driver.
“Okay….but only if you sitta wiv heem….I will tell the Polizia that you must have jumped on board without my knowing!” said the Italian using his Roman Nose discretion.
“What did he say?” asked Mrs Sun.
“Old Fart!” replied Mrs Jones.
“Was he referring to him or to you?” said the Korean.
“Both!” said the Welsh woman.
Having loaded both her husband and herself onto the back of the trailer and applied the brake on the wheelchair, the mini-bus set off with the other twenty tourists for the UNESCO World Heritage Site.
In the distance, the passengers could see the shadow of the volcano Vesuvius – the fiery mountain that had caused the tragedy nearly two Millenia ago.
The driver then put on his Phil Collins CD from the eighties and started singing….
”Oh oh oh… VVVV Vesuvius…. “
Mrs Jones could hear the Latin Lover’s wailing from the back of the trailer and was now grateful she had chosen to be outside the bus instead.
Her husband was now literally buzzing, as lots of flies were following and landing on the dead body- just like they automatically radar in on fresh dog shit.    
As the bus swung its way around the narrow streets of the Italian Riviera, it was all Shelley could do to keep her husband upright and stop the masque of red death from slipping.
It was even worse when they arrived at the main street of Pompeii, the Via Dell’Abbondansa, as it was made out of cobbles of Roman marble.
Fortunately, the way ahead had been barred by stepping stones from that classical period to stop chariots from striking civilians on their way to the Forum or to pray at the Temples of Jove, Isis or Artemis.
Shelley let out her own silent prayer to Jupiter.
Perhaps with all these dead bodies around preserved in ash one more might not make much difference?
Shelley suddenly felt homesick for her hometown of Merthyr Tydfil, as she wheeled her departed spouse around ruined buildings, surrounded by graffiti and plastered bodies lying prostrate on the floor covered in ash.
She marvelled at the Gladiator Amphitheatre and the writing and the names of the authors from 2000 years ago.
‘Vibius Restitutus slept here alone and missed his darling Urbana’
‘Commodus era qui’- Russell Crowe
‘Titter Ye Not’- Frankie Howerdus.
She parked the wheelchair and it’s decaying occupant in Casa di P Casca Longus  and sidled out of the ancient but restored Roman Villa.
“I say….. you slinking out ……you can’t leave him there…..it’s not an OAP creche you know!” shouted a visiting History Professor from Oxford University.
Ashen-faced, Mrs Jones turned around and felt obliged to go back to reclaim her excess baggage.
What was she going to do for two hours with a dead body?
In the heat, the smell was starting to get worse and she had a number of evil looks off a variety of Europeans and not just because of Brexit either.
They suspected that her husband’s colostomy bag needed changing.
As she wheeled her departed husband around, she marvelled at the splendour of the buildings.
She had been to the Roman Baths in Bath before but this was nothing compared to the size and layout of an entire city frozen in time.
A snapshot of living history albeit a dead one too.
Reading the graffiti and looking at the nature and layout of the buildings- little had in reality changed over the 2000 years of humankind.
There were still bakeries, public baths, independent local shops and of course amphitheatres and Forums.
The only difference was humans could frequent all of these places without fear before the Coronavirus came.
“Gottle of Geer?” said Mrs Sun offering her new friend a cool refreshing drink.
This had a sobering effect on Mrs Jones who wondered if her ventriloquist act had been rumbled by someone who looked like Eve Polastri.
“How is your husband feeling now?” asked Mrs Sun looking down on the motionless figure of Davey Jones.
Mrs Jones wanted to blurt out ‘Still dead’, but she knew she had to continue with the charade in the hope that the politeness of strangers would win the day.
“Better aren’t you?” said Mrs Jones gently tugging on the back of the corpse’s hair to give the appearance of a nod.
“Amazing place isn’t it……like the land of living dead…!” said Mrs Sun.
“Yes, a bit like B&Q Store on a Thursday afternoon!” replied Mrs Jones still wondering if her North Korean shipmate had smelt a rat.
“I dumped my husband at the local refuse tip!” said Mrs Sun suddenly revealing her hand.
So did the corpse- as one of his lifeless fingers chewed off by a hungry maggot dropped onto the floor.
“Different rules in North Korea…..people disappear all the time there!” said Mrs Sun.
“What do you want?” asked Mrs Jones….”in return for your silence?”
“What do all us Johnny Foreigners ever want?…..a blue passport….NHS Health Tourism….not to have to queue for a single brand of foodstuff on a supermarket shelf…. !” replied Mrs Sun.
“How would that work….I can’t get you and HIM back to the Britain through Customs now can I?” said the frustrated Mrs Jones.
“Well for starters I can help you to dispose of the body!” said Mrs Sun going from Eve to Villainelle.
“Then you report him missing and in seven years’ time and we in clear!”
“Next you have to get one of your friends to marry me…Male or Female… I don’t care its only one night….of course it will be a sham marriage and only until I find my feet!” she said kicking Mr Jones’ left foot under the wheelchair, so that it was not spotted by any nosey third party.
Mrs Jones knew now she was out on a limb.
She wondered what the Hell disease had now killed her husband.
Was it not the coronavirus but leprosy?
If she had told him that he would die in this fashion on one of their many Poker nights, he would have thrown his hand in before laughing his head off.  
Either way she suspected that she would be quarantined for two weeks- time a 79 year- old woman could ‘ill’ afford to spend.
Looking up at some grey smoke puffing out of the top of Mount Vesuvius, realised she had to get a move on.
 Shelley didn’t think it was a sign of them electing a new Pope in Rome.
“Let’s get out of here Mrs Jones….this living cemetery gives me the creeps….!” Said Mrs Sun.
“I agree… let’s go find the gift shop to buy some tape to put his foot back on and get him back on the ship!” suggested Shelley.
“There is Gift Shop?” said Mrs Sun excitedly.



“You haven’t seen MUCH of the Western World have you?” replied Mrs Jones.



 
Back inside Cabin 13, the scheming pair had managed to avoid the gaze of Camp David on return to the cruise ship, but he had knocked on the door once again but this time with an invitation for Mr & Mrs Jones to dine at the Captain’s Table.
Shelley knew she would have to find a place to store her husband until after dark, when she could help Mrs Sun to dispose of the body into the Briny Sea.
Mrs Sun was concerned as her preliminary enquiries of the crew seemed to point to the fact that the ship had CCT cameras and the latest on-board Norwegian technology which could detect a body falling overboard into the sea.
An alert would then be sent to Captain and their plot would be uncovered.
Mrs Sun had noticed that the crew stored their shiny uniforms in full size lockers on the same floor and close to one of the stairwells.
There was also an empty one with a rusty key in the lock that the sailors seemed to be reluctant to use.
It might prove a good hiding place until they could pretend that Mr Jones had been lost at sea but cause doubt over the accuracy of any technology.
Her plan was to use the locker to hide ‘Jones the Bones’.
Observation had shown the on-ship stewards to be busiest between 5.30pm and 7.30pm in preparation for the evening’s entertainment.  
That was the optimum time to move the body.
“It is best if you do not know where I hide him, that way, any suspicion that falls on you will enable you to pass any lie-detector test!” said the North Korean. 
On checking the corridor for people, Mrs Sun had to move fast like an Asian version of grave-robbers Burke & Hare as she single-handedly carried the sack of bones and fly magnet towards the locker.
She bundled the bony remains inside, only for it to collapse like a Ray Harryhausen skeleton warrior in the film Jason & The Argonauts.
Mrs Sun forced the key in the lock to turn with all her might and fortunately it closed shut with a clunk.
She snapped the rusty ‘skeleton’ key in half and look around nervously to make sure no-one had seen her doing so.
When Mrs Sun returned to the cabin not having been spotted by either crew or guest, the pair of Widows were ecstatic, hugging each other as if they were already Wife & Wife.
The finishing touch had been for Mrs Sun to place the Venetian Mask up on the top deck in one of the CCT camera blackspots, near where the sun loungers were stored overnight.
That way any investigation would assume Davey Jones would be just another statistic of a person missing from a cruise ship as the result of a freak wave or had been standing too close to the railings with sea-sickness.



After all, how much investigation would follow after the disappearance of an 80 Year- old Man missing from a ship registered to a sandbank off the shore of Bermuda?
The Alfred Hitchcock ‘Strangers on a Train’ plot might just work after all.
 



 
Looking like Old Rose in the James Cameron film Titanic, Mrs Jones sat at Captain Birzai’s top table.
She was dressed to in the nines and wore her fake costume jewellery bought third hand from a Merthyr Charity Shop.
She was expecting quality gourmet food but was disappointed to see the appearance of fish fingers yet again.
But then again what did she expect from a budget cruise.
She was sweating uncomfortably but couldn’t be sure if it was the SARS-CoV-2 virus or her guilty conscience at handing her late husband of 60 years’ body to a total stranger for disposal.
“My husband’s late!” she said to Captain Birzai trying to cover her tracks.
Her dinner companion was dressed all in a dark blue uniform and peaked cap with a white beard and had a tendency to wink a lot- which , a hangover from his TV advertising days.
“Where is he……in the cabin?” asked the seasoned sailor.
“He was but he said he wanted to go onto the deck to smoke one final cigarette….I didn’t even realise till I came on this ship he still smoked to be honest with you!” lied Shelley.
“Do you want me to ask the Steward to look for him if you are worried?” replied the Former King of Breadcrumbs.
“David would you mind checking the top deck for Mr Jones for me?”  ordered the salty old sea dog.
“Aye, Aye,  Cap’n!” said Camp David hamming it up.
Shelley sat nervously, picking at her food and expecting at any moment an alternative cry from Camp David of ‘Man- the Lifeboats’.
She assumed that was where Mrs Sun had hidden him.
She was glad she didn’t know.
Camp David returned some twenty minutes later looking all flustered and this time whispered in his Senior Officer’s ear.
“Speak louder man, all I can hear in my ear is the sound of the sea!” said Shelley.
“I can’t find him, I have checked everywhere, the Top Deck, the Lower Deck even the Poop Deck just in case he was busy having a shit!” said the Sailor.
“What about the Cabin Man?” asked the Captain.
“Sir, I used the skeleton key to get in but there was no sign, sorry Mrs Jones but it still smells a bit funky in there, so I only had a cursory glance!” reported Camp David.
“This Corona Vires cruise ship is not the Marie Celeste ….nor are we anywhere near the Bermuda Triangle now is it?” said the Captain asserting his authority.
“Take two of the crew with you and comb the ship again and ask the Bosun to check the cameras for any suspicious events!” ordered the Captain.
“Do you think he has killed himself after years of my nagging?” asked Shelley putting on her puppy dog face that she usually used to use on her husband in the days of terrestrial television, whenever she wanted to watch Coronation Street at the same time when the FA Cup was live on the BBC. 



“Now there is no need to worry just yet Mrs Jones we’ll find him!” said Captain Birzai reassuringly…”Or I’ll ‘batter’ the entire crew!”.
 



 
Fast forward to 2027 and the Cruise Ship was finally being decommissioned from the fleet.
It had sailed the World over many times, and after the acceleration of Global Warming had been even become a rescue vessel on a number of occasions, as sea level had risen to engulf large parts of London, Cardiff & Dublin.
One such mission rescued people from their passenger capsules on the London Eye in a flash flood after the Thames Barrier gave way.
The leaky Cruise Ship was now in the Mid-Atlantic heading for Northern Ireland.
It’s final destination was Belfast, the port that had once been home to the ill-fated White Star ocean liner the Titanic.
After the respiratory plague that had wiped out a quarter of the Earth’s population, the Corona Vires Cruise Ship had been renamed in 2020 the Black Pig.  
It’s last voyage had been a pleasure cruise of the Caribbean in a reverse ‘Windrush’, taking rich white Caucasians overseas to visit their tax haven savings. 
“Have you finished clearing out those staff lockers yet?” shouted the First Mate, Seaman Staines.
“Not quite -just the rusty old one on the end left to go!” shouted back Roger the Cabin Boy.
“Slide me the hammer and a flat head screwdriver please!”  the youngster shouted.
The metal tools slid along the ship’s floor and clattered into the now empty locker bases.
Roger, placed the flathead of the screwdriver inside the lock and hit it hard with the hammer.
The rusty old lock mechanism refused stubbornly to budge.
It hadn’t opened for over seven years.
He hit it again harder this time but still the locker refused to give up its grim secret.
He angled the blade again and hit it diagonally this time.
The lock popped and the young boy was rocked by the smell that left the airtight cubicle in a rush.
“Jesus!” he said as the putrid air flew past him.
Inside the darkened recess, he could make out the shape of a skull and cross-bones.
“Look at this!”  he called to his mate.
“Do you think this is real or just a Pirate Prop?” he continued picking a bluebottle out of the gap between his front teeth.
“I don’t know!”  said his colleague looking at the full skeleton as it emerged from its confines.
“What shall I do with it?” asked Roger…
”Do we tell Cap’n Pugwash?”
“Do you really want to spend an extra couple of days unpaid explaining to the Port Authorities where that came from?” replied the more experienced crewman.
“F*** No!” said the youngster
“There is only one thing for it then…Davey Jones’s Locker it is then!” replied Staines.
]]> Wed, 14 Oct 2020 23:22:53 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5283/deppth-charge http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5283



“Ello ‘Ello ‘Ello what’s all this then?” said Constable Grunt, as he arrived onto the Barry Island Seafront promenade.
Before him sat a group of mixed children and adults, all staring up at a fairground booth, beautifully painted in red n white stripes.
As the Policeman strode forward on his size twelve feet Dr Marten’s boots- the sound of a kazoo playing the theme from Laurel & Hardy was heard emanating from behind the curtain of the booth.
“Very funny!” said the Constable.
Contrary to popular belief, Constable Grunt had originally possessed a sense of humour but it had been extracted at birth together with his umbilical cord – besides, it had been a long day trying to enforce the unworkable rules on social distancing imposed due to the Covid-19 pandemic- so he was in no mood for humour.
Especially humour at his expense which undermined his authority.
The Punch n Judy booth was set up with it’s back to the railings on the promenade and was surrounded by the audience in a semi-circle, who had paid a small fee to the performer’s assistant- known as the Bottler- for the show.
The Bottler had lived up to his name and bottled it upon first sight of the long arm of the law.
The children and adults swung their attention from the booth to the Constable, who was accompanied by the latest version of a female Hobby Bobby- a Boris Johnson Covid- 19 Beadle.
Yet another attempt by the Conservative Government to return the former United Kingdom to Victorian values.
“Is there a pwoblem Officer?” asked the hidden puppeteer through a rasping kazoo.
His speech impediment didn’t help the intensity of the laughter from the crowd.
Nor did his strange accent.
“ We have had a complaint about suitability of the show that you are putting on for children and also a flagrant breach of Covid- 19 social distancing rules from a Member of the Public!” grunted Grunt.
There was no sign of any person in the booth.
“Can you tell who complained…eas it someone from Bawwy Island?” came the kazoo voice.
“No!” replied Grunt rocking on his size twelve heels.
“I bet it was Pwetti Patal again watting on her neighbours!” replied the invisible puppeteer.
The Policeman just smiled.
The Home Secretary was his boss – just like that other Nazi regime from 1945- he was just following orders.
It was a perk of the job and purely coincidental that he enjoyed making other people miserable.
Constable Grunt began to make contemporaneous notes in his South Wales Police Constabulary state of the art notebook.
The silence was broken by the reply from inside the Booth.
“Don’t you know that the Punch N Judy entertainment at the seaside has been around since the 1600’s – Comedie dell’Arte – even Samuel Pepys wrote about in HIS diary too!” complained the voice of the unseen puppeteer.
“Looks like someone has been studying British History!” said the non-laughing Policeman.
“Perhaps that may be a fact…but the complaint has come from a source high up in the Court system complaining that your actions are prejudicing a High Court case on libel proceedings!” said Grunt.
“How come?” said the vibrating kazoo voice- this time much higher pitched- almost female.
“Well your choice of the leading characters- being Hollywood A- & C-listers Johnny Depp and Amber Heard!” ordered Grunt.
At the mention of their names up popped the two characters who took a bow to the audience.
The children cheered loudly as the puppets appeared.
“I don’t understand -no-one complained when I used a puppet of Caroline Flack?” said the invisible man.
“Look it’s not acceptable to portray a Wife being beaten up at a seaside booth for children- it sends out the wrong message!” said the female Hobby Bobby.
“Who are you when you are at home?” asked the puppeteer hidden below the wooden stage.
“ Barry Island’s first appointed Covid- 19 Warden Stephanie Fiddler!” she boomed proudly.
There was silence from the booth and then came the ‘Punch-line’.
“Tell me children when you grow up… do you want to be a Fanny Fiddler just like her?” said the voice.
The children laughed as did most of the adults present.
The Covid Beadle blushed redder than Neil Kinnock after seeing the General Election result of 1992.
“It’s not just a complaint about the violence it is the content of the act!” continued Grunt.
“The way that the lead character handles the baby too!”
“That is as traditional as the appearance of the crocodile and the sausages!” protested the Puppeteer.
“Okay but why threaten to hand the baby over to Lost Profit’s singer Ian Watkins?” countered Fiddler regaining her confidence.
“How do you know?....you have never paid to watch the act?” queried the Puppeteer.
“I was standing on the rooftops…!” she said.
“What rooftops?” asked the hidden performer in a Turkish dialect, this time pronouncing his r’s immaculately.
“We are on the Barry seafront promenade!”
“The complaint was principally about the violent conduct which portrays Mr Depp as a wife beater!” said Grunt in the best assertive voice, that which his Bridgend Police Training had instilled in him.
“Violence?” protested the kazoo-man.
“At a Punch and Judy Show….haven’t you guys ever watched anything on Sky Atlantic or the internet….everything is much more graphic now- much more than two characters threatening each other with sticks….it’s not exactly as if it is the film Zombieland now is it?”
“Why don’t you pay 2.00 lira each and I’ll put on a show for you!” offered the Puppeteer.
“Can I claim it back on expenses?” asked Fiddler.
“The MP’s usually do when they watch the petty puerile childish squabbling …it must remind them of the House of Commons!” replied the invisible Hands.
Both Fascists looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders and sat on the promenade wall, helmets and stab proof vests unbuttoned.
With that the show began once again.
Up popped a new character in the place of the Hollywood A-Listers.
“Hi Sprogs, hope you are having a bonzer day in the light drizzle here at Barry Island Prom….it’s the last day of the Poms too….as you are soon to be invaded by that lot in the Channel from the Calais Jungle!” said the character in the worst Australian accent since Dame Edna Everage merged with Sir Les Patterson and became Barry Humphreys.
It was almost like he was from Afghanistan rather than Oz.
“Look Sprogs. I should know about my sea creatures because I took them all to my Heart!” replied the character clad in khaki shorts.
As he did so he opened his khaki shirt to reveal a massive hole where his heart should be.
“He could be a Tory MP!” said little Billy Booger, whilst picking his Covid-19 encrusted nose and then flicking it at his mate.
“Oi…I saw that!” said Fiddler the germ warden.
Back in the booth, up popped a crocodile and the Aussie promptly wrestled it down like it was his pet dog.
No sooner than they had disappeared than a string of sausages popped up from below the counter.
“Oops….give us my intestines back… you naughty boy !” came the same Aussie voice from Down Under in Istanbul.
As soon as the Crocodile Man disappeared the Hollywood Titans reappeared and continued their clash.
“Have you seen the mess down there is it ‘From Hell’ said Heard anger level on green.
“A bit like you before make-up on the set of our film Rum Diary (2011) in the morning!” taunted Depp.
“You can talk – ‘you monster’ you will be ‘Finding Neverland’ the next time you try and mount me for a ‘Late, Late, Show!” spat back the Spouse.
“Drop Dead Sexy!” replied Depp.
“Oh you are Sauvage….just like that awful Dior aftershave you advertise on telly…I gave it to the Down and Outs in Beverly Hills – they already smell like you after your Rum Diary entries!” said Heard turning Amber.
“I only took that advert to select where in the desert sand I am going to bury your body!” snapped back the Pirate of the Caribbean or Somalia.
“It’s not just dead men that tell no tales…..remember that!”
“Did you hear that children?.... Tonto Johnny here making threats ….it’s the last time he will have a bird on his head….it’s just like you witnessed at home during lockdown before you were forced to go back to school to catch Covid-19 to infect your parent’s with!” said Amber picking up a cut throat razor.
“Come here….I’ll show you Sweeney Todd for real!” said Heard turning in’candy’escent with rage.
“Bring it on baby!” said Johnny affixing his Edward Scissorhands.
“Let’s see if you really do have ‘Heard’ immunity!”
“Woah, Woah, Woah!” shrieked Constable Grunt- pointing his hands up and then pointing his index finger at the booth.
“Stop the show.. that’s an offence under the Offences against the Person Act of 1861!”
“In case you not know… dem not persons…day Puppets!” replied Kazoo- this time with a trace of Nigerian.
A collective gasp came from the adults in the audience.
They didn’t expect the ‘Fourth Wall’ to be breached.
The kids didn’t care as long- as there was a steady supply of Haribo sweets they were content.
The Puppet Master was correct but Constable Grunt couldn’t back down now not in front of the children and his sidekick.
Before he could react onto the stage came a third puppet.
“That’s clever….three puppets on the go at one time…he must be extremely talented in the trouser department!” said Fiddler.
It was a Hangman wearing both a wire and an F.B.I emblazoned jacket.
They were both followed by a ghost.
The ghost of Jeffrey Epstein.
The puppet of Johnny Depp opened his mouth to looked scared.
The puppet of Amber Heard looked even more scared as she misread the name on the back of the Savile Row shirt and thought from first glance it was disgraced Film Producer Harvey Weinstein.
“There must be two of them in that booth!” whispered Fiddler captivated by the show.
“I thought that!” whispered back Grunt.
“Me too!” said Heard listening in on the conversation.
“What shall we do now that Home Secretary Priti Patel has repealed the Human Rights Act children?” asked Kazoo- this time in a voice deeper than Brian Blessed’s bollocks.
“ Hang him again!” screamed the young crowd.
“That’s the way to do it!” said Constable Grunt getting carried away enjoying the spectacle.
“Oi…that’s MY line!” protested Johnny ‘the Punch’ Depp- this time sounding Kurdish.
“Dew…this Kazoo Puppet Guy is brilliant with those different voices – like Rory Bremner or a male version of Nina Conti!” said Constable Grunt approvingly to Fiddler.
Their fun was suddenly stopped by a millionaire professional sea-watcher from Kent.
“The Great British public is being fleeced every day by Health Tourists and you guys are too busy watching ‘ seaside special?” moaned the Frog Faced Toad.
“Look…behind the booth!” he continued his right arm raised like he was at Nuremberg, pointing towards the beach behind the booth.
Breaking on the waves were six empty small rubber dinghies bearing bumper stickers of Turkey, Italy, Germany, and Calais France.
“I suggest you check the booth!” continued the Kent Kermit.
Constable Grunt waded through the children and peered down into the booth.
It was completely empty.
No puppeteers or puppets at all.
“You Muppet!” said the Englishman.
As Constable Grunt slid the booth to one side- it became apparent that the booth was over a Welsh Water manhole surface water drain cover.
Placing his truncheon under the handle with a bit of ‘force’ he lifted the lid and peered into the darkness.
Just like the Black Hole of Calcutta peering back at him was around 20 pairs of eyes.
More eyes than a peacock’s back.
“Whilst you were distracted by the puppet show ‘ Johnny Foreigner here was busy helping that lot make tracks up the sand and into their bunker – awaiting the cover of the night to slip away to places like West Bromwich and Birmingham to add their numbers to the Black Country!” continued Dad’s Army’s latest recruit.
“If it was up to me with my Churchillian spirit I would fight them on the beaches and bite them on the features too!”
“But YOU are the one in Authority ….what are you going to do about them?” said the anti-amphibious amphibian.
Constable Grunt smiled knowingly, as he unclipped from his belt a cannister of CS Gas.
“Where did you get that- that’s not Police issue?” asked Fiddler.
“Extinction Rebellion!” said Constable Grunt removing the pin and casually tossing it into the stagnant surface water below.
“Deppth Charge!” he replied.
“Saves on the paperwork!”






















]]> Wed, 14 Oct 2020 23:03:21 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5262/the-hot-seat-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5262





The camera pans to the grey-haired Welshman sat behind his desk.
“Good Evening and welcome to this special BBC edition of Celebrity ‘Evil’ Mastermind!” said presenter John Humphreys.
“On tonight’s edition – my last ever for reasons that will become apparent later – we have a special show lined-up for you and in order to show balance we have three Right Wing narcissists and one Commie here to answer a series of questions in the allotted time of two minutes!”
“Let’s meet them!” continued the former newsreader.
“From the USA- President Donald Trump!”
The POTUS turns and smiles at the wrong camera.
“From Islington London – former Leader of the Opposition – Comrade Jeremy Corbyn!” said the presenter.
The Cameraman adds a special Newsnight filter to make it look like he is wearing a Red Ushanka hat complete with hammer and sickle on the front.
It is plainly visible as an add-on- as Corbyn nods towards the viewers at home.
“Liberty Peace Prize Winner and former Prime Minister Tony Blair!” announces Humphreys.
His Royal Tonyness, smiles cheesily, just like a ‘Cheshire Pony’ at the little screen whilst looking around for the autocue.
“And last and by all means least- current Prime Minister of the United Kingdom but mainly England- Boris Johnson!”
Boris is slouched in his chair, dishevelled blonde hair pointing in all directions, just like a schoolboy who hasn’t been dressed by his Mother/Nanny that Morning.
“Who Me?” replies Johnson as the studio goes quiet – all the time looking around for Dominic Cullings.
“So first up, we have the Leader of the Western World, President of the United States of America, Donald John Trump- if you would like to take the chair?” invited the presenter.
“Take it where?” replied Trump.
“It looks GREAT (showing all of someone else’s teeth in his mouth) but I have better one back in the White House in Washington back home in the US of A- it is probably made in China anyway….!” He continued unabated.
After a hand gesture from Humphreys towards the Hot Seat- Trump made his way slowly – just like a bear nurturing a ten pound turd but unable to find any woods close by- .
No sooner than he had sat down heavily breaking the thing than he uttered –
“Definitely China… look how easy it broke under my nine stone frame- Do I have to raise my right hand for the Holy Book like the Grand Jury?” asked Trump.
“‘No-there is no book for you to swear on!” replied Humphreys.
“Good-not a bigly fan of books anyway-don’t colour or read them anymore!” replied the President.
“So, your chosen subject is?” asked Humphreys.
“Me!” replied Trump
“Okay -you have two minutes on your specialist subject starting now!” said the Presenter speeding up towards the end of the sentence.
“ You were born on 14 th June 1946, what sign are you?”
“Cancer!” replied the POTUS.
“Incorrect- you are Gemini- the Twins” said the Presenter.
“Fake news….there is only one Donald J Trump!” replied Trump.
“What number President are you?” asked Humphreys.
“Number One- better than Osama- less impeachable than Nixon!” said the Don.
“Incorrect- 45 was the answer!” continued Humphreys.
“Fake news- 45 was the answer I gave to the N.R.A to stop the school shootings- I told them to arm the teachers and the children too, that way they would have a fighting chance if the terrorists attack- it’s the in the American Constitution – the pursuit of happiness- Will Smith or Kayne West told me- I can never tell them apart-!” replied Trump.
“Are you referring to the second amendment and the right to ‘bear arms’? “replied the quiz host getting all confused by the replies.
“Who wants bear arms?- there’s nothing wrong with these human ones I got!”
Humphreys shook his head- half of the allotted time was up and he had concluded that this President’s head was more shot than JFK.
“Which political party do you represent?” asked the interviewer.
“Is this a trick question? Oh KKK… because I am tempted to say I was ‘Putin Power” by my good friend and good friend to America….to help turn back the clock…return to the use of fossil fuels and that fake global watering ….install coal burning fires and surrounds and make America ‘Grate’ again!”
Humphreys just shook his head and ploughed on.
‘So, what excuse did you give to dodge the Vietnam War Draft?” asked Humphreys.
“It WASN’T an excuse… said Trump glaring at the Welshman….”I had bone spurs…if you don’t believe me ….ask Stormy Daniels ‘She will confirm… I had them on when riding her dressed as a Dallas cowboy!”
“‘I’ll accept!” said Humphreys.
“What did you claim was your favourite rock album on Radio Station Minneapolis Burning?” asked Humphreys.
“Houses of the Holy by Led Zeppelin!” replied the Orangeman.
“Incorrect- it was the Wall by Pink Floyd!” said the presenter.
“Fake news- I don’t like any rap music by protesters from Dixieland or is that Disneyland?” replied the walking Tango Advert.
The end of round claxon sounded.
“Congratulations Mr Trump you scored one and pissed on two -Russian Prostitutes that is-!”
Trump smiled to himself- remembering that experience warmly- whilst sleeping in the shallow end of that impromptu Moscow waterbed.
He had beaten his own high score and now deserved a UK tax-free Costa Cofefe for his efforts.
As he had been sat in the Hot Seat under the BBC studio lights- there was a pool of orange liquid underneath the chair and a familiar stain on the back of his fawn golfing trousers.
“Second Contestant would you please come to chair!” asked Humphreys.
‘Please state your full name for the record….I would remind you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you probably out of context and to our own ends…do you understand?” asked the BBC Griller.
“I understand…Jeremy Bernard Corbyn… but known to my followers simply as JC!” said the former Leader of the Opposition.
“ Bernard!” sniggered Humphreys.
“As in Bernardo O’Higgins, the Chilean Communist Guerrilla Leader?”
“Yes but No but he was a Freedom fighter!” replied Corbyn made to sound like Little Britain character Vicki Pollard.
“And your chosen specialist subject is?” asked the questioner.
“Allotments that changed the World” replied Corbyn.
“Okay!” sniggered Humphreys once again.
“You have two minutes starting now!”
“How do they arrange the ‘radishical’ movements of root vegetables in the Moscow State Allotment Society?”
“In Red Squares!” replied Corbyn.
“Correct!” announced Humphreys.
“Which vegetable was King of the Hippies, John Lennon promoting with his bed lie in protest with Yoko Ono in Amsterdam in 1969?” asked the presenter.
“Peas!” – replied Corbyn.
“Give peas a chance!” he said quoting the dead Beatle.
“Correct!” said Humphreys.
“He is giving him the easy ones!” moaned Trump as he put his tiny ‘GI JOE’ sized hand up and whispered behind the back of it at the other two contestants.
“What luminous vegetables did the Conservative UK Government import in bulk from Mother Russia in 1986 because they were cheap to supply to the poor?” asked Humphreys glaring at a different kind of luminous vegetable for the interruption.
“Chernobyl Carrots- they came with a ‘glowing reference’ and a shelf life of 1-5 years!” replied Corbyn.
“Correct!” said Humphreys.
“A bit like his chlorinated chicken then!” said Corbyn nodding at the Political Oompa Loompa.
“Fake News!” came the broken record reply.
“What was the name of your Palestinian cook book about your fresh allotment produce penned in 2016?” asked Humphreys.
“From Hummus to Hamas!” replied the weirdy beardy.
“Which record did you say you would take with you if you were castaway on a deserted atoll off Cuba on Radio Four’s Desert Island Discs?” asked Humphreys.
“Rhapsody in Blue by the Gershwin Brothers” replied Corbyn.
“George always stole the limelight from his elder brother so I felt a little sorry for him!” he continued.
“Correct-so, we can confirm on the BBC that you are now an admitted IRA sympathiser?” said Humphreys seizing on the slip.
“Do you know -there are thousands of women in this Country on NHS waiting lists and I am always the first to get smeared!” replied Corbyn- red smoke then liquid emanating from his ears- just like a poisoned Communist Pope.
“What group are Angel of Islington blood oranges?” asked the interviewer.
Corbyn shook his head and looked doubtful for the first time.
“Blood Group A Positive- as they contain a red wedge?” said the fairest Prime Minister this Country never had.
“Incorrect- it was O-Jeremy Corbyn- O- Jeremy Corbyn!”- sang Humphreys in a Pre-Covid-19 Glastonbury 2017 White Stripes tune….”But your Trotskyist Red Blood Group is noted!”
As the claxon sounded- Humphreys announced that Corbyn had scored 5 out of a possible 6 and not passed on any questions- unlike the current Prime Minister Boris Johnson in his time at the Despatch Box in Parliament.
“Fair play- the many and not the few!”
Corbyn flicked a V at Humphreys before turning and heading for his vacant seat.
“Next up- we have former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom Anthony Charles Lynton Blair!” said Humphreys.
The darkened BBC studio was lit up by the most enormous set of gnashers to grace the place since Esther Rantzen had a ‘sausages’ face- off with Theo the Poodle.
“Hi, I’m Tony!” announced the politician.
“Well would you like to tell the audience at home what your specialist subject is tonight?” asked Humphreys.
“Spin Doctoring, manipulating the media and how to win elections!” replied the former PM, whilst continuing to smile at the camera the whole time just like a ventriloquist dummy.
“Okay , Mr Blair you have two minutes on the subject starting….NOW!” Said Humphreys.
“Can’t I have three?” asked His Royal Tony-ness.
There was a pregnant pause before John Humphreys replied
“Okay- because you put it so nicely, you can have three!”.
There were howls of outrage from the previous two contestants who were busy muttering the phrase ‘BBC Bias’.
“That’s spin for you!” Blair said smiling all the while.
“Question one- Who did you recommend to be your successor in the Labour Party in 2010?” asked Humphreys.
“Anyone BUT him!” said Blair pointing a manicured finger with painted nails with a red rose on each one in the direction of Corbyn.
“Correct!” said Humphreys to howls of protest from his Left Wing.
“The Momentum is really with you now Tony!”
“Who do you think will lead the party to victory in the 2023 General Election?” asked Humphreys.
“Someone in my own non-spitting image- a fellow barrister- someone with a Christian Name of a famous Labour politician to sound like a convincing socialist but in actual fact is further on the right wing of the party than Charles Lindbergh!” continued the Blair Rich Project.
“As a politician are you going to give me a straight answer or what?” asked Humphreys.
“Keir Starmer!” announced Blair.
“Correct….at least he can eat a non-antisemitic bacon sandwich correctly!” replied Humphreys.
“What is the difference between WKD and WMD?” continued Humphreys.
“They found WKD in a bar in Iraq- but no WMD?” replied the Blair faced bliar.
“Correct!”- said the presenter.
“Phew….!” replied Blair with a noticeable single bead of sweat added by the BBC make-up department to give the impression he was under pressure.
“What is the difference between Bosnian Serbian leader Dragomir Milosevic, Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goring and Tony Blair?”
“Pass!” said Blair as quickly as possible.
“Who was responsible for securing the Belfast Agreement ‘Good Friday Peace Process in Northern Ireland?” asked Humphreys.
“It was me- I should have got a ‘Tony Award’ for it!” Blair said modestly- nose enlarging slowly.
“Fake news!” came a shout from the dark- but not from the USA Orange State but from Corbyn instead.
“It was ME that met with Sinn Fein over a couple of McGuinnesses!” protested the Allotment King.
“John Hume would be turning in his grave if he heard THAT!” replied Blair.
“Conveniently- you would have to EX-HUME him to validate that- and that would take some special SPIN DOCTOR to boot!” said Corbyn.
“I Trimble at the very thought!” replied Blair.
“Correct!” said Humphreys much to the bemusement of Corbyn.
“It would appear for a man who believes in unilateral disarmament, you have a strong militant tendency -any more interruptions Mr Corbyn and I will have you removed from the studio and your gulags sent to the four corners of the former United Kingdom!” threatened Humphreys.
“I will have you know that Saint Blair of Edinburgh here has a history of receiving Peace Prizes- he won a Liberty Medal for his ‘commitment to conflict resolution’ in 2010.!” Said the BBC presenter.
“Which immigration barrister is set to defend the Shamina Begum appeal case?” asked Humphreys.
“My Cherie Amour!” sang Blair just like Stevie Wonder.
“Correct!”
The Claxon sounded and the presenter announced.
“At the end of that round Mr Blair, you have scored five and passed on one-what is the difference between Bosnian Serbian leader Dragomir Milosevic, Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goring and Tony Blair?”
“The answer to that is you were all born under the star sign Taurus and capable of talking a lot of bull!”.
“I can think of a different one!” shouted Corbyn- as he was dragged away with his arms restrained by two burly undercover policemen wearing Rachel Riley tee-shirts marked ‘Taking the Countdown!’
“And to think you Guys are part of the same Labour Movement!” chortled Humphreys.
“Of course- we are!” smiled the Grinch that stole a Party.
“Next up we have Prime Minister Johnson!” announced Humphreys.
Boris was slumped in his chair, lolling like he was Jacob Rees-Mogg, lying across the front benches of Parliament.
At the sound of his name, Boris put on a smirk across his face that Stephen King Horror Clown character IT would have been proud.
As Bozo the Buffoon, slid his way towards the chair Humphreys’ manner seemed to change somewhat.
“Please would you fasten your seatbelt Mr Johnson- it is a conditional requirement by the BBC Director General in your case!” ordered the wily Welshman.
“Bloody EU Health & Safety!” mumbled Johnson under his alcohol enhanced breath.
Boris did as he was told.
No sooner than the seatbelt was clicked shut- Humphreys ducked down behind the desk just like the bar tender in the custard pie throwing scene of Bugsy Malone.
And in his place appeared BBC News Presenter Andrew Neil.
“Crikey….I have walked into a giant elephant trap!” Boris spluttered.
“Good afternoon Boris….it seems like you won’t get away from me after all!” said Neil.
“Yikes- why do I get the feeling I am about to be scoured by a Brillo and his I-Pad?” gulped the PM.
“So, please state your full name for the audience and chosen specialist subject!” asked Neil.
“Boris Johnson….sex. lies and the odd videotape!” said the blonde former Etonian whose hair made him look as if he had been dragged through a hedge fund backwards.
“Incorrect!” said Andrew Neil.
“It’s Alexander Boris De Pfeffel Johnson!” came the reply.
“I say old boy that’s a bit below the belt!” mumbled the man of the people.
“So why did you give the home address of a journalist from the News of the World to your friend Darius Guppy in 1993?” asked Neil.
“Uhhh….I thought he wanted to send him a ‘Get Well Card’…!” stuttered Boris.
“But he wasn’t unwell at the time- now was he?” countered Neil.
“Well he was about to be- I was just a little ahead of time on that one!” said the PM.
“So- an easy one next- How many biological children have you spawned so far?” asked Neil.
“Pass!” said Johnson.
“When you were Mayor of London you made more U-Turns than Dick Whittington but did you try to erect your own version of a ‘garden’ bridge whilst trying to ‘remain’ at the top of the poles?” interrogated Neil.
“Let’s just say it is not just Britain and America that has a special relationship!” replied Bojo.
“Unless you give me a straight answer… I can’t award you the point!” said Neil.
“Granted!” replied the PM.
“I’ll take that as a different kind of ‘pass’ then!” replied the interviewer.
“ Can’t I get Philip Schofield and Holly Willoughby instead?” asked Boris trapped in the hot seat like an inadequate stunt man in the movie Fifty Shades of Grey.
“Wrong channel!” replied Brillo off the top of his head.
“Nigel Farage keeps going on about that!” replied the Eton Mess trying like all politicians to witter on about nothing to run down the airtime.
“Tubby, what Planet are you on?- You can’t hide in a fridge this time!” replied the former Hard Times man.
“Zanuzzi?” mumbled the buffoon.
“So, why did you grant permission for Dominic Cullings suffering from the coronavirus to drive five hours to Durham at the height of a pandemic?” barked Neil.
“Or allow Pa Churchill to fly off to Greece when everyone else is stuck with quarantine?
Boris placed his fingers in his ears and started to make ‘la- la noises’ to override the tough questions.
“This isn’t PMQ’s!” shouted Andrew Neil as he administered a 15- volt electric shock direct to the PM.
Boris’ eyes widened for the first time and his blonde hair suddenly went like it had been combed and immaculately groomed- just like Max Headroom or the new Keir Starmer look.
“You can’t torture people…. this is England not Saudi Arabia!” protested Boris.
“Don’t you remember your 60 MP majority voted through to repeal the Human Rights Act when you left the European Union!” replied Andrew Neil evilly.
“I don’t remember that!” said the shocked laboratory monkey.
“It was just after Christopher Chope vetoed the up-kilting mobile phone ban in Scotland !” recalled Brillo.
“Is that the one that upset Nicola Sturgeon and made her a little Krankie?” asked Boris horrified.
“Here is a Presidential Order signed by Donald Trump that as part of the US/UK trade deal negotiated by Pork Baron Liz Truss that this studio is now controlled by the Walt Disney Corporation of Florida and thereby all Federal Laws of that Orange County State now apply in this Studio!” continued Neil.
“To include the electric chair and death penalty for failure!”
“So Boris, you REALLY are in the Hot Seat!”
“But answer me one last request before you push that button and fry my brain what did the UK get in return?” asked Boris.
“Silk stockings and chocolate!” came the reply.
“Nothing changes!”







































]]> Sun, 09 Aug 2020 20:20:53 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5257/i-spy-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5257





Dai Commando looked just like any normal person.
Average height, average weight even average shoe size.
But underneath he was no ordinary G.I. Joe.
You would never hear it from Dai’s own lips, but the regulars in his local public house in Dowlais- the T.A.’s (The Tredegar Arms) would tell you- whilst he may have served in the Royal Marines – ‘He was Made in Merthyr’.
Mainly because he was conceived on top of a wheelie bin behind Wetherspoon’s in Post Office Lane.
Dai Commando turned his I-pad on ready for his 11.00am Zoom Meeting.
It was top secret and confidential stuff.
Punctually was Dai’s middle name and he hated people who were late even more than he hated foreigners- and that was saying something.
After inputting his own version of the Enigma Code into the Apple device, he promptly ate the piece of paper that contained the sequence.
Up on the split screen appeared three men, two of which most people would recognise from television and the other as anonymous as an alcoholic deed poll clerk.
“Good Morning Mr Perkins!” said the figure on the left of the screen.
Dai’s commando training noticed that the background behind this man was very bland indeed.
Magnolia walls and no discernible trace details of the location.
The middle man had a mop of unkempt blonde hair and appeared a little of out his comfort zone.
He was sitting on a green leather bench reminiscent of those that MP’S sit on in the House of Commons in Parliament and immediately sticking out from underneath him was a thick document marked ‘Russian Report’.
The third individual had bulging eyes and looked like a human version of a frog.
Behind the human Freddo was a huge bookcase with an array of books thereon with Mein Kampf, Der Fatherland, Uncle Tom’s Cabin and the Al Jolson Story clearly visible.
“For the purpose of this interview, please refer to us from left to Far Right as Philby, Boris & McLean!” continued the Oxbridge voice.
“So, Mr Perkins…. if that is indeed your real name…the big question is why do you want to register as a spy with MI5?”
Dai Commando had wanted to be a spy his entire life.
Now in one 30-minute interview, he had to justify exactly why that was to people far less qualified than himself.
None of these three had ever waterboarded a prisoner- none of these three had killed a man with his bare hands -nor spent an Arabian night sleeping inside the rotting carcass of a dead camel.
“My name is not important, I just want the opportunity to continue the excitement of foreign travel and the kind of freedom of movement that has been curtailed following the EU withdrawal bill and not to have a 14 day quarantine period just like Pa Churchill…. I want the ‘buzz’ of the chase- but more importantly I want to be licensed to kill like the Russians over Litvinenko or any member of the Saudi Consulate in Istanbul!” said Dai.
Boris interrupted.
“I get aroused by foxhunting too but may I suggest the DWP rather than MI5 if you really want a licence to kill a much greater number?”
“Austerity can only last for so long, before the general public rumble you-I want the adrenaline rush of defending these shores from Foreign influence and carry a knife in London without being stopped and searched every ten minutes!” replied Dai.
“Are you prepared to place a limpet mine on the bottom of a refugee boat in the middle of the English Channel?” asked McLean.
“What again?” replied Dai.
“Do you want me to beat the ‘Living Daylights’ out of George Galloway too?”
“Sounds like my kind of man…your hired… let’s all meet down the Saracen’s Head for a pint then!” said McLean.
“Not so fast…I have a few questions before you begin Putin Britain First!” said Philby with a Freudian slip.
“Why are you dressed as a Babushka woman from the Motherland ?” he continued.
“I am incognito!” replied Dai.
“Great- he can speak French too, pub it is then!” said McLean licking his frog-spawn like lips.
“Whoa, hold your chevaux-what experience had you had in such stealth matters?” asked Philby of the Babushka.
“I served in the Special Boat Service, did two tours of duty in Iraq- I am pictured on the internet- in disguise of course- helping the locals pull down the statue of an evil man with a rope - !” replied Dai.
“In Baghdad?” asked Boris.
“Bristol!” replied Dai.
“I served in Afghanistan too- where I had my leg blown off by an IED-!” said Dai lifting his long hippy skirt to reveal a metal leg and curved Oscar Pistorius scimitar foot and a fine pair of bollocks too.
Dai Commando alright.
The reaction on Boris’s face was priceless, as he recoiled in horror.
“Don’t let this little thing put you off hiring me- this is like a Swiss Army blade and contains a bag of killing tools that Villanelle in Killing Eve would die for!” said Dai Commando.
“See this sonic screwdriver attachment…I once killed a man with it on the Jeffrey Epstein’s ‘Lolita Express’ private jet and then used this handy Dyson attachment to ‘hoover’ up his remains before dropping them Mid-Atlantic into the sea!” boasted Dai Commando looking like a QVC salesperson.
“How did you get on that plane?” Asked Boris....I heard it was reserved for Royalty and had a 14 year old waiting list?”
“The Old Boy Network of course!” replied Dai.
“It was full of shady characters that you expect to see as Bond Villains in Spectre…there was definitely more than an Oddjob or two going on by the cabin crew- ‘bobbing for diamonds’ – after all they do say diamonds ARE forever!”
“I really miss the other Old Boy Network!” sighed Boris.
“But now I have a new born one- year old gargantuan baby and a puppy to support- handy for the election photographs but hard work for Nanny Carrie ever since!”
“Times are hard, with half the Country unemployed after the Pandemic and Brexit fiascos, I can’t even afford to re-join the Bullingdon Club and burn £50.00 notes in front of the homeless anymore on my ‘chickenfeed salary’…I wonder sometimes if it REALLY was worth avoiding the EU Tax Directive after all…I blame David Cameron for his pig’s breakfast and the entire Eton Mess!”
All the while the real Head of MI5- known professionally as Malcolm X- sat silent.
He knew he could kick up a fuss like Rosa Parks on a Cleveland Avenue bus but just like the work in progress on the Civil Service- his secret organisation would be disbanded by the real hand that rocked his cradle- Countryman and Comrade Dominic Cummings.
“Cummings?....is that the Guy who writes for the S*N newspaper on page 5 every week or am I thinking of a different Fifth Columnist? ’
“Out of curiosity… was that Fat Cabbage guy on there?” interrupted Boris nervously.
“Fat Cabbage?” asked Dai Commando perplexed.
“You know.... the one that produced the Bondage Films?” continued Bo Jo.
“ I think he means Cubby Broccoli!” said Philby deciphering another Bletchley Park code instantly.
“I think so….I will check this little black book I copied on my mobile camera-phone lifted from the Maxwell House….let me see in the A-listers we have Allen (Woody), Andrew also filed under H and even more Woody…Bill Clinton, Bill Cosby, Blair…sorry I can’t see any Broccoli….although it appears that some of them did have their five a day and some as many as eight!” replied Dai Commando squinting at the allocated lists of Octopussy.
“Can you turn that phone to the screen?” asked McLean.
Commando Dai being in an interview wanted to give his intended new employers what they wanted to both hear and see.
“I wonder what the phrase had a B.J. stands for?” asked McLean innocently.
“What time does that Pub of yours close?” said Boris trying to change the subject.
“ It’s not in Leicester is it?”
“The Saracen’s Head you mean?” asked McLean thoughts turning automatically to being given head.
“Can we get back to the task in hand Gentleman?” ordered Philby politely.
“So what makes you think you are the best man for the job over Idris Elba?” asked the MI5 Chief.
“This IS a secure link is it Sir?” asked Dai Commando.
“100% British telephone company from Tyneside- the Huawai the Lads network of 5G!” boasted McLean.
“Only our friends at the CIA, Microsoft, Apple, Google and Siri have access to this network- so it is unlikely to be shared anywhere- please be assured- it is as safe as Jennifer Lawrence’s I-Cloud!” said Philby.
“Well I possess a Polonium 210 tipped Umbrella, some Novichok cakes and a phial of Covid 19 that our lab techs created at Porton Down research place to f*** up the Chinese economy!” said Dai Commando.
“I also do the Thunderball lottery religiously every week!”
“Sounds good to me!” said Kermit McLean thin green legs dangling on the stairs.
“Pub anyone?” he continued looking at his Swiss watch and both his British Blue and Red EU passports.
Boris nodded enthusiastically.
“Do I get a certificate marked Cobra meeting for the haters?” he continued.
“One final question- Mr Perkins if I may?” asked Boris.
“How would YOU stop Russian infiltration of the Security Services producing fake election results in the UK?”
“Asking for a friend of course!”
“Read Peter Wright’s banned Spycatcher book- don’t employ people on your staff people who have worked in Russia for three years, don’t except donations from oligarchs for party funds, don’t play tennis against anyone wearing a sickle n hammer tee-shirt instead of a Fred Perry one and make sure the only Computer Haka you allow into the civil service is a Rugby- playing one!”.
“That way just like Jennifer Arcuri you will stay top of the polls and won’t suffer a ‘Skyfall’ replied Dai.
“Employ me because I am not easily shaken or stirred!”
“After all my word is my Bond!”
 





]]> Tue, 28 Jul 2020 22:12:13 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5253/flights-of-fantasy-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5253

...
Robert Godber was the last Punk left in the South Wales Valleys.
It was nearly 43 years since the Sex Pistols had shocked the Rock N Roll Community with their slogans of Never Mind the Bollocks and God save the Queen.
How times had changed.
So had the slogans too.
Never Mind the Botox and God shave the Queen was more relevant to 2020.
However, strangely enough he was still Public Enemy No 1 in the little valley Town of Merthyr Tydfil, as despite the health warnings of Covid-19, the dirty bastard still insisted on spitting on the pavement everywhere he went.
All the colours of the rainbow- but mainly shades of yellow and green paint you could only find on a B & Q paint chart.
In fact, the streets around where Rob squatted on Brecon Road were so full of spittle, most visitors thought that Merthyr had seen an influx of Premiership Footballers.
At 56 years, Rob the Gob, as he was known locally, had become quite an accomplished shot with his mouth.
He put it down to a misspent youth and his upbringing in the 1970’s as a latchkey kid, developing his oral skills, by using his pea shooter and box of hard- boiled Leo peas to take out the bulbs on the top of the wooden lampposts.
His Norwegian music teacher in school, Mr Per Cushion, had noticed that Rob had both strong lungs and a powerful trachea and therefore had him marked his strong voice out in his class as a potential trumpeter, nicknaming him the ‘new Sachmo’.
Rob thought to himself ‘What a wonderful World he lived in’ back in his halcyon schooldays, when all he had to worry about was avoiding his drunken Father’s fists and how much ‘bingo’ money he could steal from his Mother’s coat pockets before she noticed.
Now being a rebel all his life, hadn’t helped him one iota.
He had no job, he lived in a squat house that was overdue demolition, with no means of heating or lighting or mains sanitation and worse still, his advanced hair-loss had meant his green and blue Mohican/Stegosaurus had gone the way of the dinosaurs too.
His foray into the World of Punk Rock, busking outside train and bus stations under the band name of ‘Dogs die in Hot Cars’ had ended prematurely, after his backing vocalist, Flob the Dog, had been bitten by karma and died in his former mate’s hot car.
Rob the Gob didn’t care for anyone anymore- human or animal, especially after another traumatic event in his sad existence.
He was nearly 30, when his 16 year old running mate, Rusty Pinn, had died at the Reading Festival in 1992 at the Carling ‘Monsters of Rock’ Festival, whilst watching Nirvana- drowning in the Mosh Pit in a sea of what smelled like Teen Spirit and he had a held a ‘grunge’ against the World ever since.
He was the only person to cheer at the TV, when he heard that Kurt Cobain had blown his own head off with a shotgun.
There wasn’t much Love lost.
Rob the Gob didn’t have many material possessions but he was quite a follower of fashion with his proudest possession being a pair of Vivienne Westwood trousers from the Punk era with 40 different zip fasteners sown into them.
Which was great when you are 17 years of age but not so good when have a dodgy prostate at 56 with a failing memory too.
To add to Rob’s woes, he had also had an unfortunate accident whilst off his head glue-sniffing in Aberfan Cemetery.
Whilst listening to the Punk Band ‘The Skids’, he had pogoed himself into an uncharted mine entry inadvertently going ‘into the Valley’ in a totally different way.
His dyslexic sniffing mate, Alf Abett, would have saved him but unfortunately, he was arrested for importuning after he was caught ‘sniffing aerosols’.
When the rescuers found him three days later, he had to have an emergency operation to remove three days build-up of mucus, which equated and weighed three Pounds in weight from his throat.
He was given an emergency tracheostomy and had a tube inserted into his windpipe.
He was only capable of communicating with hand gestures or by placing a kazoo next to his larynx, making him sound like an effeminate Darth Vader.
Strangely enough, it didn’t stop him spitting.
Perhaps it was because of his past addiction to Camel cigarettes, but he could still produce more Phlegmish works of kerbside art than Belgian painter Peter Paul Rubens.
But when life gives you lemons, I suppose you have to do something with them.
And in this life, when one door closes a new airway opens.
Rob’s tracheostomy was to hand him an unexpected lifeline.
After the local pub, the Catholic Arms had reopened its’ doors to a limited number of visitors due to the new social distancing provisions, by accident Rob had discovered a strange new talent.
Whilst sitting in the snug, a fellow drinker, Ystradgynlais’ own Rory Railtrack had complained to the barman about the smell of Rob’s breath and the barman decided to take matters into his own hands by placing a Glade Plugin Air Freshener in Rob’s throat-hole.
It worked for a short time, but Rob suddenly realised this was an infringement of his human rights.
In anger, he thrust down his diaphragm internally with mind control and pumped his lungs with all his might.
Aiming for the sweet-spot between the ‘Neath’anderthal’s complainant’s eyes- just below his unibrow- Rob let fly.
The Glade Plug-in shot out and smacked the caveman right between the eyes and just like the Biblical confrontation between David & Goliath, the giant man of orange apparel dropped like a stone to the floor.
This brought out a loud cheer from the rest of the room, as the dazed railway worker was led from the bar in the direction of the casualty department of the Queen Camilla Hospital.
Rob had never been so popular.
He had rid them of the pub version of Simpsons’ bully Nelson Muntz.
Pints were passed to the Down and Out in Brecon Road Hills and whilst he may have had the dishevelled look about him of Nick Nolte- he no longer felt like a Poor Man but a Rich Man too.
He was even more surprised to be offered a game of darts by one of the regular more sporting patrons, Len ‘The Bull’ Taurus.
Rob felt honoured but his attempts at hitting the board failed miserably despite being given a 200 point head-start by his fellow ‘dartiste’.
He bounced more times off the tyre than Brazilian racing driver Ayrton Senna.
And then Rob had an Epiphany.
By placing the flight in the hole in his throat, he then followed the same diaphragm and throat manoeuvre that he had with the Railway Bully and all of a sudden, he was hitting treble twenty with each ‘throw’.
Len the Bull was astonished.
“Hit double top!” came the request.
Rob concentrated and the repeated the procedure.
The dart struck it’s intended target.
Again and again repeated requests from the bar to hit a certain spot were met by Rob.
He was now more accurate than a US Drone strike over Iran.
The Pub Landlord, Alan Murray, was shocked to see that Rob could hit more doubles than even he could and he was suffering from ‘Publican’s disease’.
However, the entrepreneur realised this was the chance he had been waiting for.
Kismet had ‘thrown’ this golden opportunity his way and he was determined to seize his chance.
He had read in the Industry Newspaper that local businesses were being given a kickstart by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and despite the scientist promised second wave of Coronavirus not occurring, people had changed their habits and were no longer using pubs, inns and taverns with the frequency that they once were.
His Commercial Landlord based in the Tax Exile Cayman Islands, had come up with a series of promotions to encourage more punters to return in numbers by arranging for celebrities to visit their establishments.
But at the same time expected full rent for the three -month period the pub was unable to open.
Who could possibly resist missing a Karaoke Night with Jedward or a Mixed Martial Arts wrestle with Conor McGregor (before the real action happened at closing time) or visiting a newly refurbished Punch Tavern hosting Tyson Fury.
But the one that stood out to him was an evening of ‘Red Arrows’ with Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor, the Stoke-on Trent born, 16- time World Champion.
He was aware that the Olympic athlete was currently touring the UK and was prepared to take on all and sundry with a prize of £250,000.00 to any amateur pubgoer that could beat him over 3 legs.
Alan Murray pulled up the full rules on his mobile phone and began to read them.
If only he had taken this much time and scrutinized his pub tenancy agreement in the same way he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
His Tenancy Agreement with no Coronavirus provision meant he was still liable for full rent during the pandemic, and worse still he was obliged to buy his beer from the tied brewery at inflated prices, despite not having anyone to sell it to for over four months.
He now had more barrels than the Great White Shark in Jaws.
He scanned the rules in depth:
No Professional Players.
No discrimination- Male or Female players or combinations of both were eligible to enter the Contest.
B.A.M.E players to be given a discount off the entry fee.
DISABLED PLAYERS TO BE ENCOURAGED TO TAKE PART.
No re-throws allowed.
Only one entry per person allowed.
Referee’s decision to be final in all circumstances.
Free Goldfish to be given to all participants.
One phrase that jumped out at him was that of encouraging the disabled to take part.
Surely, Rob the Gob would fall into that category?
So what that he would have to spend thousands widening the doors, put in ramps and an mechanical lift near the dart board in the main bar- but IF an agreement could be reached with Rob and THEY won that prize then it would be the solution to their problems and they could BOTH breathe easier.
Not only that there would be a book in it and the spin-off film rights too.
Go ahead Punk and make my day!
Alan Murray the Pub Landlord was on his own self-induced Flight of Fantasy.
He decided the best course of action was to run an internal darts contest to test Rob’s new found ability.
The Evening of the Warm-up started well and despite a mere sixteen entrants turning up Rob had won the contest hands down.
So much hands down in fact, it was almost like the first ever live darts and ventriloquist act ever performed.
Come the final against Len the Bull, he was so confident of hitting his intended target that he had shouted the phrase ‘a gottle of gear’, as the dart made its way towards double top.
As Rob was crowned Catholic Arms Pub Champion much drunken celebration took place, with celebratory Covid-19 hugs all round.
Alan was now happy to submit the application form for entry online and provide a £500.00 bond.
The Bond was too ensure that the former World Champion would not turn up to an empty pub with few punters present to the embarrassment of Phil Taylor.
They didn’t want a Power Shortage or a Blackout like had previously happened at a Jim Davidson gig.
Due to the size of the bar, only 100 people were allowed as this was the maximum capacity for Health & Safety purposes.
In recent years, this had never been a problem but Alan had to take precautions and had charged £10.00 per punter entry fee to come in.
Rob was allowed one free ticket and had chosen to invite his fellow homeless friend, Pierce Head to the gathering.
He wanted Pierce to bear witness to his big payday by beating the Power in his own back yard.
Rob also had a grudge against the local electricity company, who had discovered his abstraction of electricity and shut the Power off at his squat.
His mate, Pierce Head, had already hit the jackpot by being temporarily rehoused in the 3star Castle Hotel for the period of the pandemic.
Very soon, he was being turfed out onto the street by Central Government immediately once the subsidy stopped.
In the meantime, Pierce was making merry lying on the floor in a pool of his own alcoholic vomit and piss.
Rob was getting nervous as the Competition was due to start at 7pm and it was nearly 6.15pm, as he stood outside the hotel trying to waken his friend who was busy doing an impression of the late Keith Moon of WHO fame.
Rob called up from Glebeland Street below for Pierce to hurry up.
He eventually came to the first- floor window, grey faced looking like all the blood in his body had been replaced by alcohol- which in truth it had.
“I am locked in – my religious parents are trying an intervention!” shouted back the living flagon.
“I have an idea!” shouted back Rob.
“Do you remember the Children’s story Rapunzel?”
The other grim brother from above replied “Yes!”
“Step away from the window now!” ordered Rob.
As Pierce did so, he sucked in his diaphragm and hocked a twelve- foot green ‘loogie’ skyward towards the hotel room window just like Marvel character Spiderman firing a web.
“Rapunzel, let down your hair!” shouted the drunken Pierce, as he slid down the impromptu builder’s chute funnel to safety below.
The pair raced their way to the Catholic Arms.
They made it with two minutes to spare.
Pierce was let in first but Rob was held back as Phil Taylor made his entrance from the lounge with dry ice to the song ‘I have the Power’ by Snap.
He looked the business in his flashy satin shirt with ‘The Power’ emblazoned on his back.
Rob hadn’t even chosen a song.
All he could think of was a Marc Bolan and T-Rex hit.
He asked the Landlord if he had ‘’I hock a loogie…jitterbug bogies- on the jukebox- which fortunately he did.
His Sports Direct tee-shirt had Rob ‘the Cuckoo’ Godber written in permanent black marker pen on the back.
As the pub crowd cheered their local hero, the pair went to warm up at the oche.
Rob was under orders from Landlord Alan not to show too much in the warm up, and threw the darts conventionally at the board with his right hand, scoring a composite total of 26 with his first three darts.
Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor rocked up with Shanghai just for openers- single twenty, triple twenty and double top.
The watching crowd went wild.
Rob started to get nervous.
He had never played darts in front of so many expectant people before, nor in a pressure tournament.
The sweat began to roll down from his forehead onto the rusty safety pins that he had inserted many years ago into his face.
He looked like the Mothercare version of Hellraiser.
The decision would go first would be decided by one dart closest to the centre of the dartboard bull.
Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor rocked up and hit the bull with ease.
Rob placed the dart in his neck aperture and fired.
It split the flight of the 14- time World Champion knocking it out of the board before striking the exact centre of the dartboard.
Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor looked at veteran Darts referee Tony Green who was equally stunned.
Neither of the pair had witnessed anything like it in their 40-year professional careers.
After a quick check of the PDA rulebook, Green allowed Rob to ‘throw up’ first.
As he inserted the flights into his neck, the gathered crowd could clearly see the name of the sponsors on display.
Strongbow.
Rob fired off his first three darts scoring a treble sixty with each one.
Tony Green announced over his microphone the now familiar ‘180’ to raise the excitement in the packed bar area.
People leaned on their friends, peered under armpits with some stood on tables and standing on the bar area.
All the while, Alan continued pouring pint after pint.
Irrespective of the outcome, he would at least achieve some great beer sales if nothing else.
Phil went up and replied with his first three arrows which brought the house down as another ‘180’ boomed around the room.
Rob then repeated the action.
360 points from 3 darts.
Anything Rob did- so did the Power.
A perfect twelve dart match so far.
Both players were three darts away from a nine- dart finish- the ‘heavyweight’ equivalent of a 147- maximum break at snooker.
Rob wasn’t very good at mathematics but fortunately Barman Alan was good at both doubles and trebles.
He also had to do a bit of ‘creative accountancy’ by using his awful handwriting to blur the figures over the years just to stay afloat, so he wrote the sequence required on the chalk board next to the bar for Rob.
Treble 20, Treble 19 and double 12.
Rob was never very good at following orders being an ‘anarchist and a trainee Anti-Christ’, but follow them he did, as he promptly completed an amazing 141 out sequence.
He turned around to the acclaim of the audience, arms raised aloft so proud at his achievement.
Holding a pint of Strongbow- supplied by his sponsors, he poured the golden liquid into a plastic funnel and let that slide down his tracheostomy.
Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor applauded the actions and skill of his opponent sportingly.
He knew he was in for a real challenge this time and would have to raise his game.
He did so by producing his own 9 darter to level the match at 1-1.
He did the 501 in a different sequence.
Treble 20 x 7, Treble 15 and Double 18 outshot.
The crowd gathered knew they were witnessing something special really special, especially as both players had started the final game with two rounds of treble twenties each.
Both players were on 141 out-shots, but crucially Rob the Gob had first chance.
As long as he held his nerve, he would beat the 14 times World Darts Champion at his own game.
But pressure does strange things to a man and more so to 56 -year old punks with a history of glue-sniffing.
And to Sports Direct Tee-Shirts too in a jungle environment.
The Cuckoo became the Suckoo.
Rob looked up at Pub Landlord Alan Murray, who was willing him on with ever sinew of his body.
The crowd too wanted to see the underdog turn the tables and finally win one for the underclass.
Rob was now sweating more than Liberal MP Cyril Smith in a Rochdale children’s play park.
He had developed a continuous cough and a really high temperature (103) and his throat felt like it was closing in on him.
Was it the pressure of the big occasion or the onset of Covid-19?
His body was all of a ‘quiver’ which normally was handy for someone dealing with arrows.
He looked across at the chalk board by the bar and saw the sequence written down for him.
Treble 20, Treble 19 and Double 12.
The Landlord gave him a cheery second wave.
Three darts in the correct places on the board and he would never have to work again- not that he had ever started in the first place.
He could hear the Mark Knopfler theme tune to the 1983 film ‘Local Hero’ playing in his head.
He knew his opponent was in Dire Straits.
First Dart from the Puff Daddy hit its target.
81 left.
Treble 19 next.
Rob the Gob set his ‘sights’ on the tiny patch of green separated by two thin metal wires.
Flob- and the missile sailed towards its destination.
He got it.
Only the double left.
He glanced at the chalkboard.
He sent the dart on it’s way and it hit the double.
Rob jumped in the air -the finest pogo he had performed since that Siouxsie & the Banshees concert in 1981.
“Bust!” shouted Tony Green, as he brought the Punk back down to Earth quicker than the NASA Space Shuttle Challenger.
“But I hit the double 13!” protested Rob.
He glanced up at the Landlord who had his head in his hands.
His shaky chalkboard writing looked from a distance just like double 12.
“Unlucky thirteen!” laughed Taylor, as he replaced the gutted Rob at the oche.
“Yet another ‘Choker’....141 eh…I can do that blindfolded!” boasted the Professional.
Pulling up his Coronavirus mask over his eyes, he proceeded to do just that.
Treble 20, Treble 15 and Double 18 out.
“Well normally Rob I would shake your hand but….!” Said the Power.
“Time for a ‘Merthyr Blackout’!” said the Punk.
Rob could take no more -his flights of fantasy was over in true Valleys way, he just lifted his fisted hand to land an uppercut on the fifth chin of his opponent.
Anarchy in the UK soon followed.







































]]> Tue, 21 Jul 2020 23:54:28 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5245/meat-two-veg-by-philip-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5245



Animal Rights activist A.L.F. Egan lay completely still in the long grass, high above the Welsh Valley of Cwm Twp.
He motioned to his 15- year old accomplice, ‘Popeye’ Doyle, to lie still until the factory searchlight had passed overhead.
Once it had done so, the pair all dressed in black and camouflage gear used the wire cutters to snip the perimeter fence.
In the distance was a grey metallic building called Abbot’s Trois, owned according to Companies House by a French Company based in the Tax Haven of Jersey, called Vaches Mort R-US.
A.L.F. & Popeye didn’t call it Abbot’s Trois.
To them it was Cowschwitz.
A place where animals were taken to be slaughtered.
Both A.L.F. and ‘Popeye’ were committed vegetarians – A.L.F. more so than because he had been caught and imprisoned for his strong belief that ‘Meat was Murder’.
As a 3- year old child, he had continually shouted this phrase from his perch in the front of supermarket trolley, innocently mistaking Morrisons for the Smith’s Morrissey.
He was banned for life.
That was nearly 40 years ago now, and poor A.L.F. hadn’t had the more auspicious starts to life, as his Mother had given birth to him on the Greenham Common, whilst protesting at the US Airforce Base in Berkshire in the 1980’s.
His Mother only noticed when others around her pointed out that she had a baby swinging from between her legs by an umbilical cord, such was the cacophony of noise at the protests when the jets armed with nuclear missiles took off.
Having a fanny the size of Cheddar Gorge didn’t help his Mother Gaia either, but it certainly helped  A.L.F. come into the World, as didn’t have a difficult birth in that F W Woolworth impromptu water birthing pool surrounded by New Age whale music.    
Little A.L.F. never knew his Father, his Mother had always told him that just like Mary in the Bible it had been an immaculate conception.
He was named A.L.F. after the letters on the side of a truck that delivered food to the camp.
The young A.L.F. was raised on a diet of legumes, peas, beans and lentils- so when he was found to be listless and lethargic and taken to the Doctor by a concerned Social Worker visiting Tepee Valley in Carmarthenshire – he was diagnosed as having a high pulse rate.
His Mother was told to feed him red meat to raise the number of red blood cells in the youngster’s body.
The Doctor was told in no uncertain terms where he could put his cold stethoscope by the indoctrinated child. 
A.L.F himself never considered the decision not to eat meat during his lifetime to be a missed steak.
He chose to ignore science when it was claimed that plants screamed when being ripped from the ground.
Nature provided a bounty of seasonal treats for the wayfarers of the Carmarthen Tent Village.
He always enjoyed a ‘Hippy Birthday’ with presents including blackberries freshly picked from the hedgerows of the West Walian Countryside.
Gathering nuts in May was always a favoured childhood memory, as was hunting in competition for truffles with his fellow Earth dwellers- the pigs in the dirt.
A.L.F loved the Spring, Summer and Autumn months but hated the cold Wintertime.
Most of the fellow travellers at the commune used to commit minor offences at that time to spend a little time in jail to obtain a warm cell and free hot food from the ‘Man’.
A.L.F. had always been told that the Capitalist system was like a vampire sucking the blood out of its victim- the working man.
That excuse for not working for over two decades, was now framed and on display for all to see in the Carmarthen Job Centre.
A.L.F. was very proud of it – even if he couldn’t read what it said.
He just liked to see the letters A.L.F. up on the wall, meaning that he had left his mark on the Universe, whilst signing the same three letters for his giro cheques.
Popeye on the other hand was much younger than A.L.F.
He should have still been in school if his Local Education Appeal Panel hadn’t barred him- due to his intense love of fire.
It was not like pyromania was a crime now was it?
Born and raised around a campfire, it always transfixed him.
Just like a modern- day Prometheus, Popeye believed that fire was there to be stolen from the Gods and used against ‘The Man’ himself. 
It cleansed.
If there was one thing ‘Popeye’ loved it was burning a holiday home in West Wales.
He had always assumed he was called ‘Popeye’ because of his love of spinach, but in reality, it was because he had bulging eyes like US actor Steve Buscemi, due to an overactive thyroid gland.
He had never broken into a meat processing plant before so it would be a real ‘eye-opener’ for him.
‘Popeye’ was so excited- as the Adult World opening up to him was completely new and unexplored.
He trusted A.L.F. like the Father he too had never known.
Once through the wire, A.L.F. had timed it so that the pair had two minutes to cross the rear compound courtyard.
There were obviously no guard dogs on patrol- despite the sign stating otherwise.
What guard dog could work all day next to the tantalising smell of meat without attempting to run off with a string of intestinal cow sausages?
There was also a warning sign for CCT cameras, but A.L.F. was an expert in dealing with those.
After all, he had spray painted more ‘Honky’ speed cameras black than the Black Lives Matters protestors.
Honky -not because of the racist term for white people- but honky after the actions of fellow drivers that sounded their horn and flashed their pale headlights to warn other road users of their location.
The silent pair of animal rights ninjas reached the side of the illuminated building.
A.L.F. looked at his wristwatch-his only concession to the 21 st  Century- and waited patiently for the big hand to meet the little hand- he knew this to be 12 O’Clock.
Very soon, both he and his pyromaniac friend would be ‘burning the midnight oil’ together.
He had carried out reconnaissance over two nights and had noted that at precisely that time the lone security guard left the near side fire exit and walked around the left- hand side of the building to have a sly cigarette.
Obviously, working in a meat factory he could not contaminate the carcasses with tobacco smoke, otherwise he would be for the ‘chop’ too.
The pair would have to be quick but they would ‘nip in’, set the fire and leave the way they had entered.
With balaclava masks over their faces- no-one would be any wiser on their identities- besides given the coronavirus pandemic there were too many masked people around to pin-point them.
In -out, no trace left behind- just like their biological Father’s had done all those years ago.
The Vegan apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Seen but not ‘herd’ if you like.


Security Guard Peta Plump had eaten his remaining tuna, egg and pickle sandwiches and it was now time for his first fag break of the evening.
He would save his remaining bacon sandwiches for 3.00am when he got more peckish.
He had been warned not to smoke or fart inside the factory because it was both a fire risk and a health hazard to the workforce.
Imagine being told that the smell of your arse was more pungent than dead cattle?
He ambled around the side of the building taking long pulls on his cigarette as if in a state of nicotine ecstasy.
But it was not just the putrid stink of cigarettes that was present.
That other smell of death hung around the place and could not be removed from clothing.
It permeated everything.
His uniform, his vest and his hat too.
It was so bad that he was banned from visiting his elderly Mother at the local Nursing Home, the Gran-Yr-Afon- in case he started a riot. 
God his job was boring.
Staring at screens all night and doing word-searches in the low lighting for 8 hours.
Surrounded by fridges containing animal carcasses.
He was awful worried having watched the film Poltergeist a few days ago, if such a thing as an animal ghost existed.
He had heard of the Scottish horse water-spirit called the Kelpie but hoped there was no cow equivalent.
As he looked up into the clear black valley sky above Cwm Twp, he wondered how many thousands of cattle had died at the Plant and figured that with the law of averages that it was only a matter of time before an ‘Ermintrude spectre called’ and put the shits up him.
He wasn’t normally the nervous type but he had his suspicions that something odd was going on in the last eight months he had worked the security.


 He couldn’t figure what it was but things had changed just before the New Tory Government had come to power.




Inside the factory, A.L.F. and Popeye looked around them in the half-light.
They had the petrol cans with them a series of long shoe laces as a fuse and a lighter each.
Popeye became even more of a Popeye, as he stared at the topless former Page 3 Model ‘Bappy’ aged 21 on the Calendar in the Security Guard Office.
She was scantily dressed standing next to some livestock with a cattle prod looking suggestively.
“Cor… look at her she is ‘stunning’!” said Popeye.
“Obviously-all I can see is a Murderess!” replied A.L.F.
“I wonder if there is any more below?” said the young teenager hormones raging.
Popeye tried to leaf through the calendar but couldn’t unstick the pages for some strange reason.
It was a long night for Peta.
A.L.F. now entered the office area but was not distracted by the soft porn but more interested in the number of invoices sticking out of an order book on the desk of the Managing Director.
They all bore the heading Max Bygraves- ‘I want to sell you a Tory’.
A.L.F.’s interest was piqued.
He couldn’t read the words but something far out in the Universe was telling him this was important.
He had heard of journalists winning Pulitzer Prizes- although unsung hero Security Guard Peta probably deserved a different kind of one- and slipped the book into his camouflaged trouser pocket.
The sound of the security guard farting outside, shook the pair back to their original purpose.
The bastard must have been done to his last cigarette instead of the usual two, smoked alternately through both hands like an Argentinian Soccer Manager.
As Peta closed the Fire Exit Door loudly, the pair of trespassing burglars needed to find somewhere to hide and quickly too.
A.L.F. grabbed the security guard’ torch as an impromptu weapon.
Popeye, just grabbed a sandwich from the open lunch box and raced to the door.
Look around for somewhere to hide the pair had no option but to dive into the freezer section.
As he ushered Popeye inside, A.L.F. quickly placed the torch on the floor to hold the door slightly ajar.  


He knew from experience.  if they were to be locked inside such a sub-zero facility then it could be fatal.


Peta ambled back to his office with nicotine level partly restored.



He looked down at his desk and was surprised to notice that one of his sandwiches was missing.
Strange, he thought I don’t remember eating that.
There was no-one in the building at night, so it was a little bit of a mystery.
He looked under the desk for signs of crumbs in case a Herculean Mouse had managed to lift it from the lunch box, across the desk and onto the floor.
Peta was known locally for not being the sharpest tool in the box but now he was also a sandwich short of a picnic.
Perhaps he was losing on himself.
He looked around the rest of the desk to see if anything else was missing.
His torch had gone too.
Peta began to get nervous.
What if it was an animal Poltergeist?
His mind started to play tricks on him in the dark.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
He felt like a draught of cold air was coming from somewhere.
He looked across at his only companion for the night, the Page 3 model Calendar hanging on the wall- even Bappy looked more pert than normal.
On that evidence, there was definitely a nip in the air.
His mind told him to follow the cold air to its source.
Perhaps he had not closed the Fire Exit door properly behind him?


He walked to the door to check, keys jangling as he went.


Inside the freezer compartment, both A.L.F. and Popeye were starting to get cold.


The area had white walls and in the centre were four racks of carcasses hanging upside down on sharp metal meat hooks from the ceiling.
It was the ideal hiding place for a trespasser or two.
Popeye had never been in a walk-in fridge before.
He assumed Susan Boyle had one this size.
A.L.F. whispered to Popeye to stay down low.
It was so cold he could almost read those words on his mentor’s breath that was left behind.
Popeye had never really had the opportunity to learn to read books.
His late Brother ‘Bulger’ had been his Mother’s favourite- he always got the lion’s share of the Alphabetti Spaghetti, but not enough sadly to stop him falling through thin ice one day three Winter’s back.
The cold always reminded him of his brother.
As did the almost blue carcasses hanging in front of him.
He wondered what sort of animals they were at the cattle plant as he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, whilst eating the very tasty sandwich he had managed to rob.
“Psst… A.L.F. have a look at this will you?” asked Popeye.
A.L.F. moved a dead cow out of the way and joined his fellow burglar further back into the freezer compartment.
“Look at this one!” said Popeye.
“It looks human to me!” the scared youth continued.
“They all do!” said A.L.F.
“But this one has a mop of blonde hair!” stuttered Popeye.
On closer examination, A.L.F. discovered that his friend was correct.
It  DID  have blonde hair and more than a passing resemblance to Boris Johnson the previous Prime Minister of the former United Kingdom.
 “Bloody Hell Popeye…..it does look like him….and he had a reputation for hiding in a fridge when things got tough!” said A.L.F. somewhat astonished at their discovery.
“Look there are more, here at the back too!” said Popeye moving along the line of fat lardy carcasses.
“I thought he was supposed to be as fit as a butcher’s dog what doing those press-ups when no-one told him that his inflatable woman had been stolen from under him!” said A.L.F.
As Popeye walked through the rows of cadavers, he was shocked to see hundreds of bodies which like ‘Boris’ were almost human.
A.L.F. noticed that none of the carcasses had any internal organs and definitely no heart.
“They look like Tory MP’s!” he said to himself.
Which is somewhat fitting as they have turned the Country into a ‘Right Shambles’.
He examined the cadaver next to ‘Boris’ and wondered what the Hell had gone on.
Had the Russian Mafia who had contributed to Tory Party funds caught up with the Right-Wing Junta, after finally being forced to release the Russian Report into the Autumn General Election?
Who had ordered this massacre and on such a ‘Grand’ scale not seen since the Brighton Conference in 1984.
Was it Dominic Cullings?
He looked at the tag and noted that different cadavers had different coloured tags and extra meat additions.
He checked the Order Book for the colour coding.
The blood coloured ones had ‘Red Wedge’ marked on them and seemed to be all marked for delivery to the North.
They had ‘best before election 2024’ dates marked on them.
The ones with green tags had ‘Washington, the Former Colonies, USA’ stamped on them.
Particularly the ones with four more ears.
A.L.F. saw the flags and pretty colours and figured they were part of a Trans-Atlantic Trade deal in exchange for chlorinated chicken.
Post-Brexit, it would appear that the British Establishment was back to its’ previous jingoistic 19 th  Century Foreign policy of ‘Transporting’, so called ‘inferior’ humans to the New World- but this for time for Trump Rallies.    
This was clear because the cadavers with the stars and stripes had a battery cavity in their ‘ass’ in the shape of a Democrat Donkey.
A.L.F looked at the opposite page and noted that an order had been placed by one Welsh Tory MP, Neil Hamilton for thirty ‘CHADS’ to be supplied to BBC studios in Greater Manchester for an audience.
It was marked under ‘Cash for Question Time’
A.L.F. had a revelation – he could now see the wood from the trees.
“That explains how the Conservative Party won the last election!” he said.
“ Manipulation of the Main Stream Media, Russian interference, Bots on Social Media, links with the Klan in the US of A and dead voters in the Northern Labour Heartlands….we are the only ones that know where the bodies are buried!” A.L.F. continued to the utter bemusement of his companion.
“This Client book is worth a fortune, almost as much as Epstein’s- it makes it clear that the proceeds of the whole dodgy deal are being funnelled offshore to the Tax Havens in the Channel Islands ……it is the French Connection all over again Popeye…..what legitimate Company has a Frog- faced Director on its headed paper called Sir Loin?” continued A.L.F enraged by the corruption that existed at the top of Central Government.
“Imagine using the Coronavirus Pandemic as a distraction to carry out their undercovid operation?”
  “It all makes sense now- WHO would go near any meat processing plants with their reported high infection rates other than the ineffectual World Health Organisation?….they weren’t ramping up the testing but ramping up the exports of cadavers….that explains why the Nightingale Hospital in London and the Millennium Stadium was empty!”   continued A.L.F. the ultimate conspiracy theorist.
Popeye was lost.
“But where did the brain cells for the zombies come from?” asked the youngster.
“You are too young to remember this politician but according to the book- they were donated to the Tory paper by one David ‘Two Brains’ Willetts-!” replied A.L.F looking at the photo on the inside cover of Patrons.
“So there never was a real Covid 19 Pandemic then?” asked Popeye.
“An invisible germ that came in from China- that killed only the elderly and the already ill only?” said A.L.F.
“What do you think?”
“I try not to….it hurts too much!” said the easily influenced teen.


Unfortunately, their whispering had been overheard from the Security Office.


Peta Plump wasn’t easily scared but that film Poltergeist had spooked him.


Reading up that child actress Heather O’Rourke had died at age of 12 in mysterious circumstances had frightened him even more.
He didn’t want to mess with the Spirit World.
He was concerned that he could hear mutterings coming from the Freezer Area.
This was one of the ‘Forbidden Zones’ in the factory.
He was warned not to go in there by the Management in case he got locked in and froze to death.
Peta Plump had the Paper Lace Song ‘Billy don’t be a hero’  playing inside his head.
But he was paid £7.50 an hour so he had to pretend he was one.
He listened again and thought he could hear strange whisperings coming from the area.
He peered out of his Office and could see a chink of light coming from the door and lo and behold there was his missing flashlight.
Summoning up all his courage, he walked towards the door, wheeling his office chair as back-up.
The sound had stopped.
He would place the chair in the freezer door and poke his nose in.
Nothing more then he would slam the door shut.
The hackles on the back of his neck were raised and he had goose-bumps but he wasn’t sure if it was caused by fear or just cold.
He was half-expecting something out of a Stephen King book to leap at him from the dark, as he treaded in baby steps towards his torch and the freezer door.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the door.
How stupid did he feel as a grown man afraid of his own shadow?
He lifted the torch from the gap with the intention of replacing it with the with the chair, whilst he had a quick look around from the safety of the door.
Curiosity had got the cat.
As he started to open the door wider and increase ‘the Shining’- he was stunned to see a frozen Blonde- Haired cadaver suddenly come sliding at him at speed.
Peta heard the words “Here’s Boris!” as he was bowled over onto the floor.
Ironic really, as just before he passed out the last thing he saw was the words hurtling at him from inside the locker room was :
   ‘Stay Alert’, “Control the Virus”,  Protect the NHS!”
A.L.F. & Popeye then rushed passed the stricken guard in a state of semi-consciousness have being body checked by a frozen PM in ‘Tip Top’ Condition.
The Animal Rights Activists no longer wanted to burn down the factory as they had bigger fish to fry.
Popeye and A.L.F. owed it to the dead animals and composite humans to bring the French Connection to justice.
There was also the small matter of an investigative journalist ‘Paul Foot n Mouth’ Award to collect for their efforts and of course lots of people in high places to blackmail.
 
]]> Tue, 07 Jul 2020 22:51:25 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5234/hay-fever http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5234



The queue from the main tent was six deep and stretched for nearly two miles back to the little Powys town of Hay-on-Wye.
The reason was the release of Howard Marks new book at the Hay Book festival.The former Oxford Graduate and Welsh mastermind of a European Cannabis Ring sat ‘smug’ly. Who said crime doesn’t pay. The best selling author had released his latest in a series of books with a view to helping his former fellow prisoners bide away their time in jail. Like the author himself, the release date had kept going forward, as the US backed Drugs Enforcement Agency had objected to his books and profiteering.“ Who shall I make the book out to sonny?” asked Marks ‘pen’ at the ready.“ And more importantly which one of my aliases would you like ‘Marked’ on it?” asked the globetrotter with more passports than the entire Newport Office.“ Mr Nice will do!”said the little boy rolling his autograph pen like it was a joint. Marks had over the last five decades seen more joints than most, some with but most without bars.His seven years in the Terre Haute Prison in America, had taken their toll on the face of the Welshman- his once ‘Film Star’ looks had been replaced by that of a roc kstar. Unfortunately, it was a combination of Bill Wyman and Keith Richards.
He was once on a ‘Rolling Stoned’ tour with his idols in Cardiff , where as part of his parole conditions he had to tell the schoolchildren at Cathays High School not to take drugs. One of the children raised his hand up and complained that there were none left in Cardiff as Keith Richards and Howard Marks had done them all already. The other non-criminal writers like Jeffrey Archer and Rupert Allison, at the Times Newspaper sponsored event, looked on jealously as the volumes produced by Marks and publishing stable-mate Boyd Clack were setting new festival sales records. Both Clacks’ book entitled ‘High Hopes’ and the Marks one called ‘Pot Black’ were outstripping demand.They seemed to have a hidden quality that their rival authors did not- besides being well-written that is.
“Howard ....did you ever in your wildest dreams think that this would be such a roaring success?” asked Melvyn Bragg nasally.“ Howard I know ?” said the former prison author, as he signed another book looking Northward, sat in the glorious sunshine on the raised grass platform in the Powys field . “ So you mean...you didn’t expect this kind of ‘South Bank Show’?”said Melvyn.“ I expected a good turnout....I’m not called ‘Mr Nice’ for nothing...but I don’t like to Bragg!” continued the ‘pot idol’ as he signed another volume using yet another alias...this time ‘Puff Daddy’. Boyed by the attention, his fellow writer Clack, a former hippy , was not only signing his books but adding a ‘smacker’ with his own lips to the front cover.“ Kisses are better than Wine!” he declared to the latest in along line of BBC Wales Comedy Fans.“ Howard....how do you think the book will be received around the World...do you have any regrets at all ....shamelessly cashing in on your notoriety as a criminal and convicted international drug smuggler?” asked the adenoid suffering arts presenter.“ None at all....this time I’m making legitimate money...this isn’t a front....even if it appears to be affront to the US....after all they are the ones to put the ‘dope’ into dope smuggling!” laughed Marks with a smile not seen since he was released on bail (appropriately to Hay- on- Wye) .
“ Do you think America will be interested in a book about Snooker entitled ‘Pot Black’.....why would the prison population want to buy (albeit in great demand) a book about the exploits of Welsh World Champions Terry Griffiths, Ray Reardon and Doug Mountjoy from the 1970’s.....I can understand the dynamic and flair of players like Mark Williams and Matthew Stevens.....and even that one that looks like Merthyr’s John Williams-Dominic Dale!” asked Bragg.
“ Have you read the book Mel?” asked Howard.“ Not yet....I have had a bit of a head cold recently....but I will get round to it soon!” said the smooth talker.“ If you are congested try rubbing the front cover on the end of your sinuses....the book has an almost medicinal quality, unsurpassed by other books of its kind!” suggested Clack eavesdropping on the conversation.“ And it tastes almost as nice as a piece of ‘battyberg’!” he said looking skyward to dad.“ These books aregood for ‘Hay Fever’!” said Marks smiling just like a Super Furry Animal.
Bragg began to smell a rat.He was surrounded by people who were the usual suspects at ‘Brecon Jazz’, those who slept in tents in a field, most were from the ‘flower power’generation and wore ‘Bob Marley’ and Jimi Hendrix tee-shirts.They weren’t buying the book to read it.Marks looked at him as the penny dropped.“ Guess how many kilos of books I have sold to the prisons in the USA?” asked Marks.“ Those prisoners have been described as of being of ‘ex-hemp-lary character’....it is after all helping to make the detention centres a much ‘karma’ place.“Personally, Melvyn I don’t think Ihave made a ‘hash’ of my career!...what do you think?” smirked Mr Nice.“ I think you're very clever Mr Marks indeed!” replied Bragg catching on to the three way conversation.“Anything that is manufactured in the UK and exported these days is fine ‘in my books’ too !” agreed Clack.“ We all have ‘High’ Hopes for success ...give this one to Federal Drugs Officer Craig Lovato with my compliments... next time you’re stateside...I’m afraid I can’t...I’m barred from the place!” said Marks.
]]> Sat, 13 Jun 2020 02:37:05 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5210/gran-theft-auto-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5210



“ What do you think of the wheels then?” asked Astra the professional car thief from the Gurnos.
“ Nice…!” nodded his hoodie friend Elvi$, as he climbed into the front seat of the mini-ambulance.
The vehicle sped away at breakneck speed on the Gurnos Ring Road heading towards Galon Uchaf.
“ Where did you get it?” asked Elvi$.
“ He stole it from outside the Gurnos Home for the elderly!” said a voice from the back of the vehicle.
Astra broke suddenly and a lady with whiter hair than Philip Schofield shot forward in her wheelchair to join the pair in the front.
“ Who the F*** are U?” asked Elvi$ as he came face to face with the Barbara Cartland lookalike.
“ I am the lady that was being transported to the Gurnos House before this chap here stole the van!” said the octogenarian.
“ My name is Mrs Ryder!” she said holding out a hand with a scented white glove for her abductors to kiss.
“ You have been watching 2 much ‘Downtown’ Abbey Duchess…I wouldn’t kiss my girlfriends ring - so I defo ain’t kissing URS!” said Elvi$.
“ Why Elvi$ ….surely the age of chivalry isn’t dead in Merthyr?” asked the pensioner.
“ How did you know he is called Elvi$?” asked Astra….
” Are you a coppers nark?”
“ It is written all over his face….!” Said Mrs Ryder.
It was really WAS written all over his face …. it was in fact tattooed on his forehead….at the tender age of 14 , to celebrate the birth of his second child, young Elvi$ (real name Wilfred) had got a mirror, some Indian ink and a compass from a set one kids geometry set and tattooed the name of his real father on his forehead.
His mother had copped off at the annual Elvis Weekend in Porthcawl and had her fair share of rock that weekend.
She had been so hammered with drink that she only knew that his biological father had worn blue suede shoes.
She had remembered that specifically, as Elvi$ was nearly one of twins- in the middle of ‘love me tender’ it had splattered all over the suede uppers.
On reflection, Elvi$ himself had regretted using that mirror to permanently mark his forehead, as was the ‘S’ like the boy himself was backward.
“ What do we do about HER?” asked Astra pointing at the old lady with the only thing that had ever worked in his house- his thumb.
“ Don’t tell her your name Astra and you might be okay!” said Elvi$.
“ Shall we kill her?” asked Astra.
“ Is there any point boys….I am half dead already!” interjected Mrs Ryder.
Interjected - as the two heroin addicts were busy shooting up in the front seat.
“ I reckon we take her on the Heads of the Valleys Road … let her brake off and push her out into traffic!” suggested Astra.
“ Yeah…would be fun watching this old dalek hitting traffic!” said the charming Elvi$.
“ Didn’t you have a grandmother once?” asked Mrs Ryder unconcerned with her own fate being more concerned that this lost generation of the workshy had no scruples or sense of decency.
This generation of children who had been ‘dragged’ up on a diet of video nasties and shoot ‘em up computer games.
To them there was no ‘community’ …no thought for others …as they were shunned by society as being lepers….fourth generation scum who had never had a working person living in their houses.
They thought ‘aspiration’ meant sweating in a prison gym.
“ Well gentlemen , I am not afraid to die anymore than I was afraid to be born- if anything, it will save my family the cost of sending me to a Swiss clinic so c’mn …let’s get this show on the road !” said Daphne.
The two scag-heads were thrown by this comment.
“ Come on what are you waiting for?…..like Tom Cruise in Top Gun ….I feel the need…the need for speed!” said Mrs Ryder.
“ Sorry love…we’ll all out of amphetamine…!” said Astra stunned by the reaction of the legless granny.
“ Should we decide not to kill you …Have you got any money Granny?” asked Elvi$ changing tack.
“ I’m a disabled pensioner from Essex way about to go into a Merthyr Care Home….what do you think?” replied Mrs Ryder.
“ I try not to think ….it hurts…!” said Astra …“ Nice wheels by the way!”
“ The metal in the wheelchair has to be worth SOMETHING up the scrappie!” said Elvi$.
“ Probably but you wouldn’t steal from the NHS would you?” asked Mrs Ryder.
“ He would steal from his own grandmother!” said Astra.
“ Do I know her?” asked Mrs Ryder trying a captor/hostage trick to find common ground with her abductors.
“ How old are you?” asked Astra.
“ It is not polite to ask a Lady her age…..but I am 88 this year!” said the Grannie proudly.
“ His grandmother is only 52…!” said Astra.
“ Shut up…!” ordered Elvi$....”….. Just keep driving will you!”



Outside the Gurnos Home for the elderly, the oldest delivery boy in town was scratching his head.
Former Policeman, Alan Flatfoot was puzzled.
He was sure he had parked the ambulance in the courtyard five minutes ago….and he couldn’t find Mrs Ryder the second of his two passengers.
He didn’t think it possible she would go anywhere not having any legs while he wheeled in her friend Daisy to the Centre.
He couldn’t remember if he had left the keys in the ignition or not.
He didn’t want to be charged with the offence of ‘Quitting’ by his former colleagues.
He was starting to worry that delivering all these old people with Alzheimers disease was becoming to rub off on him….like the randy old goat Edna in flat number three.
He decided to do one last lap of the building and car park before ringing his old boys in blue.
Imagine, the stick he would get if they found out.



“ Ever seen the film ‘The Fast & The Furious’ ? asked Astra.
“ Nope!” replied Mrs Ryder.
“ They are classic films about joy riding and breaking the law starring Vin Diesel!” said the driver pretending he was as macho as the Hollywood star.
“Vin Diesel….I have heard of him….said Mrs Ryder…!”
“ I often pretend to be like him!” said Astra.
“ You know he’s gay!” said Mrs Ryder.
“ No way…!” said Astra…slowing down to 60MPH in a 30MPH zone.
“ Diesel …doesn’t like unleaded green hose in his tank…!” said Mrs Ryder hitting the kid where it hurt- in his simple mind.
“ Ever heard of Gone in Sixty Seconds?” asked Elvi$.
“ No….!” gulped Mrs Ryder.
“ Because once we reach the brow of this hill…that is what you will be!” said Elvi$ cruelly.
“ Astra, keep the wheel straight I am going to slide between these seats and unbolt the back door to get rid of that old bitch!” he continued.
“ You have forgotten one thing Sonny…they have speed cameras on the Heads of the Valleys Road…you kick me out…you will be on ‘You-tube’ forever…as the Granny Wheelchair killer….that would go down well in Cardiff Prison!” laughed Mrs Ryder.
Elvi$ hated being outsmarted, even if it did happen a lot.
He had a naturally ‘suspicious mind’ …which he thought was just a by-product of the Indian Ink.
“ They don’t have them on the Glynneath bank…but that is a dual carriageway anyway…the A470 Expressway it is then “ said Elvi$ chucking evilly, like Chuckie the doll from Child’s Play.
Mrs Ryder knew she had about two miles as the crow flew to come up with a plan.
She reckoned that Astra was ‘all mouth and trousers’ but that Elvi$ was much more dark and psychotic.
She tried to remember her Wren training and catching people off guard.
She hatched a plan in her mind that she would grab her attacker with both hands and judo him off the back of the moving mini-bus.
As the bus made its way towards the Rhydycar roundabout and all those clerks sleeping at their desks in the Welsh Assembly Building, there was no chance of jettisoning the old lady and her wheelchair as the road was backed up from the Cyfarthfa Retail Park park roundabout to the Rhydycar Roundabout because of road works.
“ You do realise the bus is facing the wrong way for any delivery into oncoming traffic!” said Mrs Ryder.
“ Wrong ….my boy here has been practising his ‘do-nuts’ and ‘u-turns’ for years around the college and other car parks….all that late night squealing and burning rubber….that’s not just from the back of the Kirkhouse!” said Elvi$.
“ Very soon you… and that Oasis chair will be history!” he continued menacingly.
“ Oasis chair?” asked Mrs Ryder tying herself into the chair in anticipation with her shoelaces….belt strap and M&S Cardigan ….all with a granny knot.
“ You getta roll with it!” said Elvi$ laughing at his gallows humour.
The van screeched around the corner with Elvi$ holding his hand up to the driver as they flew across the road bridge above P & R Motors in Pentrebach.
“ Wait for it!” he said sliding past Mrs Ryder and unbolting the back doors.
“ Now !” he said.
Astra spun the steering wheel wildly.
As he uttered those immortal words….Mrs Ryder pushed at the top of the rubber wheels with all her might.
She crashed into the soft shins of her abductor and he teetered on the edge of the open doors, quiff flailing in the wind.
And then he was gone.
Elvi$ had left the building , falling over the flyover and was lying flat on his back on the bonnet of the tow-truck.
There was no hope for him even if he was in the ‘recovery position’.
He looked like a dying fly legs and arms flailing in the air spine completely shot.
Cars careered across the three lane highway in all directions as the van skidded to a halt and then restarted its acceleration back up the wrong sliproad.
Mrs Ryder rolled about more than an episode of ’Ironside’ in the van with the doors flapping.
Astra was petrified but like a charging bull he had the intelligence to neither stop or to slow down.
Forcing cars off the road, the insurance nightmare raced up the A470, sideswiping cars and barriers alike, as he headed towards Cardiff.
Mrs Ryder knew she had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, as Astra was as unpredictable as the out of date box of fireworks he was originally named after.
Centrifugal force was keeping her in the vehicle alone but she knew once he broke, she would be history.
She dragged herself along the metal wall inch by inch and grabbed the little scrote around the throat with all her might forcing the scumbag to choke on his own Adams Apple.
“ Here is a present from ‘Granny Smith’….!” she said strangling the car thief.
Astra was so dull even though he was slowly having the oxygen squeezed out of him , he pressed the brake gently on survival instinct instead of the accelerator.
“ If there is one thing I hate!” she said.
” It is someone sullying my good name…you didn’t even have the courtesy to ask it….I’m Joy Ryder and you are not a joy rider… you are a car THIEF !”” she said as Astra’s face went blue and the car trundled to a stop in the layby .
It was the best vigilante move since Michael Winner had finally had his own Death Wish.

Listening to banned police frequencies, Alan Flatfoot put his foot flat to the floor in his Hillman Avenger, as he gunned down the A470 Expressway in search of his stolen ambulance.
The former prop from the television programme, the ‘Professionals’ had a top speed of 40 mph and had air conditioning in the floor where the clutch pedal had once been.
Letting in the ‘choke’ he spotted his van ringed by police cars in a layby above Troedyrhiw, watching a different kind of choke taking place.
They had retrieved the body of Elvi$ from Pentrebach and had just found the hostage situation much to the annoyance of Traffic Cop Ade ‘Bucket’ Edmondson it was on his watch.
“ This is beyond the pail’ !” laughed Flatfoot as he pulled in to see his old police driving instructor.
“ What you got then?” asked Flatfoot.
“ The usual- an Old woman with no legs holding a junkie car thief by the throat threatening to snap his neck!” said Bucket.
“ Why are you trying to arrest her then?” asked Flatfoot.
“ We’re not….we are trying to give her a Community Action Trust Reward….keep the crime figures down …but she has gone all psycho on us when we are just trying to help her!” said the Traffic Officer.
“ I think I know why!” said Flatfoot.
“ I was transporting her from her stay in the Old Deanery Nursing Home in Braintree Essex!”























































]]> Sun, 17 May 2020 23:16:05 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5202/dot-dott-dash-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5202



No one that actually knew Dorothy Dott would dispute that she was an athlete.
She was the hardest, meanest, toughest, member of the Dowlais Ladies Hockey Team from Merthyr Tydfil.
She was quick too.
She was only tiny but was the female equivalent of a pocket battleship.
The Steffi Graf Spee if you like.
She once downed the yard of ale as ‘Man of the Match’ in a South Wales hockey tournament in under 5 seconds.
She once pushed a full metal barrel of beer up the A4060 (T) Slip Road on her own and then drunk its entire contents herself.
There was nothing tough enough or difficult enough for her- so it was no surprise that she announced to her fellow ladies that this year that she would enter the Nos Galan Road Race which was taking place at the end of the week.
The Mountain Ash Dash, as it was known locally, consisted of a 5km run starting from the Church at Llanwynno and involved a three circuit race around the town centre of Mountain Ash ending by the statue of its founder Guto Nyth Bran.
The race had been a tradition in ‘Snake Valley’ since 1958, when most of the borough residents had finally learned to walk upright on two feet.
It was rumoured that after St Patrick cleared them from Ireland they had settled on masse in the Cynon Valley.
The race itself was proving popular with athletes from all over Britain and even occasionally from overseas.
Held on New Year’s Eve, it had attracted famous Welsh athletes from the fields of athletics, rugby and of course football.
Even boxer Robbie Reagan had had a go – even if he did throw in the towel over the statue a lap early in round two.
Every year, there was an unannounced late ‘mystery runner’ who was usually throw into the mix at a late stage to create an element of interest to the Town’s people of Viperville.
What Dorothy Dott didn’t know was that this year the ‘Mystery Runner’ was no other than Paula Radcliffe- the past winner of both the London and New York Marathons.
It was highly unusual for a woman to be so named- as it was usually the exclusive preserve of male athletes.
But whilst Dorothy Dott was ignorant of the fact- her Hockey Team Mates were not- and they took great delight in placing a bet of £100.00 ‘per man’ with Dorothy, after her boast that she would be the first female to cross the winning line this year.
Even if the organisers had insisted on evidence that she was really a woman before allowing her to enter the competition.
With the same bet with ten other team mates, she stood to lose a cool Grand- if and when Radcliffe turned up.
Dorothy Dott wasn’t overly concerned about any male competition- after all last year’s athlete was Welsh Prop, Adam Jones who was built more like a juggernaut than a sports car.
To make matters worse, Dorothy Dott had agreed to run in fancy dress for her chosen charity.
One of the biggest killers in Wales- Type 2 ‘Dai’-abetes.
Inspired partly by her name but also the release of the recent Star Wars film in 2015, she had decided to run as R2D2.
She reckoned she could fly it, as long as she didn’t get a case of the ‘Revenge of the Sith’ – a condition she got from using scented bath salts and perfumed soaps from the ‘Body Shop’.
Her nether regions would often get affected by Roddick.
Most of the local Merthyr men were wary of dating Dorothy, as most reckoned she was like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie.
Besides, she was more of a man than most of them.
Her reputation both on and off the hockey pitch was a no-nonsense go-getter, who sent opponents packing in a bully- off.
She was a born winner and like Diego Maradona would not stop at ‘gamesmanship’ or even down right cheating to get up on that Winner’s podium.
That’s why on her Christmas List for 2015, she had asked ‘Santa’ for the latest ‘hottest’ must-have thing around.
She still lived with her elderly parents and they had failed to get the last one available in Merthyr’s Argos , of the much lauded Segway people carrier.
Her Dad, David was dotty on Dotty and didn’t want his 40 year old daughter to stop believing in Santa so he had arranged for one of his old factory Director workmates to create a special one-off from bits of an old washing machine and a Sinclair C5.
It was the first and only Hoover-Board.
It was ideal for Dotty to ride on and fitted perfectly beneath her Star Wars costume and was hidden out of sight.
With this contraption that had a top speed of 10mph, she was convinced that on the perfectly tarmacked roads that served Mountain Ash and the wonderful job that the Rhondda Cynon Taff Highways Authority did on keeping the highways in pristine condition, it would help her win the Mountain Ash Dash.
As she stood on the starting line next to Llanwynno Church, she noticed she was the only competitor in fancy dress.
This didn’t unnerve the girl, it just spurred her on.
In a sea of male faces, she suddenly spotted that of Paula Radcliffe shaking her hands in preparation for the big race.
She didn’t know why - but subliminally, just looking at her race rival made her bowels loosen.
But Dot was programmed as a serving police woman not to recognise fear.
Fear was weakness and the brainwashing instilled in Police recruits meant that she no longer had any civilian traits and like Elton John found that Sorry seemed to be the hardest word (after concrete of course that is).
The Mayor fired the starting pistol (or more accurately the AK47 semi-automatic rifle that had been handed in during the Mountain Ash gun amnesty) and the race started.
Dot’s tactic was simple.
Get in front and then stay in front- that way there was no risk of tripping like Mary Decker-Slaney by a clod-hopper like Zola Budd.
She kick-started the ignition button with her big toe and she was off down passed the ‘Serpentine’ or Cynon Valley River as it was known to the local reptilian population.
Passing the semi-rural Viper Villas, then down passed Python Plaza and onto Cobra Crescent, Dot sailed on effortlessly.
The other athletes including celebrity Bradley Walsh on the chase after her.
Most people in the crowd assumed that the little droid was just the pace setter but Dorothy had heard that nice guys finish last and despite her masculine appearance under that fancy dress costume- she was no nice guy.
Welsh athletes, Iwan Thomas and Jamie Baulch were starting to be left behind by the speed on the ‘Millenium Falcon’ and only Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson seemed to be gaining on the race leader due to the slope.
Despite the cold New Year’s Eve weather, Dot suddenly realised that her feet were warmer than normal.
She had modified her Nike trainers by cutting out the front part to air her athlete’s foot (from the years of yomping on the police parade ground) but even with her own attempts at ventilation something felt wrong.
As she rattled and snaked her way around Mount, she suddenly realised that she had left the trailing pack for dead.
She didn’t want to make it too obvious that she was using more than self-propulsion and was even beginning to lap some of the stragglers.
She gave Welsh Prop Adam Jones a wide berth- she didn’t want to catch his trademark trailing rock star hair in her wheels or it would be fatal for her Hoover-board.
As she whizzed (like Stephen Hawking on amphetamine) passed the second placed local runner Tony Pandy, he began to smell a rat or more precisely burning toenail polish fumes.
R2D2 never moved THAT quickly in the film.
He had a ‘new hope’ – he would get that cheating bastard disqualified.
He didn’t like Star Wars or Z-Cars for that matter.
Only one more circuit of the ‘Welsh Monaco’ and Dorothy could take her crown and bet money from her friends.
She would take great delight in telling her Dowlais Ladies Hockey Teammates to ‘Puck Off’.
Having the prestige of winning the ‘Nos Galan’ within the Police Force would also ‘fast track’ her for promotion to Inspector providing, she could get rid of the proof of her cheating.
The best way she had found over the years, to consign something to the Legal equivalent of Room 101, was to send it to the Crown Prosecution Service labelled ‘ Evidence’.
Or present it to a Judge as part of an International War Crimes Enquiry.
Her feet were burning worse than that time she caught a multiple verruca from the former Gwaunfarren Baths.
The military voice in her head told her ‘no pain no gain’ so she tried to put up with the searing heat that Dorothy’s own ‘Tootsies’ were experiencing.
She looked over her left shoulder and could see that despite her being ‘turbo charged’ the Marathon Women’ was gaining on her.
Radcliffe had got into her stride and had paced herself perfectly.
Banking as she came around the corner, passed the local Delhi-catessen or branch of Barclays, as it was known locally, Dorothy realised that her contraption was actually slowing down but what wasn’t apparent under that Droid costume was that the thermal shut- off switch on the board just hadn’t shut off.
Her feet were in fact on fire, like she was standing on the bridge of the Sir Galahad ship during the Falklands War.
Her toes were alight and of their own volition starting sending Morse code signals to Dorothy.
Dot- Dot- Dash- Save our Soles.
The stench of burning pig flesh was following Dorothy, and in her slipstream some of the rugby lads raised on a diet of early Sunday Morning bacon sandwiches, began to speed up like extras from the Waking Dead, as she ‘hot-footed’ it passed them.
With every step recorded on her Apple Fit watch, Dorothy could tell Radcliffe was closing on her.
She had come this far and it would be a shame if her burnt offerings of sacrificing her pedicure and expensive trainers didn’t produce a win backed by Mount Olympus, as she passed the Aberdare Camera Shop.
Surely, the Greek Goddess of Victory- Nike- would smile down on her.
She could see the finishing tape near the statue of Guto on Henry Street.
A little further please she pleaded silently to the Aegean Pantheon.
Suddenly, a flame shot out from under the legs of R2D2, burning the remaining fabric away so that the entire crowd could see the extent of the cheating by Dorothy.
The Hoover-board trundled to a halt, as she past a fat former Swansea City player still running the first lap.
She was less than two feet from the winning line, even if she didn’t have two feet left to complete the race.
She screamed in agony, as Radcliffe dipped for the line and pipped Dorothy for first place.
She then proceeded to put out the fire by urinating like a shire horse on the remains of Dorothy’s trainers.
“ Is she taking the piss or what?” said Dorothy’s best mate, Elaine Peter-Alan.
“ It’s more like Nos Gallon!” said another Ruth Bidmead- Cook , as the athlete in true camel style took ages to empty her bladder.
Dorothy’s dream, trainers, and bank balance were in tatters.
She had lost her personal Star War.
Dot Dot’s Dash was over and out.



]]> Sat, 09 May 2020 20:00:47 +0100 http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5201/chicken-chaser-by-phil-boz-evans http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/philip-evans/blog/5201



His luck had finally run out.
Reynaldo the Red Fox was suspended, hanging on a barbed wire fence by his stomach.
The more he twisted, the more the barbs sunk their teeth into his pink soft underbelly.
He was trapped and he knew it.
He was literally kicking himself that he should get caught this way- in such a simple fashion – as he a very intelligent creature.
He had misjudged the take-off, slipping on some sheep-shit.
Reynaldo had for over a decade, survived the harsh Winter temperatures, and rainy Summers that Gwynedd in North Wales had to offer its native fauna.
In the freezing cold sub-zero temperatures, he would go and warm himself next to the decommissioned Nuclear Power Station , Trawsfynydd and its Magnox reactor.
He loved basking in its warm glow.
He always felt safe there, as for some reason the Local Huntsmen and their pack of dogs would not pursue him under the security fencing, preferring to take their cries of Tally-Ho and Soho to other quarries in and around Flint.
Whilst hunting with dogs was illegal on private land -that didn’t stop the local Hunt, ‘egged’ on by the local farmers missing their chickens, who continued as if nothing had ever been put in place by Parliament to stop such events.
The Manifesto of the New Labour Administration in the Noughties, had promised that ‘things could only get better’.
Well maybe not for the Country or the people of Iraq but for foxes it certainly had.
They loved Tony Blair.
He was made an honorary fox- Blair Fox if you like- as a direct result of the Hunting Ban, foxes just like the National Debt, quadrupled in numbers.
Foxes started appearing everywhere- on biscuits, near polar bears on glacier mints and even in Downtown Abbey.
It was no longer the ‘day of the jackal’ but the decade of the Vixen.
Brer Rabbit wasn’t so fussed on the New Policy, as their natural predator had been given special preserved status and like fox shit was now everywhere.
Thankfully, as is the way of Mother Nature- she balanced things up by providing a glut of KFC & MacDonalds outlets for vermin to feed on – and the foxes too.
Reynaldo, knew he had to figure a way to extricate himself from his predicament or die trying.
He knew it was only a matter of time before his nemesis since birth, ‘Old Gellert’ , a North Walian Bloodhound caught up with him.



He would never give up.
He was the canine equivalent of Metropolitan Police Detective Jack Slipper.
The Former East-ender had tracked the renegade Reynaldo all the way from his Dirty Den in Gwynedd across three Counties- Gwynedd, Rural Powys, Ceredigion and finally to Merthyr.
Looking at the sign in Welsh-’Bedlinog’, Reynaldo hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.
Normally, Reynaldo could usually give the pursuing back the slip by running through streams and doubling back- but not this time.
He figured that as his fur was starting to fall out then it made him easier to pursue.
He normally moulted in around April ever year – losing his Winter coat- but he feared this was different.
It was falling out in clumps, not individual hairs- worse still he couldn’t ‘groom’ himself with his ‘brush’ ,as his tail was attached to the sharp metal barbs on this livestock proof fence.
He had once heard from a wise old bird friend of his, who was losing his feathers - that he had been diagnosed by the vet as having ‘owlapecia’- so Reynaldo assumed that he was suffering from a similar complaint.
One thing for certain was that his love life hadn’t suffered because of his hair loss- he was still inundated by ‘foxy’ ladies that wanted a bit of his ‘Boom Boom’.
It seems he was the Vulpine equivalent of Errol Brown of ‘Hot Chocolate’ fame.
The vixens screamed for him from Mountain Top and Wheelie Bin Lid- much to the annoyance of the North Walian residents- as they all vied for his attention.
Reynaldo put it down to him regularly rolling his nether regions in the herb patches of the gardens that he prowled in at night.
It was like aftershave to the females – who loved the scent of ‘Basil Brush’.
Reynaldo knew he didn’t have time to reminisce, he must find a way off this blasted fence or like much of his prey -he was dead meat.
In the far distance, he could hear the yelping of his pursuers.
The last two dogs NOT to give up were Caradog and Old Gellert- he recognised their distinctive barking.
They were a little older and their noses less keen- from years of following the multitude of behinds of the younger, fitter dogs.
But they were nonetheless committed to the cause.
To Old Gellert it was personal- his wife Red, had been killed in the hunt back 5 years ago when Reynaldo had deliberately led her into a trap.
He had marked his scent all around the bottom of a milk float knowing full well that the dog would not resist checking out the bottom of the vehicle.
In the process, he had helped himself to two dozen eggs and a carton of Orange Juice before he was chased away by the returning milkman.
Red was not so lucky.
Being the fastest and fittest canine around, she was always first on the scene for any kill , as like most bitches liked to tear their opponents apart limb from limb.
The angry Unigate Dairyman thought that the dog was the thief and deliberately rolled back over her and ‘squashed’ her in the process.
Old Gellert knew that Lassie was the son of a bitch, but ever since that day to him so was Reynaldo.
He was convinced the fox had consumed part of his wife’s remains before being chased off by the pursuing pack.
His swore on his wife’s grave in the corner of ‘Vet Cemetery’ that he would get even with his foxy nemesis.
Sadly, Old Gellert’s legs weren’t as good as they once were- if only he could corner Reynaldo he would kill that vermin once and for all- and die happy.
Gellert sniffed the air- he knew he was gaining on Reynaldo as the ‘tumbleweed’ of red fox fur was getting thicker, the closer he got to his quarry.
Reynaldo wasn’t ready to give up the ghost just yet-if that Fantastic Mr Fox had been one thing during his lifetime it was he was very lucky.
So lucky that they named Foxy Bingo.com after him.
They say fortune favours the brave and Reynaldo was not just lucky – he was brave too.
Fate played a hand too in the shape of local resident, Lewys Street.
Lewys was only sixteen but had Bedlinog tattooed through him and on him like Blackpool Rock.
There was more Bedrock in him than the Flintstones.
Today, he was busy tootling along on his 998cc motorised hair drier.
The funky moped had a top speed of 30MPH having been fitted with a speed limiter and integral tracking device by an Insurance Company- otherwise his premium would have been £10,000.00 a year.
Lewys had left school with a GSCE in Woodwork and was busily searching the job market for suitable job opportunities in the Merthyr Borough to encompass his qualifications.
Not surprisingly, the Job Centre was not overflowing with opportunities.
Enticed by the glut of cheap cookery shows on television- he wanted to be the next Mary Berry only without the recipe for wrinkles…but they no longer wanted a chef at the Food Bank.
So he decided to do some volunteer work for new Political Party UKIP.
He was driving along the country lanes leading from Treharris to Bedrock whilst checking on the numbers of telegraph lines in the area.



He checked the job description and confirmed he was asked to ‘Count the Poles’ in the Merthyr Borough for Head Office of the Party.
After a while he had realised that the poles already had a serial number.
He thought it would now be an easier task than he first thought.
He was shocked to happen upon the stricken fox and even more surprised to find that the Fox could speak in Welsh.
He was surprised to find someone that did given that the National Average was between 22-30%.
And in foxes even lower.
“ Bore Da!” spake the Fox.
Lewys nearly crashed his moped into Pole number 86543.
“ What the Bluddy Hell are you doing hanging there?” said the youngster.
“ Just chillin’!” replied Reynaldo leaning back on the wire to pretend like he was not in excruciating agony but sunbathing.
“ How did you get there?” asked Lewys.
“ Haven’t you seen a flying fox before?” replied the cunning Reynaldo.
“ No…!” replied Lewys…” I’m from Bedrock…we don’t see much wildlife down here at all- apart chucking out time at the Bedlinog Rugby Club!”
“ Doesn’t that hurt then?” asked Lewys.
“ Wot hurt?” asked the balding fox.
“ Those barbs in your guts?” asked Lewys.
“ Oh …those body piercings you mean…I am hard …I’m Welsh mun…these are all the rage now in hip places like Merthyr!” said Reynaldo.
“ They are one on from body piercing –and are the ultimate stress relief too….!” continued the wily one.
“ If you come over here…I will show you how they are attached!” said Reynaldo.
“ My Mother warned me not to talk to strangers….especially Super Furry Animals or Lost Prophets!” replied Lewys.
“ But I am no longer a Super Furry Animal…my hair is much depleted ….like the Welsh Language…I have less than 22% left….and I am certainly not lost….!”said Reynaldo.
Lewys was a little reassured and came closer- as did the sound of the barking and hollering of Old Gellert & Caradog in the near distance.
“ I see you are wearing a ‘Friends of the Earth’ badge!” said Reynaldo.



“ You…I am against that Opencast lot…!” said Lewys pointing in the direction of where the sky was black.
“ Did you know that a group of foxes is called an Earth…Lewys ?” asked Reynaldo.
“ How did you know my name?” asked the teenager.
“ It’s written on your coat label!” said the fox …eyes…well like a fox really.
“ Oh!” said the Low Achiever.
“ So that makes us Friends…doesn’t it…!” said the cunning one.
“ Like on Facebook!” said Lewys.
“ Fox-book!” chuckled Lewys.
“ I don’t know what that is….but yes…friends none the less !” said Reynaldo.
“ And what do friends do Lewys?” asked the fox.
“ Help each other!”
“ So what do you want me to do?” asked Lewys hesistantly.
“ Come closer to me!” said the fox.
Lewys moved closer to the trapped skulker.
“ Closer please!” asked the prisoner of the wire.
“ But you don’t know my nickname do you….everyone in the Valleys has a nickname!” said Lewys.
“ Is it Einstein?....Socrates?....” asked the sarcastic fox.
“ No….it’s the Rock innit….as I am from Bedrock and I want to be a chef one day…!” said Lewys.
Lewys was now level with the fox who was splayed out with his undercarriage on full display- totally defenceless to any form of attack.
“ I don’t care how much of a friend you are or how much fur you have lost…I ain’t sucking THAT thing!” said Lewys.
“ Don’t be daft!” said Reynaldo.
“ I would merely like you to assist me with undoing the barbs holding me on this fence- I have done enough sunbathing for one day!” said the canny vixen lover.
“ Are you sure…because that’s what I was told priests and prophets do….and if I help you…you will not bite me?” asked the tentative Lewys.
“ Of course not….have the heard of the expression …not to bite the hand that feeds you?” said Reynaldo.
“ No….but I am not feeding you anyway….or touching THAT thing!” replied the nervous Lewys stepping closer.
“ It’s a figure of speech….trust your gut…!” said Reynaldo.
Lewys looked at the bleeding gut of the trapped animal in front of him and released the first barb from around the fox tail.
“ Now -You haven’t got that disease you catch from rabbits have you?” asked Lewys.
“ Mixamitosis?” asked the knowledge fox with a higher IQ than the human.
“ No rab-ies?” replied Lewys.
“ No- I’m clean I promise…..and if you help me out I will give you my lucky charm so that as a trainee Chef you will always have something to put in the pot!” said Reynaldo.
He reached inside his cheek and regurgitated something from his extended jawline.
“ What is that?” asked Lewys patiently undoing the last twisted metal spike from the barbed wire fence from the fox’s midriff.
“ That my FRIEND….is a lucky rabbit’s foot!” said Reynaldo proudly.
“ Go on then pick it up and rub it for luck and watch what happens!” said Reynaldo.
“ Lucky rabbits foot…it wasn’t that lucky for him was it!” said Lewys.
“ His name was Warren Want….and he was the King of the North Walian rabbits and he had magic powers!” said Reynaldo.
Lewys picked it up and rub the fox spittle on his WWF tee-shirt.
“ Now blow on it three times and I promise you in less than five minutes over that hill will come more rabbits than the cast of Watership Down!” boasted the fox.
Lewys blew on it three times and watched the horizon for signs of life.
“ Keep looking now…I promise you will never be hungry again!” said Reynaldo skulking pass his new friend.
After five minutes had passed- there was no sign of any leverets, does or bucks anywhere.
With the only hairs in sight that of the red fox fur still attached to the sharp metal fence.
As Lewys turned he could see his first Bedlinog Flying Fox ever, as Reynaldo came passed the field entrance riding Lewys’s scooter.
Pursued by two ugly slobbering bloodhounds with hang dog expressions.
Old Gelert and Caradog stopped and asked Lewys in Welsh, if he had seen a ‘chicken chaser’?
Lewys replied- ‘No …but if you do….it belongs to me!”



]]> Tue, 05 May 2020 17:48:03 +0100