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A London Tale

2022-09-01 00:00:04

London Tale …

In a shop doorway on Trafalgar Square three shadowy figures stood, unnoticed in the hurly-burly of humanity thronging around on a busy Saturday afternoon. All three wore the distinctive black and white keffiyeh wrapped around their heads, and sported full-length white thawb robes, their traditional Muslim garb a familiar sight on the streets of London. Each wore a rucksack, all three hanging heavily, as if filled with weights. Glimpses of brown tunics could be seen under their robes as they shuffled uneasily, impatient for the deadly task which awaited them.

They watched carefully as, across the road, a television news crew filmed an interview with a man wearing a hi-visibility waistcoat. Behind him a large group of similarly dressed people wielded banners and placards. He spoke to the camera, occasionally whistling involuntarily, stuttering and blinking.

“Today's demonstration … pheeep … is all about g-g-g-getting the British and American g-governments to … kkkk … understand that Tourette's Syndrome is a very real and and and and and and and and and curable problem. If th... hhskkkk … the g-governments were to invest more funding in research, then the problem could cured almost overnight. As it is, phweeep ... we are misunderstood and mocked. The media portray us as stuttering buffoons, and even comedic erotic fiction writers cruelly use us as a vehicle for cheap laughs!”

Turning to the crowd, he raised a megaphone to his lips and called out “What do we want?”

In a well-drilled response, the assembled crowd answered as one:


“When do we want it?” cried the man through his megaphone.

“CUNT!” “FUCK!” “SHIT!” “ARSE!” “BOLLOCKS!” came a disorganised volley of replies.

With a sigh, the man shook his head and began to lead the demonstrators along Whitehall towards Downing Street, where they intended to protest outside the home of the Prime Minister, who was that day receiving a delegation from the American embassy.

Unnoticed, the three men in Muslim garb filed quietly into the procession, the tallest leading the way. His face was thin, pale and drawn, dark circles ringed his eyes and a goatee beard hung from his chin. His two companions, younger and shorter, trailed behind. One had an under-bite, the other squinty eyes and a drooping nose with flared nostrils. They began to chatter to each other.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh,” one chuckled “this is cool!”

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh,” chortled the other “yeah!”

The first man turned to his companions and hissed “Silence!”

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh, chill out, Achmed, dude!” was the reply.

Through tightly clenched teeth, the first man hissed once more “Silence! I kill you! Remember, now we do not use our real names, so that the infidels will not discover our true identities. You will call me Number One from now on, and you will be Number Two and Number Three. Or else, I kill you!”

“Uhhh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, that means you're a Number Two, Beavis! I did a number two in the can yesterday that floated there for ages uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh!” laughed one of the younger men.

The reply was pained and immediate “Shut up, Butt-h-”

“SILENCE!” hissed #1 once more, interrupting.

The younger two fell quiet, but one raised his clenched fist behind the man's back, the middle finger extended. The other tapped a finger against his temple, then rotated it in mid-air, signifying that he believed him to be mad.

Soon the procession neared the end of Whitehall and turned into Downing Street, its security gates conveniently having been accidentally left open by a police officer in a serendipitous move which allowed the plot to move directly outside Number Ten, whereupon the three be-robed figures, no longer requiring the cover of the procession, separated themselves from the demonstrators, and scurried along the sidewalk to the entrance of the Prime Minister's house, guarded by a single policeman who challenged them as they approached.

“Ello, 'ello, 'ello. What's all this 'ere, then?” the old copper enquired.

#1 answered quickly, his ridiculous Middle-Eastern accent becoming noticeable for the first time in the story. “We're with ze caterers.”

“What 'ave you got in those bags then, gents?” the policeman retorted laconically.

The three men paused momentarily, holding their breaths, a look of panic upon their faces. #1 opened his rucksack and pulled forth a container of pliable gel. Waving it under the policeman's nose he said hopefully “Hummus?”

The British bobby wrinkled his nose at the smell of garlic and hastily waved them past. As the door closed behind them they found themselves in the black and white tiled reception area of N umber Ten Downing Street.

Breathing a sigh of relief, #3 spoke first. “Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh. That was awesome, dude! Good thinking to bring along a phoney packet, to disguise all this Semtex. Cool!”

Deadpan, #1 spoke “That was not forward planning.” The other two looked at each other in alarm. “That was my packed lunch.” he said, turning his back on them once more and proceeding towards the main staircase.

The two younger men laughed once more. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh!”

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh!”

“SILENCE!” admonished #1 again.

As they reached the top of the stairs they slipped quietly through an open door into a large, high-ceilinged chamber containing many people milling about, chatting. Unnoticed they made their way to a table of canapés, picking a plate each and blending into the crowd. Smartly-dressed waiters circulated, carrying trays piled with chocolates wrapped in silver foil. A slick-haired man in an expensive-looking suit climbed up onto a raised dais at the far end of the room. Using a microphone, he began to speak, in an exquisitely affected posh English accent:

“Hello, good afternoon and welcome to my home! I, as you are of course are aware, am David Arthur Michael Peter Camshaft, BA hons, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, First Lord of the Treasury, Chief Minister for the Civil Service, Leader of the Conservative party, Head of the Governmental Coalition, and Member of Parliament for the town of Witless, Oxbridgeshire.” he paused for breath “But you can call me Dave.”
There was a brief smattering of applause, then Dave continued “I would like to welcome our good friend, his excellency Joel Kennealy, the Ambassador for the United States of America.”

Another suited gentleman joined Dave on the dais and spoke into a second microphone “Thank you, Dave. May I say what a pleasure it is to be here, and thank you for inviting so many of my fellow American countrymen and women here today, too.” He cast his gaze at the motley collection of diplomats and celebrities scattered around the room. “I do believe you have an especially English treat for us this afternoon?”

“Indeed we do have a very 'British' theme,” Dave replied, emphasising the word 'British'. He continued “We have assembled a team of notable Britons to greet you all, and we will shortly sit down to a selection of taster dishes of traditional British foodstuffs. You are all currently enjoying, I hope, a glass of finest English sparkling wine as an aperitif.” He too looked around the room at the assembled bunch of overpaid miscreants.

He saw the Ambassador's wife take a sip from her glass. Her expression screwed up in horror, as if she had just imbibed a solution of vinegar, stinging nettles and bulldog urine. Discretely she spat the wine back into the glass and poured the entire contents into a nearby plant-pot, which contained a tall, healthy-looking green plant. Dave continued “We are fortunate to have our repast this afternoon prepared by one of this country's premier chefs and his brigade, a star not only of the world of cuisine but also on our television screens on both sides of the Atlantic with such programmes as 'Kitchen Hells' and 'The C Word', my lords, ladies and gentlemen, I give you …. Mister Gordon Bastard!”

On cue, from a door at the side of the room a man dressed in a double-breasted white chef's jacket and silly blue and white checked baggy trousers ran out and theatrically leapt onto the dais to much applause from the audience. He attempted to speak into the microphone but Camshaft hastily snatched it away before his words became audible. Dave spoke hurriedly “Thank you, Mr Bastard, I understand that when all is present and correct in the kitchen you will be joining us?”

The white-jacketed man nodded and mouthed some inaudible words before returning to the kitchen. Camshaft and Kennealy stepped down from the dais and began to indulge in small-talk with the assembled guests, a mixture of British and American politicians and celebrities.

The Lord Mayor of London, Ivan Goodwood, approached Mrs Kennealy. His bulky, six foot four, two hundred and ninety pound frame dwarfing the petite woman. Due to his elevated stature he was able to look directly down the woman's décolletage, the square cut of the front of her dress exposing the tops of her breasts.

“Baps.” muttered Goodwood, dreamily. “Lovely, lovely baps.”

“Excuse me?” asked the Ambassador's wife, puzzled.

Snapping out of his reverie, the Mayor hastily added “Baps, er.. er.. I... er... that is to say, I hope we have some lovely baps with this jolly old luncheon, what? I do so like some nice buns.”

“Ah yes.” was the woman's confused reply.

Seeking to make small-talk, Ivan continued “Er, I say – shall have to have a word with old Camshaft, that plant there,” he indicated the plant pot adjacent to the woman “looks rather wilted, doesn't it?”

Suddenly, a figure pushed past them. Dressed all in black except for a shiny, sparkly, glittering silver cowboy hat and brown wraparound sunglasses, he leapt onto the stage and began to shout through one of the microphones. “ALL YE, HEAR ME NOW! Ye should all be talking about how to save the world! Who will speak for the children?”

“Oh, Christ!” muttered Goodwood “Its bloody Bonko, the boringly earnest singer with the band FU!” he rolled his eyes.

Holding his arms wide the man on the dais suddenly brought his hands together with a loud clap. Several seconds passed, then he clapped again. A strange silence had fallen over the room, holding all present in thrall. He clapped once more, then spoke into the microphone, his Irish accent evident “Every toime oi bring moi hands together...” foaming at the mouth he clapped again “a child dies...”

“Well stop bloody doing it, then!” Ivan roared. David Camshaft raised his voice:

“Security! Constable Paynting? Security! Throw this lunatic out, he's not supposed to be here, he's bloody well Irish, don't you know, old chap!”

A door opened and the policeman from outside lumbered in. “You rang, m'lud?” he asked. Seeing Bonko, he seized him by the arm and began to drag him towards the door. As he was propelled towards the portal, a protesting Bonko yelled over his shoulder;

“You can't do this to me! Don't you know who I am? I did that concert in '85 with Bob Gelding to Feed The World, and now nobody's hungry anymore, and we did that concert in 2005 to End World Poverty and now no-ones poor anymore! Well, certainly not me anyway – I made 1.7 billion dollars in Facebook shares, which after tax is … er … 1.7 billion dollars!”

Constable Paynting began to shove the still protesting singer through the door, who continued to rave on, twist, shout, rattle and hum. “Watch it pal!” the rabid Irishman warned “I'm close to The Edge!”

The door slammed shut. Audible sighs of relief were breathed in the room.

Camshaft apologised to Kennealy, but the American simply shook his head and smiled “We're quite used to Mr Bonko, he spends a lot of time in The States. It's our streets you see – many of our city streets are numbered, like 42nd Street and so on – Bonko seems to like it where the streets have no names. He still doesn't seem to have found what he was looking for, though. However, I must say, I don't know what he's doing here?” he jerked a thumb towards a small, skinny pale teenager. The youth was wearing a baseball cap back-to-front, and his trousers hung down at the waist, exposing his underwear. He fiddled with an expensive-looking cellphone.

Camshaft looked at him quizzically. “I have absolutely no idea who he is. My Deputy organised the invites, we tried to get as many famous Americans as we could who were in London at the moment, just so this would be a great photo opportunity for us all.”

Kennealy replied “That's Jason Beeper – he's a pop star alright, but he's Canadian!”

“Oh bloody hell! Where's Legg? LEGG!” he yelled. The Deputy Prime Minister, Rick Legg, an insignificant little man with a smart suit and foppish haircut, appeared.

“Yes, Dave?” he squeaked in a high-pitched voice.

“You invited a Canadian, you idiot!”

“Sorry, Dave. They all sound the same to me.” he trilled.

Camshaft cuffed the small man around the head. “Go and see if Bastard is nearly ready, then we can show our guests the menu.”

“Yes Dave.” yelped Legg.

“Well, what are you standing there for? Run along now, there's a good chap!”

“Yes, Dave, sorry Dave.” piped the little man before scuttling off.

Across the room two men were deeply engaged in conversation. Multi-billionaire American tycoon Ralph Sachs, owner of Sachs Plaza, Sachs Tower, the Sachs Casino, Sachs Air airline, Sachs Phone cellphone company, Sachs Drugs pharmaceuticals, Sachs Toys novelty gift firm, the Sachs Appeal charity and many other companies, host of popular American TV show “The Dogsbody” chatted to his opposite number, multi-millionaire Lord Alun Honeycomb, host of the UK version of 'Dogsbody'. Two smartly dressed women stood with them.

Honeycomb was an East-London born and bred man had started out as a market stall trader in his teens and worked his way up, unlike Sachs who had inherited the family business from Ralph Sachs senior after finishing a business degree at Harvard.

Honeycomb was speaking; “Gor, blimey Ralph, me ol' china, robin to lay me mincers on yer again, its been a long nickel since we last had a rabbit innit?”

“I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't have a clue what you're saying.” said Sachs, confused.

The woman accompanying Honeycomb spoke up. Tamara Knight, the winner of last year's 'Dogsbody' wore a smart business suit, with a skirt just above the knee, white blouse and high heels. “He says 'Hello Ralph, my old mate, good to cast my eyes upon you once more, its been a long time since we last had a talk, is it not?'” she translated. Seeing Sachs' blank expression she said “Cockney rhyming slang. He speaks like this all the time off camera.” She rolled her eyes. “China plate, mate, Robin Hood, good, mince pies, eyes, nickel and dime, time, rabbit and pork, talk.”

“Blimey, I don't adam it! Do you septics ever use yer loaf? Your thirty-three's bit tasty too, Ralph, nice barnet, pretty human, cracking thrupennies and khyber, lovely bacons, that short uncle above her biscuits shows 'em off proper, she gets my hampton standing, knowworrimean?” burbled Honeycomb.

Tamara translated again “He doesn't believe it, and wonders if Americans use their heads. Adam and eve, believe, septic tank, yank, loaf of bread, head. He was also complimenting Mrs Sachs on her appearance.” She smiled, not wishing to translate thirty three and a third to bird, a slang term for woman, Barnet fair to hair, human race to face, thrupenny, or three pence bits to tits, Khyber Pass to ass, bacon and eggs to legs, Uncle Bert to skirt, biscuits and cheese to knees and Hampton Wick to prick.

“She's 'is trouble?” exclaimed Honeycomb “Gordon Bennett! Well I never! Made a bit of a 'James' of meself there!”

Giving up the pretence of translating, Tamara simply said “He didn't realise that Annelle was your wife, Mr Sachs, and he fears he has made a fool of himself.” She felt it unnecessary to translate 'James Blunt' from the vernacular.

Sachs replied “No, no, that's okay. I didn't understand a word of it anyway. How on earth did you learn what it all means?”

“I learnt Cockney from my Aunt Tiffany, she was a former Pearly Queen of London!” said Tamara, enthusiastically.

“Aunty Fanny?” enquired Sachs with a snigger.

“Aunt Tiffany.” Tamara corrected.

“Whatever, if you'll excuse us, we're off to talk to someone who can speak English around here. Come along, Annelle.” He swivelled away through ninety degrees. Unfortunately his toupee only turned through eighty-five degrees, ending up at a slight angle across his head.

Sachs' wife, Annelle glared angrily at the leering Cockney businessman. She also glared jealously at Miss Knight, who was dressed in a similar business suit, short skirt and heels ensemble as herself, but was about twenty years younger, then spun on her heel and followed her husband.

In a ludicrous Eastern European accent, Annelle spoke to her husband “Ai know zis is my first visit to zis contry, but zey are so strainge. Ai vonder vhy zey are so veird?”

“You'll get used to it – the Brits are naturally eccentric, and if you spend too much time here you end up the same way.” her husband replied laconically. “Like my old buddy Jim D'Loreal. He's in prison at the moment y'know? Started his own business building the D'Loreal sports car, but ended up smuggling Cocaine to keep his business afloat. Sad case. Gone completely mad. Last time I went to visit him he was gibbering, told me that when he gets out he's gonna convert one of his cars into a time machine, go back in time and prevent himself going wrong. Crazy idea.”

In another part of the room, American singer Kitty Parry chatted to a ginger-haired young man. She wore only tiny hot-pants with stars and stripes printed on, and a glittering, gold, tight strapless boob-tube top, which was struggling to hold in her ample breasts. She giggled coquettishly as she spoke in a soft Southern accent “So, y'all really like went to the war in Iraqistan, then huh? Y'all must be like, so brave.”

The Englishman's gaze was fixed firmly on her breasts. His eyes did not lift as he spoke, his upper-class accent as sharp as a diamond cutter. “Oh yah, one certainly did serve one's time out there with the jolly old troops, what? Never showed an ounce of fear though. One used to fly one's jolly whirly-copter around, machine-gunning those damned Tallybun fellows just like in a video game. They used to try to disguise themselves by standing out in open fields, tending flocks of sheep but they couldn't fool one, one used to let 'em have it just the same!”

“Golly,” simpered Parry “it must be like, so cool being an English Prince and all, y'highness.”

“Oh yah.” retorted Prince Barry “By the way, I say, jolly splendid wheeze of you to come in a fancy dress costume, you look just like Wonder Woman!”

“Fancy dress costume?” replied Parry, confused “No, I like, always dress like this.”

“Ah, one sees.” said the Prince, deflated. “Well, anyway, perhaps we could go somewhere private after this, and one will show you one's Royal Sword?” he winked.

At that point a gong rang, summoning them all to the adjacent Terracotta Dining Room, where they were all to be seated around a large round table.

The three shadowy figures in Muslim garb watched intently as the various celebrities and politicians, the great and the good, obediently filed into the Dining Room. They saw diplomats and royalty, singers and actors, so many famous faces.

There was Jeremy Clarkshead, presenter of hit TV motoring show Top Notch, Bill Shitner and Clark Westwood, veteran actors, Darren Peckham, soccer player, EP Jims, writer of the mysteriously successful erotic best-seller '50 Shades Of Grapes', a bizarre tale of S&M set amongst England's wine-growing fraternity, which had originally started life as a fan-fiction version of Radio 4's 'The Archers', and a smiling short man with frizzy, permed hair wearing candy-striped Dolfin shorts and a pink vest festooned with Swarovski crystals, who jogged and danced on the spot as he queued to enter the dining room.

Shitner flipped open his clam-shell cellphone and muttered quietly into it.

As the diners began to settle in their seats, Annelle Sachs quietly whispered into her husband's ear, excusing herself. She tottered on her heels towards the door which was marked WC but at the last moment, glancing over her shoulder to ensure no-one was watching her, she slipped instead through the door to the kitchen.

Around the table the guests began to inspect the menus set out on the tables before them. Ralph Sachs regarded his with a mixture of suspicion and contempt. “What the hell is this? Seven courses, and I don't recognise any of them!” he roared.

“Would you like me to explain them to you?” uttered the sweet tones of Tamara Knight's voice.

Sachs whipped his head to the right, towards the sound of the voice. His toupee, caught unexpected, righted itself upon his pate. He smiled as he saw that the attractive Ms Knight was seated to his right.

“Okay,” he said. “What the hell is this – Cock-a-Leekie Soup? Is it made of cock? And Lavabread? You make bread out of lava?” he guffawed loudly.

Tamara smiled “No, silly, Cock-a-Leekie is made from chicken, barley and leeks, topped with prunes. It originates in Scotland. Laverbread – with an 'r' – is a Welsh dish made from seaweed.”

“Not bread, then?” asked Sachs, confused.

“No. Not bread.” said Tamara.

Not wishing to appear stupid in front of the attractive young woman, Sachs perused the rest of the menu in silence.

''Toad In The Hole'? What the fuck – they eat toads here?' he thought to himself. His eyes scanned the rest of the menu. 'Faggots in gravy! Holy crap! I knew these Brits were a bit backward, a bit stuck in the past, but eating homosexuals? Jeez, that's harsh!' His eyes bulging, he leaned across the table, to where the frizzy-haired man with the crystal-encrusted top sat quietly smiling, humming a gay little tune to himself and doing small aerobic actions with his hands.

“Simmonds!” he hissed, in a harsh whisper. “Simmonds – a word of warning! I'd keep quiet if I was you. You don't wanna know what they do to people like you in this country!”

Sachs looked further down the menu. 'Spotted Dick! With custard! Sheesh! I think I'll avoid eating this shit and go for a MacKing Burger afterwards. Not even the Brits could fuck up a good fast-food burger … could they?'

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Annelle Sachs quietly observed the scene, as chef Gordon Bastard gave professional advice to his brigade of trained cooks.


“Yes!” was the squeaked response.

“YES, WHAT?” yelled Bastard.

“Yes, Chef!” replied the hapless caterer.


“Fucking Yes, Chef?” came the warbled, nervous answer.


“Chef Bastard, I must … speak vit you at vonce.” she said, solemnly and quietly. “Eet is emportant! Somevhere preevat, perhaps?”

Gordon's already furrowed brow managed to crinkle even more. Puzzled, he indicated a doorway which led through to a walk-in food storage room. Annelle stepped through, followed by Bastard, who closed and locked the door behind him.

“What the fuck is all this about, lady – and be quick, I've got a fucking meal to send out soon, food in, cooked, sent out, done.” he said.

“I hef to say zis to you...” said Annelle, falling to her knees, her short skirt riding up, displaying the lacy tops of her black stockings, offsetting the creamy white milkiness of the soft smooth skin of her thighs. “I haf alvays vanted you, you are so strong, so mastervul, so manly, and now zat I am here I must haf you, here und now!”

She grabbed his trousers, tugging them down. The elasticated waistband easily allowing her to pull them to his knees. His cock swung free, and she plunged her mouth over it and began to rock her head back and forth, her lipstick leaving a bright red tide-mark around the base of his stiffening member.

“Here, what the fuck do you think you're do....ooohming” Bastard began, his words fading as he looked down to see that Annelle had loosened her blouse, and that her ample cleavage was now visible, the pale white flesh of her heaving bosom complimenting the sight of her spreading thighs. As she sucked and slurped greedily at his rampant rod he closed his eyes, allowing himself to succumb to the pleasurable sensations coursing through his body.

Suddenly she broke away and, twisting around, she pulled her skirt up around her waist. She bent forward across a convenient work-table, spreading her legs and pulling the black lace of her panties to one side, exposing her glistening slit. “Fuck me, fuck me now, Chef!” she urged, with a breathless sexuality, “Thrust your bratwurst of ecstasy deep into my schnitzel of delight!”

“Fuck me,” muttered Bastard “That cunt is so wet it looks like a fucking freshly gutted mackerel!”

He stepped forward and penetrated her, his manly meat cleaver slicing between the soft folds of her warm feminine flesh. They began to grind together, she gyrating her hips back towards him, whilst he grasped her love handles, pounding into her with aplomb. They humped together into a rodeo of passion, each thrust bringing closer the orgasm they both sought in their brutal, animal love-making. Their breaths now becoming shorter Annelle began to moan with pleasure. Bastard too began to grunt, as his pleasure rose, his testicles bulging with pent-up semen, seeking to release their load.

Finally, Annelle shrieked “I come, I come, my inner goddess squirts the juices of blessed love!”

As her paraurethral ducts secreted liquid, which passed out through her urethra with a force of 2.74 pounds per square inch, his own ejaculation began, his sex funnel blasting its creamy fondant icing load into the cavern of her waiting moist donut.

Panting, he withdrew from her. She stood up straight and, after re-adjusting her clothes, lent forward, gave him a peck on the cheek and walked out, casting a cheery “Zank you!” over her shoulder as she did so.

She slipped back into the dining room unnoticed, calmly taking her seat at the table once more. She noted with displeasure that her new rival, Tamara Knight, was sat on the other side of her husband.

Meanwhile, Dave Camshaft looked around the table. He was annoyed to see one chair empty. “Legg!” he cried out.

“Yes, Dave?” responded his deputy, eagerly trotting around to his master's side.

“Who's supposed to be sitting there?” he said, pointing towards the vacant seat.

With alarm, Legg said “Oh, that's supposed to be Wankl Pose, of the rock group Guns And Posers, Dave.”

“Huh!” snorted the nearby Jeremy Clarkshead, rudely interrupting “He's always bloody late. In fact, he's the latest rock star .... in the world! He was hours late when he was doing our 'Star In A Crap Car' feature for Top Notch.”

“I don't remember seeing him on your show?” queried Camshaft.

“No, he was so late it had got dark and the camera crew had … gone home! So he didn't appear!”

Camshaft looked at the TV presenter. “Why do you put those long pauses in your sentences, Jezza?” he asked.

“I have absolutely … no idea!” was the reply.

“Anyway, Legg, go get someone to replace him, find an MP or someone.” said the Prime Minister.

“Yes Dave, sorry Dave!” piped Legg, disappearing off.

Outside the dining room, the three strange figures huddled together. #1 spoke, “Now is our time to strike! You know what you each have to do. Allah will reward us! Do what we have planned, my young friends!”

The two younger men walked away in opposite directions, #1 towards the kitchen, whilst #2 slipped quietly back downstairs towards the front door. As he tip-toed quietly down the stairwell, he saw two suited men beginning to ascend. Ducking unseen into an alcove he allowed the men to pass. He overheard one chuckle and say “Are you really sure I should be here, Legg? I don't think Dave will appreciate it?”

The simpering Rick Legg answered “No, no, Dave told me to get an MP or something – you'll do!”

The two men passed by, and #2 continued down to the inside of the front door, whereupon he quickly removed several packages of plastic explosives from his rucksack, taping them to the inside of the door, and connecting them to a cell-phone. He then drew a Glock pistol from the bag, and scrambled back up the stairs.

As he had done so, Constable Paynting had emerged from a side door in the vestibule, zipping up his fly after a surreptitious visit to the men's room. He had ducked behind a tall-backed chair, and slowly followed the unknowing #2 up the staircase.

Meanwhile, upstairs, #1 had walked into the kitchen. From his ruck-sack he had pulled an AK-47 and fired a volley of shots into the ceiling. The hustle and bustle of the busy kitchen came to an immediate halt, as the chefs froze, staring at the man with the gun.


#1 spun around, and aimed a burst of gunfire above Bastard's head, blowing his hat off. Bastard froze, only managing a squeaky “Fucking whoops!” in a high-pitched voice.

As all this occurred, Rick Legg had sat the newcomer in the empty seat at the dining room table. Dave Camshaft had broken away from his conversation with Clarkshead and Keneally, his face a rictus of amazement and disgust.

“What on earth is HE doing here, Legg?” he said.

Legg stammered his reply “B-b-b-but you told me to get an MP or something, Dave!”

Camshaft's face was now enraged “I meant one of OURS, you idiot! Not Nigel Forage, leader of the UKXIP, the United Kingdom Xenophobic Independence Party!” He reached across the table and cuffed Legg around the ear once more.

“Ouch! Yes, Dave, sorry Dave!” squealed Legg.

Forage guffawed “Don't worry, Dave! I can behave myself – at least these Yanks are almost British – its not like they're from Bongo-Bongo land or anything is it?” He was silenced by the sound of the sharp report of gunfire from the neighbouring kitchen. Everyone around the table froze, and flinched once again at the sound of the second burst of bullets unleashed next door. In that moment, terrorist #1 stepped into the room, waving an Uzi 9 millimetre machine pistol. He too fired a burst of shots into the ceiling (this being very much the done thing in such situations).

The kitchen door opened, and the chefs filed into the room with their hands on their heads, followed by #1, his AK-47 levelled at their backs. #2 entered from the other side, brandishing the Glock. All present muttered to each other, in whispers of panic and desperation.

#1 spoke in a loud voice “SILENCE, INFIDELS! YOU ARE NOW PRISONERS OF THE PEOPLE'S FRONT OF JIHAD!” at that, he whipped off his thawb, exposing a brown military tunic. His two companions did the same, and they now stood in their uniforms and headgear.

Ivan Goodwood spoke first “Ha ha ha, nice one! Are they a Yasser Arafat tribute act? A male version of the Andrews Sisters or something? Good one, Legg, we can always rely on your for some entertainment!”

Terrorist #1 glared at him, whilst Rick Legg shook his head, denying all involvement in the current twist of storyline.

#2 muttered “Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh, I thought we were the Jihad People's Front?”

Through clenched teeth #1 hissed “No, People's Front Of Jihad. Jihad People's Front? Cawk! Splitters!”

#3 whispered “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, I thought we were The Popular Front Of Jihad?”

“FOOL! Popular Front? Splitters!” hissed #1, now beginning to salivate slightly after so much hissing. He continued, towards the hostages “We will hold you captive until our demands are met, infidels!”

At this, the previously unnoticed Constable Paynting stormed into the room. “STOP!” he cried “You are under arrest! If you do not comply, I warn you that I am armed, and will draw my weapon if necessary!”

The three terrorists looked at him in alarm, but did not react. Paynting took a deep breath and reached inside his jacket. With a flourish he pulled forth a foot-long wooden truncheon. “Ah-ha!” he said confidently.

The three terrorists stared at the truncheon, then at their own firearms, then back at the police officer. Recognition that his billy-club was useless against pistols, machine-guns and rifles began to dawn on him. “Ah... er .. um .. “ he muttered “I guess I'll join the prisoners, shall I?”

The three terrorists smiled and nodded.

Terrorist #1 continued to issue orders to the hostages “We will release all you chefs – you are of no use to us. You will leave by the fire exit at the rear. When you get outside tell the infidel security services that they will comply with our demands or we will kill the hostages. All the entrances are booby-trapped...”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, he said ... booby!” muttered #3

#1 continued, after flashing an angry glance at #3, “All the entrances are rigged with explosives, and we will detonate it if there is any attempt to enter the building.”

#3 began to usher the chefs through the fire exit. As he did so, Chef Bastard crouched amongst them, attempting to sneak out too. “NOT YOU!” screamed #1, firing another volley of shots above the chef's head, sending pieces of plaster and dust cascading down over the hapless crouching man, who turned around and slowly crept back to rejoin the rest of the celebrity hostages. After the freed chefs had descended the fire escape outside #3 closed the door and attached plastic explosives to it, as #2 had done to the front door. #1 herded the hostages into the kitchen, in order to make it easier to keep an eye on them.

#1 remained in the dining room. From his back-pack he pulled out a small loud-hailer and strode across to the window. Hiding from view behind a curtain he peered out into Downing Street below. Despite the unfeasibly short period of time from releasing the unimportant hostages, policemen were scattering around. Police cars, their blue lights flashing, were parked across the street in both directions, marksmen in riot gear pointing rifles towards the windows of Number Ten.

At one end of the street fire trucks were parked, their crews all were either stripped to the waist or with their jackets undone, exposing their taut torsos, their finely-honed six-packs and their luxuriant tanned skin. They adopted manly poses, leaning and posturing around their gleaming machines, in the manner of fire-fighters across the globe. No-one knows why firemen do this, but it drives the women wild.

At the end of Downing Street, in the thoroughfare of Whitehall, a thin blue line of policemen stood, their arms linked, holding back a surging throng of young people, mostly hysterically screaming girls and young homosexual men. Behind the line a policeman yelled into his walkie-talkie “SARGE! We need more men down here, there's thousands of them! Loads of teenage tarts and poofs! Its all to do with that Jason Beeper – he's tweeted that he's a hostage and now all his Beleepers are on their way here – they reckon there's fifteen million of 'em!”

Inside Number Ten, still hiding behind the curtain, #1 used his loud-hailer to yell into the street “WE HAVE THE HOSTAGES! WE WILL KILL THEM UNLESS OUR DEMANDS ARE MET! WE WILL ISSUE OUR DEMANDS SOON!”

Behind him, a phone began to ring. Terrorist #3 picked it up. A voice said “Hello, I am Detective Inspector Michael Sheke of the Metropolitan Police Force, we are prepared to negotiate. What are your demands?”

#3 began to chuckle, as was his wont “Uhh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh! You mean we can demand anything? Hey, Beavi-uhh, number two, we can demand anything! Cool!”

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh!” chortled #2 “Hey, lets demand pizza!”

“Yeah, pizza, pizza with extra pepperoni!” grunted #3

“But no anchovies! Huh-uh, huh-uh!”

“And beer! Uh-huh, uh-huh!”

“Extra pepperoni! Huh-uh, huh-uh!”

Suddenly noticing the two younger men on the phone, #1 screamed through his loud-hailer “SILENCE! Let me talk to the infidels!” striding over to the telephone he continued to use the megaphone “INFIDELS!”

At the other end of the phone, Inspector Sheke recoiled as the feedback from the speaker whined in his ear. Holding the phone at arm's length he listened as #1 made demands for the release of political prisoners world-wide, withdrawal of Western troops from Afghanistan and Iraq and a nice dish of falafels with an eggplant fattoush and tabbouleh.

Ending the call, Inspector Sheke spoke to his deputy “We need to call a meeting. Have everyone at my office in New Scotland Yard in half an hour.”

Within thirty minutes an assortment of police officers, anti-terrorism experts and army officers had assembled at the headquarters of London's police forces. That afternoon's edition of 'The Fulham & Hammersmith Chronicle' ran the headline 'Mike Sheke brings all the boys to the Yard'.

At the meeting, Brigadier-General Sir John St-John Johnson, commander of the SAS, assumed overall charge. His plan, he revealed, was to surround Number Ten with a cordon of crack Commando soldiers to prevent anyone going in or out, then to storm the building at nightfall with an elite team of SAS troops.

“What, a team of troops with no underwear on?” asked Inspector Sheke.

“No, you idiot, Marine Commandos!” was St-John Johnson's pained reply.

Meanwhile, back inside Number Ten, it had been put to the terrorists that as a gesture of goodwill they should release one hostage in return for the food that was to be sent in, in order that the condition of the remaining hostages could be assessed and assured. #1 spoke to the hostages, penned in inside the kitchen “Silence! We are to release one of you. Who should it be?”

The English hostages leapt to their feet, each one pleading that it should be they who was to be set free.

Prince Barry bleated “It should be one! One is too young to die! One is the spare in case one's brother snuffs it – One's an important chap, don't you know?”

#1 snorted “Silence! I should kill you – you kill many good fellows by 'bravely' machine-gunning them from your helicopter. But...” he paused, a lecherous smile on his face “... your mother, she have several good Muslim cocks before infidel Special Services bump her off – Paki doctor, rich shop-keeper's son, she have many brown inches. For that, I spare you!”

“Me! Me!” wailed Nigel Forage “I promise I'll say only nice things about you rag-headed goat-herders in future! I'll be a changed man!”

“No, it should of course be …...... me!” Intoned Clarkshead.

“Me!” pleaded Tamara Knight “My Aunt Tiffany will be so worried about me!”

“Aunty Fanny?” giggled #1.

#2 and #3 chortled. “Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh – she said 'fanny' huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh!”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh!”

No, Aunt Tiffany!” corrected Tamara, crossly.

“Does this mean we're not getting any dinner?” asked a handsome but bewildered Darren Peckham.

Camshaft, Legg and the huffing Goodwood all also made their pleas. Meanwhile the Americans, as one, all pointed at the man with the crystal-encrusted sweater, who was quietly jogging on the spot, smiling and still humming a little tune to himself.

“HIM, HIM!” cried the Trans-Atlantic visitors.

“Very altruistic!” mused #1, his vocabulary suddenly becoming expanded. “You imperialist infidel dogs surprise me.”

“Nothing altruistic about it!” answered Ambassador Keneally “We don't want to be cooped up in here with him – give him another half-hour and he'll have us all sweatin' to the oldies!”

#1 spoke again “Very well, we will exchange this old man for our falafels and … pizza.” he hissed the final word of the sentence, adding a muttered “Imperialist Western junk food, pah! It is as bad as your infidel movies!”

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh, like what movies, dude?” enquired #2

The answer was sharp “Like your foolish 'Flintstones' – my cousins in Dubai do not like it. However, my cousins in Abu Dhabi do!”

All three terrorists peeped out from behind the curtains into the street as the man in shorts and sparkly jumper jogged his way to the police cordon, passing a bulkily-dressed man carrying several boxes of food. As the man neared the door of Number Ten, terrorist #1 exclaimed with alarm “No! I don't believe it – I recognise that man!”

“Uhhh, like who is he, dude?” said #3

Taking a sharp intake of breath, #1 said “He's The Popular Front Of Jihad!”

They watched amazed as the man reached the steps of Number Ten and, pulling a cord from inside his clothing, exploded. Cous-cous, chick peas, pomegranate seeds, cheese, pepperoni and body parts flew in all directions.

Realising that their dinner had been destroyed, all three terrorists yelled at the remains of The Popular Front Of Jihad as it flew past (and partly onto) the window “SPLITTER!”

The blast-proof door of Number Ten remained undamaged.

Whilst this took place, the hostages had begun to talk amongst themselves. Veteran actor Bill Shitner sidled over to Clark Westwood “Psst! Westwood!” he hissed “When they come back in, I'll take out the two little guys with my phaser, you shoot the big guy with your .44 Magnum!”

Westwood sighed “You haven't got a phaser, Bill.”

“No phaser?” said Shitner, his hand flying to his hip “Damn! This planet must have an anti-weaponry shield around it, it must have dematerialised my phaser when I beamed down. Okay, I'll take the big guy out with a punch, you shoot the other two!”

In the sort of voice normally used when talking to small children Westwood said “I haven't got a .44, Bill. It's not real.”

Shitner flipped open his cellphone once more “Berk to Enterprise, this is Captain Berk here – there's evidence of some sort of brainwashing or hypnosis going on at the aliens' summit meeting. Stand by for further information.” He shut the phone.

Around the room, others were talking. The hostages, fearing for their lives, had begun to say out loud things that had been cooped up within them for years. They began to discuss things they had never revealed to a living soul before, in order that they might clear their consciousnesses if they should die.

Kitty Parry spoke first “Ah have something to say.” she said, in her innocent Southern accent “Do y'all remember mah first hit?”

Ivan Goodwood interjected “Oooh yes, that one about kissing a girl and liking it? Splendid tune – I loved the idea of you snogging another bird, I wank... er listened to that many a time!”

Parry fluttered her eyelashes and continued “Well, it wasn't that when ah first wrote it, the record company made mah change the words. The original was 'Ah Kissed A Goat And Ah Liked It, and it was a true story! When ah was a teenager ah once had it with a goat, just to see what it was like, ah went into a field, took off all mah clothes and got down on all fours in front of this goat, and he climbed up on meh, and 'did it' if y'all know what ah mean?” she blushed.

Everyone's jaw dropped, no-one knew what to say. Finally, Mrs Keneally broke the silence “That must've been awful!” she exclaimed.

“Oh yeah.” Parry replied “When ah went to kiss him goodnight, his breath smelt terrible.”

“No, no, I mean it must've been painful, were you hurt?” was Mrs Keneally's reply.

“Oh yeah, really hurt.” said Parry “When ah went back there the next day he didn't even recognise me, acted like he'd never seen me before. The bastard!”

Tamara Knight spoke next “I'm so envious of you, Kitty.” her looked with near adoration towards the American singer “You're so sexually liberated. I've never had an orgasm! I've tried it with several different men, but it didn't happen.” She looked down sadly.

“Y'all should try it with a woman!” said Parry brightly.

Goodwood could contain himself no longer “What, you mean you really do lez it up sometimes?”

Parry blinked her reply “Why sure – ah am from the Deep South, ah have been having sex with all mah brothers and sisters. Since the age of thirteen!”

Goodwood began to dribble at the corners of his mouth.

Tamara stood up “Would you try to give me an orgasm, just once, in case we die?” she asked.

Parry said “Why, sure honey, if only there was a place we could go...”

Gordon Bastard coughed and motioned towards the door of the walk-in food storage room where he and Annelle had enjoyed such rampant sex just a short time earlier.

Blushing, Tamara stood up as Kitty took her hand and led her towards the store-room. Ivan Goodwood leapt to his feet with surprising agility for one of his bulk, and attempted to follow the two women through the door.

Surprised, Kitty said “Just what do y'all think you're doing?”

“I wanna watch!” said Goodwood, beginning to salivate at the voyeuristic possibilities unfolding before him.

Confused, Kitty shrugged her bare shoulders and, in one deft movement removed an expensive-looking Cartier timepiece from her wrist and dropped it into Goodwood's hand. She slammed the door shut in Goodwood's face and dropped the latch.

An exasperated Goodwood stuttered and flustered “B-b-b-but, but, er … ah … I didn't mean I want a watch....” he shook his head, then pressed his ear against the door to listen. Due to the thickness of the insulated door he was unable to hear the two women commence their love-making, and sadly returned to where the rest of the hostages were sitting.

Alun Honeycomb was convulsed with laughter “Looks like you missed out there, Ivan! Nice Cartier, though. When I used to own Yiddenham Hotspurs Football Club,” he pointed towards the good-looking but permanently bemused footballer Darren Peckham “we used to call him 'Cartier'”

“Why was that?” asked Goodwood, puzzled.

“Because he comes in a Posh box!” spluttered Honeycomb, referring to Peckham's wife Posh Tart, from the girl group Pop-Tarts.

Mrs Keneally spoke up “Mr Bastard, I must say I admire you very much. I am particularly impressed by the way you have succeeded despite your Tourette's, in view of the demonstration outside earlier.”


Meanwhile, on the other side of the store-room door, Kitty and Tamara had removed their clothing (it hadn't taken Kitty long), and Tamara had laid full length along the table. Kitty was gently stroking her hands along the smooth soft skin of Tamara's undulating body. Up and down, from the earlobes and nape of the neck, across pale-skinned shoulders, soft, yielding breasts, taut stomach and on, sliding quickly over the pubis before stroking thighs, calves and finally feet.

Kitty gently sucked on Tamara's big toes, first left then right. The prostrate woman sighed gently, enjoying the well-practised hands teasing her body. Kitty's lips and tongue began a slow journey up her easily parting legs, finally arriving at their destination – the terminus of Tamara's sex, the soft pink lips of her womanhood parting damply as Kitty's tongue and fingers probed them, a thumb circling the starfish of her anus below.

Kitty laid into her with great aplomb and much gusto, becoming a slurping, licking, gulping, fingering dervish of passion. Tamara moaned gently, enjoying the feelings, but her breathing held steady, sweat did not bead upon her goose-bumped skin, her cheeks did not flush red with pleasure, disordered chaotic sensations did not course like fire through her body, nor did any of the other clichés associated with female orgasm in erotic fiction occur.

Eventually a perspiring, panting Kitty pulled away from the subject of her torrid barrage of love-making.

“Jesus Christ!” she spluttered, her lips dripping with sparkling love-juice “I've tried everything I know, and still no good?”

An embarrassed Tamara shook her head. Silently the disappointed pair dressed once more (that didn't take Kitty long, either) and rejoined the others.

Expectantly, Ivan Goodwood boomed out “So? What happened?”

Both women shook their heads.

Spluttering with laughter once more, Alun Honeycomb blurted out “I guess that just goes to prove the old adage …..... 'Tamara never comes!'”

Miss Knight glared at him “Shut up, Honeycomb, you're nothing but a lying, cheating, old barrow-boy, my Aunt Tiffany told me so, she remembers you when you were young!”

Still laughing, Honeycomb said “Aunty Fanny?”

“AUNT TIFFANY” said Tamara angrily.

The disappointed (and hungry) terrorists rejoined the hostages.

“SILENCE” yelled #1. Everyone rolled their eyes, beginning to get bored with him shouting that all the time. He continued, pointing at Chef Bastard “YOU! You will cook us something to eat. Do you have anything Halal?”

Bastard shook his head “Sorry, we only have organic meats here, nothing that has been tortured to death.”

#1 raised his eyebrows threateningly, but before he could speak Alun Honeycomb interrupted.

“Betcha got some Kosher stuff though, eh, Bastard?” he chortled.

Bastard shook his head once more “Sorry, we only have organic meats here, nothing that has been tortured to death.”

“SILENCE!” screamed you-know-who again “YOU ARE YIDDISH DEVIL?” he pointed his weapon at Honeycomb “I KILL YOU!”

Honeycomb laughed “With a good Jewish gun? Way to go I suppose!”

#1 glared at him, then stared suspiciously at his firearm. “This.... is Jewish?” he said uncertainly.

Roaring with laughter Honeycomb said “Of course! The Uzi nine-millimetre was developed for the IDF by Major Uziel Gal in 1950!”

“But, but, but, but …. Arnie … in that film...'I'll be back'...” he shook his head, becoming angrier “SILENCE! I KILL YOU ALL!” he levelled the weapon.

Alarmed, #3 spoke quickly “Uhhhh, dude, if you kill 'em all...” at this point #2 briefly nodded his head rapidly, his hands imitating the playing of an invisible guitar “... we won't have any hostages left, and the infidel dudes will bust in here and kill us!”

“Allah will reward us, my friend – seventy-two virgins await us!” snapped #1 “But … you do have a point. Perhaps we don't need to go to Allah just yet.” he added hastily. To the hostages he yelled “I KILL YOU ALL … LATER!” He stomped back into the dining room.

Relieved, the hostages began to chatter amongst themselves again. Several of them quietly praised the two younger terrorists, who had saved their lives – at least for now. A few of them began to make peculiar noises with their mouths, weird, unworldly, disjointed sounds.

“Oh my god!” exclaimed Ivan Goodwood “They're beginning to show signs of Stockhausen Syndrome!”

“Don't you mean Stockholm Syndrome?” interjected Dave Camshaft.

“No, Stockhausen.” continued Ivan “They make all sorts of strange electronic type sounds, that people pretend to appreciate but really no-one likes or understands them, its all some arty-farty bollocks!”

Suddenly, led by Kitty Parry, female voices burst into song, as Mrs Keneally, Tamara and Annelle joined in a sweet choral tune:

“Isn't it rich?
Are we a pair?
Me here at last on the ground,
You in mid-air...”

“Oh fucking hell, its getting worse!” Goodwood blurted out.

“What now?” asked a confused Camshaft.

“Sondheim Syndrome” said Goodwood.

At this point, Bill Shitner spoke up “Don't worry folks, just when it seems we're doomed, Snotty will find a way to reverse the polarity on the dilithium crystals and send an inverse tachyon beam through the forward antenna array to get a lock on our signal, and just in time we'll all be beamed out of here, leaving the bad guys empty-handed. And I'll get to shag the green woman.”

Everyone sighed, shaking their heads. Westwood whispered to Shitner once more “Its not real, Bill.”

“Perhaps we should all have a massive orgy?” said Kitty brightly (and rather hopefully) “If we're all gonna die we could at least go out with a bang!”said

“Rather!” said Prince Barry, brightly “If we're going to be cooped up in here, then we could all get drunk and take our clothes orf! Its jolly good fun!” suddenly realising what he had said, he blushed and, his voice falling to a whisper, continued “Well, it worked for me in Vegas, anyway!”

For some reason, all eyes in the room drifted to EP Jims, best-selling (for some unfathomable reason) author of poorly constructed erotic pseudo-literature. She smiled “That would be a great way to add more sex, if this was a story,” she said, pausing for a moment “but it would take a lot of descriptions. If you were working to meet a deadline you'd never have time to put such a scene in, even if that was what you had intended to do right from the start.”

As the irony set in, each character looked around the room. A silence fell, as the last rays of the afternoon sun shone through the window.

Suddenly, there was a great noise and clamour. Glass shattered as smoke grenades and thunderflashes exploded. Men were heard shouting in loud, harsh voices. The three terrorists scurried amongst the hostages, throwing off their uniforms as two balaclava wearing soldiers of the Special Air Service burst into the room brandishing firearms.


A terrified #2 muttered “Shit, Butthead, they know our names!”

“AH-HA!” yelled one soldier “YOU'RE BEAVIS?” he pointed his gun towards the frightened young man.

“No, I'm Beavis!” squealed Kitty.

“No, I'm Beavis!” echoed Tamara.

“No, I'M Beavis!” exclaimed Annelle.

“I'm Darren?” said the perpetually perplexed Peckham.

“Huh.” tutted one of the soldiers. “I know what to do....has someone in here been....” he paused, taking a deep breath “BREAKING THE LAW?”

Involuntarily, both #2 and #3 leapt to their feet, nodding their heads wildly, their hands thrashing about in mid-air as if playing guitars. They chorused a mantra of “BREAKIN' THE LAW, BREAKIN' THE LAW - BREAKIN' THE LAW, BREAKIN' THE LAW – BREAKIN' THE..”

Their voices were drowned out as simultaneous blasts of gunfire from the two soldiers cut them down.

Meanwhile, terrorist #1 had slipped unnoticed out onto the fire escape. Quietly he tip-toed down the cast-iron steps, intending to make his cowardly escape. He reached the bottom and began to creep silently away.

Suddenly, from the shadows stepped another soldier, his green beret and the dagger emblem on his shoulder identifying him as a member of the British Army's 29 Commando Regiment. He pointed his rifle at the terrorist.

Their eyes met for a brief moment – hunter and hunted, predator and prey, experienced soldier and frightened amateur. Time seemed to stand still for an eternity, until the terrorist made a sudden attempt to raise his weapon.

A blast from the commando's L1A1 rifle took him down.

As he regarded the now-dead terrorist, the soldier allowed himself a wry smile at a job well done. He raised the barrel of his weapon to the vertical and with a single breath theatrically blew away the wisp of smoke that coiled from it.

He uttered but a single word, his Birmingham accent ringing clear in the early evening air.


Shouldering his weapon, the old soldier turned and walked slowly into the sunset.

<<<<<<<<<< finis>>>>>>>>>>

Epilogue (pt1):

As the relived hostages left the building, Tamara Knight was greeted by her Aunt, who explained to her that her name was, in fact, Fanny, but she'd never had the heart to correct her social-climbing niece.

Ralph Sachs, wandered quietly into the nearest branch of MacKing, only to discover that, having been waited twenty minutes to receive a tepid and tasteless burger, the Brits can indeed fuck up fast food. Beyond all recognition.

Darren Peckham, still confused, wandered about, complaining that he hadn't had the dinner he'd been promised.

Kitty, Annelle, Tamara and Mrs Keneally surreptitiously disappeared off to an expensive hotel, where they booked themselves into the biggest suite there and participated in an athletic lesbian orgy which lasted most of the night. Tamara still didn't have an orgasm.

Chef Bastard swore a bit.

The rest of them prepared to write books based on their experiences, and signed multi-million dollar deals with 'Hello', 'Life' and 'Playboy' magazines.

They all lived happily ever after.

Epilogue (pt 2):

Meanwhile, in a space and time beyond recognition, two young men awoke in a room filled with billowing clouds of fragrant steam. They were naked, face-down and bound to matching chez-longues by soft scarves of silk.

They heard the distant, indistinguishable chatter of young women and, as the steam began to clear they could espy a gaggle of attractive young women, wearing the seven veils of harem women, peering from behind lace drapes hanging across an arched doorway into another room.

The two men began to chortle.

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh!”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh! Hey! D'ya reckon those are the virgins we were promised?” said one.

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, yeah! But why are we tied here, the babes won't be able to reach our weiners if we're face down!”

Suddenly, they heard a familiar shriek behind them, followed by a scream of “Silence!”

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, Achmed, dude! You made it too!” exclaimed one of the bound men “Our babes are in the next room, dude, huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh!”

Then a huge voice boomed out, almost deafening in its volume and intensity. “ACHMED! BEYOND ARE SEVENTY VIRGINS, AS PROMISED!”

The voice of Allah continued “BUT FIRST, YOU MUST DEAL WITH THESE TWO!”

“Aggh! No!” squealed Achmed.

“HUH?” said the two younger men.

Achmed began to scream, an agonised, mournful howl. As the two younger men realised their sodomistic fate, they too began to scream – all three chorusing a wail that echoed into eternity.....

<<<<<<<<<<That's all, folks!>>>>>>>>>>

Authors Note:

The writing of this story was begun in early September 2013. Towards the end of that month a real-life terrorist siege occurred in Nairobi, Kenya, which left 70 people dead. Work on this story was abandoned in the light of those terrible events but, after some soul-searching, writing re-commenced some weeks later.

A decision was reached that, for the ordinary man and woman on the street, the best way we can stand up to terrorism is to carry on as normal, to show those who would use the bomb and the bullet that we are not afraid. There are many precedences to show how humour has been used to defy terror in the past.

When Britain faced its darkest hour in 1940, with the forces of a belligerent army poised to invade, and death raining out of the sky by night and by day, the people of Britain did not shirk. Rather, they sang bawdy songs speculating on the genitalia of the government of their enemies, they put up humorous posters and they told jokes.

In the United States of America, in the wake of the awful atrocities of September 11 2001, the likes of Jeff Dunham (who’s work has been so blatantly plagiarised here) also satirised those who would use terror as a weapon. An acknowledgement also to the work of Mike Judge, which has been plagiarised here also.

By mocking terrorism we defy it, and diminish it. We shall not be cowed by those who would attack and kill innocents.

So there! Nah-nah nah-nah-nah!