 
Scrapbook of a Wasted Life

(A Sort of Autobiography)

Mike Knowles

Copyright 2011 by Mike Knowles

Smashwords Edition

Disclaimer!

Although this book is intended to be an autobiography of sorts, please bear in mind that I'm using the term in its loosest sense. Indeed, it's about as loose as you can get without being a downright lie. If you want an analogy, it's about as loose as a size 50 pair of trousers on a man with a 10-inch waist.
Introduction

I got the idea for this book from _Box 18: The Unpublished Spike Milligan._ Edited by his agent, Norma Farnes, the book contains Spike's ideas, part written sketches and doodles. Although not as famous or talented as Spike, I've also collected a number of projects I never got around to completing. Mainly because I was far too busy scriptwriting for comics and chasing trolls on the internet. In my heyday I must have been churning out more than a dozen scripts a week. No wonder I look old and haggard.

The Legh Road Bloods!

This photo above was taken back in the late '50's after we'd formed ourselves into a notorious gang. It was supposed to be modelled on the American ones we'd heard about. However, considering the vast differences between New York and a small provincial town in Cheshire, this proved to be harder than we at first thought. But we were young and we were optimistic.

Our notoriety, however, proved to an entirely imaginary one. Even the cannon we constructed out of an old pipe, a banger and a marble was a one-off. (We pretended we were testing a new weapon). Although it blew a hole in an old rug hanging over a washing line, we decided it was too fiddly and dangerous for actual combat. We doubted if our opponents would wait long enough for us to load the thing. Not that we _had_ any opponents. The fact that there were only three of us was also something of a handicap. Worse still, we were reluctant to get into any _real_ trouble. A major problem for anyone setting out to be a juvenile delinquent. So we compromised by _pretending_ to go on the rampage. There was a home for delinquent girls about a mile away and our favourite fantasy involved storming the place in the dead of night and setting them free. Luckily it never happened because they'd probably have eaten us alive! Still, it provided us with material for a bit of private masturbation. Real gang members would probably have wanked in public. And sprayed any passing females with globules of sticky semen shouting, "Take that, Bitch!" But we weren't quite ready for that.

The photo is also interesting in that it recalls a bygone sartorial age. You'll have noticed that the tall streak of piss in the middle is wearing his school uniform. In fact, he probably went to bed in it. (Although, I hasten to add, I never tested that theory). Whereas Tubby and I couldn't wait to get out of ours. Needless to say, the uniform clashed with our gang culture. How the hell can you raise havoc in a school uniform?

_ME:_ Okay, creep. You're on our turf and we're gonna carve our names on your backside with our flick knives!

_MAN:_ Is that before or after you've done your homework?

See what I mean? I'm on the right wearing the nearest thing I could get to Marlon Brando's leather jacket in _The Wild Ones._ I even tried to get my mother to dye it black. And, when she refused, I was momentarily tempted to use shoe polish on it. Now that _would_ have been a bit of juvenile delinquency! I could just imagine the headline in the local paper: _"GANG LEADER GOES BERSERK WITH A TIN OF CHERRY BLOSSOM!_ _Things were definitely looking black for the Legh Road Bloods when..."_ And why the hell did I fasten it up, thus taking on the appearance of a bag of shit tied in the middle with string? The kid on the left was another disappointment. I definitely recall telling him that we were supposed to be a bunch of teenage thugs. And look at him. Okay, give him his due he's part of the way there. The Humphrey Bogart raincoat suggests _Casablanca_ and the violin case is straight out of the Valentine Day Massacre! The problem is his little chubby face. He looks about as threatening as a garden gnome. But we tried to be hard. And I've just remembered what that little boy was doing there. Our violinist was no Menuhin and, when he got into his stride, it sounded like the wailing of a 100 tom cats being castrated without the benefit of an anaesthetic by an inebriated vet using a rusty tin opener. So we were about to torture the kid into handing over his pocket money!
A Dysfunctional Family

When my mother died I discovered a large number of photographs I'd never seen before. I was born in Berlin and my mother came over to England after the war. She'd always tried to pick the winning side, but she'd seriously misjudged Hitler and the Third Reich. All those promises he made. The promise of _lebensraum_ , or living space, particularly annoyed her. Initially Hitler had given her all of Europe to roam around in. This was gradually reduced to a few square miles in the capital city. A city where some very angry Russians seemed intent on shooting everyone. Living room became dying room. So it was either the English or the Americans, (Stalin was too like the late Hitler). To my utter dismay she picked the English because I would have loved to become a cowboy.

In this wedding photo my mother is the bridesmaid on the far right. God only knows who those other people were, but it looks like Hitler was one of the guests! I just hope he didn't bore them with one of his interminable speeches. Not only could that guy talk the back legs off the proverbial donkey, he could amputate the front ones as well!

The photo above always reminds me of the opening scene in Carol Reed's classic movie, _The Third Man._ The one where Holly Martin attends the funeral of an old friend. The film where Orson Wells plays a black marketer bent on making everyone in Austria as fat as he was. Again, I have no idea who those people were or whose funeral they were attending. The only clue is the large cogwheel in the foreground. This indicates that the deceased may have either been a watchmaker or an engineer.

I love this one because it has all the hallmarks of one of those "Who Farted?" photos. And the culprit is clearly arrowed. That expression of mock innocence is a dead giveaway.

The photograph above shows the old German custom of feeding wedding guests with jellies. Let's just hope they like the flavours. Actually, the plates were empty giving the photo an air of austerity. So I used _Photoshop_ to put some food on their table. Did they thank me? Did they hell!

I can only imagine these people own a racehorse and are toasting a big win.

That's me taken some time in the late 60's. The bloody dog just wouldn't stop barking so I strangled him. Only joking...or am I? You decide. (Remember that this is supposed to be a dysfunctional family).

This is the house where I grew up.* The prominent red ring shows where my bedroom was. I lived up in the gods. Indeed, from there I could imagine I was Zeus on Mount Olympus looking down at the proles below. Actually, this bedroom hides a guilty secret. My stepfather bought me an 18th Century ship's telescope that belonged to Admiral Nelson. The guy who'd sold it to him had pointed out the letters "HN" scratched on the brass. He then explained that on long voyages sailors would while away their spare time carving things. An activity known as scrimshaw. And Nelson was no exception. Unfortunately, due to the loss of an arm, he was less artistic than his crew and could only manage to roughly scratch his initials on his telescope.

However, unlike Nelson, I wasn't looking for ships. Come to think of it, neither was he. "What ships? I see no ships." However, I doubt he was doing what I was doing. That's because I was trying to look into bedroom windows and there aren't many of those out at sea! Except on the ship, of course. But then you'd have to go out on a boat to peep into them. Which would be a bit obvious. The only problem was the telescope wasn't very good. In fact, objects looked bigger when seen through the naked eye. When I complained to my stepfather he said it didn't matter because it was the one Nelson used on his blind eye. My mother, on the other hand, told me it was probably because I was using it the wrong way round. Trust a woman to be more practical, eh?

*Google maps, eh? They certainly saved me the trouble of going down there to take a photo of the old place!

A photo of me taken during the early 60's inside the house above. As you can see the hippy movement had yet to make an impression on me. In fact, I look more like a bank manager than a flower child. A rather stern looking bank manager. A bank manager who has just discovered that one of his cashiers has not only run off with his wife but has emptied the safe. The painting over the mantelpiece showed the Mayflower landing in America. My stepfather told us that it had been painted by one of the officers just a few hours after they'd arrived. My mother pointed out that it was in black and white. And very few, if any, oil painters used that combination. But my stepfather had an answer to that. The man who sold it to him explained that the salt in the sea air – along with exposure to sunlight – had washed the colours out.

My old school – or one very much like it. I burned the real one down. I didn't mean to. Bored during a science lesson I decided to see what would happen if I stuck a cork in the Bunsen burner.
A Sad Selection of Half Baked Ideas

(That never took off)

An after reading them, some of you may decide that they didn't take off because they were about as airworthy as a cannonball welded to the Forth Bridge. But I'm strong enough to accept criticism. Just as long as you keep it to yourselves, okay? And we'll start with this one. Having grown up with the _Goon Show_ , I decided to write a pastiche...

A Play for Radio

_GRAMS:_ _CHINESE MUSIC._

_ANNOUNCER:_ _(HEAVY CHINESE ACCENT) Good evening, honulable listnahs. Our malket lesearch show avelage Blitish ladio listnah to be of velly low intelligence. Consequently they listen to any old lubbish. So now the Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion Company is ploud to plesent Tlumpel's Glate Tliumph..._

_FX:_ _LOUD WHOOPEE CUSHION. A LONG WAILING GUSSET FLAPPER._

_ANNOUNCER:_ _This is stoly of folmel Public Schoolboy Detective; Fightah Ace; Long Distance Lolly Dliver; Wally of first Odah...Wing Commander Holatio Landolph Tlumpel. He has been all these things and much more. Today he live in quiet seclusion in plivate nusing home for letied well educated Teddy Boys..._

FADE OUT

_GRAMS:_ _A STRING QUARTET PLAY A ROCK AND ROLL NUMBER AT A SLOW TEMPO._

_NURSE:_ _What's the matter, Wing Commander?_

_TRUMPER:_ _I can't dance in these drainpipe trousers - they're far too heavy!_

_NURSE:_ _You silly old Wing Commander! Why don't you wear those modern plastic ones?_

_TRUMPER:_ _I say! Plastic drainpipes? What a wizard idea. I'll just take these off first._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF TWO LARGE METAL PIPES CLANKING AND ROLLING ON THE FLOOR._

_TRUMPER:_ _There...that's better._

_NURSE:_ _OOOOHHHHH! What hairy knees you have!_

_TRUMPER:_ _Yes, I use only the best garden fertilizer. Percy Thrower was the same, you know. He swore by it. "Bloody hell!" he used to say, "This fertilizer's good for hairy knees."_

_NURSE:_ _I can't resist them. Run away with me, Wing Commander._

_TRUMPER:_ _I'm too old to run._

_NURSE:_ _(HOPEFULLY) Crawl away with me? You look worried. Do I frighten you, Wing Commander?_

_TRUMPER:_ _Frighten me? I don't know the meaning of the word._

_NURSE:_ _Here's a dictionary._

_TRUMPER:_ _Thanks._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF TURNING PAGES._

_TRUMPER:_ _Ah! Here it is...frighten. A traumatic event often causing profuse sweating, chattering gnashers and loose bowels..._

_FX:_ _A LOUD WET FART._

_TRUMPER:_ _Gad!_

_NURSE:_ _What's wrong, Wing Commander?_

_TRUMPER:_ _Quickly Nurse! What do you do with loose bowels?_

_NURSE:_ _Tighten them up with a spanner._

_FX:_ _MORE WET FARTS. SOUND OF A NUT BEING TIGHTENED. THE FARTS DIE AWAY._

_TRUMPER:_ _AHHHHH! Modern medicine is a wonderful thing. This is terrible, Nurse. I was decorated for bravery during the war..._

FADE OUT

_FX:_ _SOUND OF HEAVY AIR RAID._

_OFFICER:_ _Flying Officer Trumper, you're being decorated! We're going to cover you in this nice blue wallpaper with the pink flowers. My wife picked it specially._

_TRUMPER:_ _Thank you, sir!_

FADE OUT

_TRUMPER:_ _Oh, dear! Look out, Nurse! Those wartime memories are bringing on another of my funny turns..._

_NURSE:_ _No! Not a funny turn...!_

_TRUMPER:_ _(FADING AWAY) Too late..._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER ALONG WITH A HELICOPTER STARTING UP. THE BLADES INCREASE IN SPEED AND THEN SLOW DOWN._

_TRUMPER:_ _We apologise for this appalling humour, but the sponsor insists we keep it in. Thank you._

_NURSE:_ _You're welcome. Are you all right, Wing Commander?_

_TRUMPER:_ _By Jove, Nurse! I knew I shouldn't have had those extra laxatives!_

_NURSE_ _: Ahah! It's all coming out now!_

_TRUMPER:_ _You can say that again! OOOOHHHH! I feel dizzy. I'd better lie down and have a rest. And I'll tell you about the time I was at Wallygrange, a small public school not far from Accrington. Whilst I was there I had two chums - Biff Bullwater and Smelly Smith. Together we were the ace public schoolboy detectives of our era._

_NURSE:_ _Your ear?_

_TRUMPER:_ _Era, you silly woman! Era. That's life for you - in one era and out the other. I can still recall clearly our most exciting case. It began one September night back in 1938. We were in my study in the Upper Remove, toasting Muffins by the fire..._

FADE INTO SOUND OF SOMETHING FLESHY BEING ROASTED IN FRONT OF A COAL FIRE.

_SMELLY:_ _Golly, chaps! I don't think Muffins likes to be toasted!_

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) It was Roland Muffins, a toady little creep from the Lower Third._

_BIFF:_ _I say! Look at his legs - they're all black! When did you last wash yourself, Muffins?_

_TRUMPER:_ _Answer him, you snivelling little toad!_

_SMELLY:_ _That's not dirt, Biff! His bally legs are black because we've burnt them to a crisp!_

_MUFFINS:_ _(IN PAIN) You beasts...you utter beasts! How can I play rugger now?_

_SMELLY:_ _With great difficulty. But it's no good complaining to the Headmaster. After all...right now you haven't got a leg to stand on._

_FX:_ _LOUD BOYISH LAUGHTER AND SOUND OF MUFFINS SOBBING._

_TRUMPER:_ _Oh do stop snivelling and cut along to bed._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF SOBBING FADES AS MUFFINS EXITS._

_BIFF:_ _Tomorrow we'll toast Bangers instead._

_TRUMPER:_ _Johnny Bangers from the Upper First?_

_BIFF:_ _No, porky bangers from the butcher._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF LOUD EXPLOSION._

_SMELLY:_ _What was that?_

_TRUMPER:_ _An explosion from the Headmaster's house! And from the sound of it I suspect it was that huge 500-millimetre artillery shell he brought back from the Great War. He's always messing about with it._

_BIFF:_ _No, Old Bean, I fear I must disagree with you there. To the amateur that unexpected nocturnal fulmination may have sounded like a shell, but - to an expert like me who has been trained to identify the nature of explosive substances by distinguishing the subtle variations in a detonation - it sounded more like a gas main._

_SMELLY:_ _(CUTTING IN) Nonsense! If you're an expert then I'm a bally monkey's whatsit! That was the sound made by the bursting of a large weather balloon!_

_TRUMPER:_ _Yes, you could be right, Smelly! Come to think of it they both have a similar tone. Although the former has a slightly sharper resonance, the sound may have been blunted by some atmospheric distortion._

_BIFF:_ _Like the dense fog?_

_TRUMPER:_ _Precisely! On the other hand..._

_GRAMS:_ _DRAMATIC MUSIC._

_ANNOUNCER:_ _What will our intlepid helos discovah when they entah headmastahs study? But filst a commelcial blake..._

FEMALE: (DEEP SEDUCTIVE VOICE) As a well known professional fashion model whose face has appeared in several glossy up-market magazines, I just adore the sound of an athletic man breaking wind.

_FX:_ _FART \- RICH AND DEEP, LIKE THE RECORDING OF A TROMBONE PLAYED AT HALF-SPEED._

_FEMALE:_ _(MOANING) OH...YESSSS!YESSSS!...YESSSSSSSS!_

_ANNOUNCER:_ _Ah so! No need to blake wind foh weal and whisk obnoxious smell. The Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion Special Spohts Model sound just like hunky beefcake man! Yes, Listenels. Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion Company is owned by glate Fu Manchu..._

_GRAMS:_ _SCREAMS OF TERROR._

_ANNOUNCER:_ _...who insist on quality of manuflacture. And when Fu Manchu insist, it is unwise to disobey. Please! Please! Thele is no need to fea the glate Fu Manchu. He attend angale management coulse and he now totally lefolmed chalactel. He no longel evil. Would evil pelson manufactule platical jokes? No! You want heal the best falts? Then please to buy Fun Machu's whoopee cushions. Now back to stoly. Public Schoolboy Detective Holatio Tlumpel and his two chums, Smelly and Biff, while indulging in unspeakable acts typical of Blitish public schoolboys, suddenly heah sound of explosion flom Headmastah's house. Take it away, Lolling Stones..._

_GRAMS:_ _ROLLING STONES NUMBER PLAYED IN CHINESE STYLE._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF FEET ON GRAVEL PATH. THE HOOT OF AN OWL._

_TRUMPER:_ _There's been some terrible accident! Let's hope we're not too late! We owe that man so much._

_BIFF:_ _Yes, I owe him 50 quid! I just hope something has blown the old blackguard to kingdom come!_

_FX:_ _SOUND OF MORE LOUD EXPLOSIONS._

_BIFF:_ _I fear we're too late, chaps!_

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) But when we arrived at the Headmaster's house we found the great man in his darkroom. He was a keen photographer who developed his own pictures._

_TRUMPER:_ _Gosh! You're all right, sir! But we heard..._

_HEADMASTER:_ _(LAUGHS) Don't worry, boys. You merely heard me blowing a few pictures up. It's been one of those days. Won't you join me in a glass of whisky? I have some twenty-year old malt. It'll relax you._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF LARGE DRINK BEING POURED...AN EXTRA LARGE ONE THAT SEEMS TO GO ON FOREVER!_

_SMELLY:_ _Er...no thanks, sir._

_HEADMASTER:_ _You know, I've always thought the old school uniform was a little too formal and restrictive. Perhaps you'd care to remove them. Don't blush, boys! There is no shame in nakedness. Come...let the night air caress your lithe young limbs._

_BIFF:_ _(FADING AWAY) I wish we could, sir! But we've got oodles of prep to get through!_

_FX:_ _SOUND OF RUNNING FEET_

_HEADMASTER:_ _Oh dear, I suppose it's back to the rent boy._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) I, for one, was grateful the Headmaster was unharmed. I was toying with the idea of taking a degree in medicine and found his anatomy lessons useful. Then, when we entered the schoolhouse, we found someone waiting for us outside the study..._

_GRAMS:_ _SEXY MUSIC._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _(HUSKY VOICE) Hello, boys._

_BIFF:_ _Gosh! It's a Voluptuous Woman!_

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) Gad, she was beautiful! Her dress was that tight it could have been painted on her body...in fact it was painted on her body! We tried to see what was underneath, but she had an undercoat on._

_GRAMS:_ _JAPANESE TYPE DRUM ROLL WITH CYMBALS._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _Who was that poor creature with blackened legs who showed me to your study?_

_TRUMPER:_ _That was Muffins - a fag._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _No thank you, I don't smoke. My name is Mrs Foster. My husband is the well known thespian, Angus Foster. You may have heard of him._

_TRUMPER:_ _A thespian, eh? Golly! I thought that only applied to women?_

_MRS FOSTER:_ _Foolish boy! You're thinking of a lesbian._

_TRUMPER:_ _I am? Which one?_

_MRS FOSTER:_ _Me, you immature little boy! Can't you tell? Why else would I be walking around with a large carved dildo in my handbag?_

_SMELLY:_ _Gosh! What's a dildo?_

_MRS FOSTER:_ _It can do all sorts of things. However, my sexual proclivities need not concern you. Anyway, you're far too young and innocent to even consider such things..._

_TRUMPER:_ _(QUICKLY) We're fairly advanced for our age!_

_MRS FOSTER:_ _(IGNORES HIM) I came here because I need your help._

_GRAMS:_ _DRAMATIC CHORDS._

_SMELLY:_ _In that case, we'll do what we can, won't we, chaps?_

_AD LIBS:_ _GOSH, YES! ABSOLUTELY! ETC._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _Good. I hear you are Public Schoolboy Detectives. What I want to know is, are you any good?_

_BIFF:_ _Good? We're positively brilliant! In fact, we've solved a number of tricky cases._

_SMELLY:_ _Extremely tricky cases._

_TRUMPER:_ _Fiendishly tricky cases._

_BIFF:_ _Mind-bogglingly-tricky cases._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _Then you're my only hope. It's my partner - I fear she may have fallen into the hands of some white slavers!_

_GRAMS:_ _SOME MORE DRAMATIC CHORDS._

_SMELLY:_ _(UNSURE) White slavers? Cripes! That sounds...er...jolly serious._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _I also have reason to suspect that she may have been kidnapped by a one armed deaf and dumb Albino dwarf with a club foot._

_GRAMS:_ _THOSE DRAMATIC CHORDS AGAIN._

_TRUMPER:_ _Good Lord! It can't be!_

_MRS FOSTER:_ _You know him?_

_SMELLY:_ _Gosh! I'll say we do! His name is Peppery Dan. He lost his left arm when old Trumper pushed him under a tram in Blackpool last year._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _It was his right arm that was missing._

_SMELLY:_ _(DISAPPOINTED) Wrong dwarf - pity._

_AD LIBS:_ _WHAT A SHAME! ETC._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _My partner was last seen in a night club in Paris called Le Rouge Derrier. Here's my card. It has my address and telephone number. Please call me the moment you hear anything._

_TRUMPER:_ _We have heard something._

_MRS FOSTER:_ _You have? That's incredible. What is it?_

_TRUMPER:_ _(PROUDLY) That your partner was last seen in a Parisian night club called...Le Rouge Derrier!_

_MRS FOSTER:_ _I've just told you that. Just let me know if you come across any additional information. I want you to rescue her. But be warned. It may be dangerous...you may even be killed. Those white slavers are desperate men._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) At that point I don't remember any more because I fainted..._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF BODY HITTING FLOOR._

_ANNOUNCER:_ _Ah so! Will Tlumpel and flends glit teeth and accept most dangelous task to lescue Voluptuous Female pelson's lesbian lovah? Ohah will juvenile cowahdlice gain upper hand and folce them to abolt mission? But filst a wold flom owl spnosol..._

_GRAMS:_ _FU MANCHU MUSIC._

_ANNOUNCER:_ _Honulable listnahs want to play funny joke on flends? Then use Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion for best lesults._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF WHOOPEE CUSHION. A CHEEKY RIPPER._

_ANNOUNCER:_ _Sound advice. The lecent Panolama Ploglam on the BBC accused Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion factoly of using sweat shop methods. Panolama pose question, is plesevation of seaside joke shop wolth all this human misely? This not tlue. This big lie by BBC who pledudiced against managing dilector, Fu Manchu. Wolkels in owl flactoly do not sweat because we blow cold ail on them. Now back to stoly. Owl tlee schoolboy detectives have plosmised to lescue Voluptous Female pelson's lesbian lovah kidnapped by gang of despelate white slayvahs. But news that mission could be fatal has caused Tlumpel to tempolalily lose consciousness in what Blitish call a Blue Funk. Stlange, in China Funk always blite gleen..._

_GRAMS:_ _SLOW DRUM ROLL FOLLOWING BY CRASHING CYMBAL._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) When I came round I found myself lying in a pool of liquid. It had a familiar odour and the crotch of my trousers felt damp. There was no time to lose. We felt that if we helped rescue Mrs Foster's sister, she might be grateful enough to forgo her lesbian tendencies and bestow certain...favours upon us. Or – if that proved impossible – she would allow us to observe her indulging in some hanky-panky with her female partner. So, after packing our bags, we caught the first express train to Dover..._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF DIESEL TRAIN._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) No! No...No! I want a steam train._

_SOUNDMAN:_ _Sorry, guv!_

_FX:_ _SOUND OF STEAM TRAIN PLAYED VERY SLOWLY._

_TRUMPER:_ _An express steam train._

_FX:_ _THE TRAIN SPEEDS UP._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) That's better. Now get a grip on yourself, man! (PAUSE) No!...No! I didn't mean get a grip on that! Let go of it, you disgusting creature!_

_SOUNDMAN:_ _Sorry, guv._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) My God! Is everyone around here sex mad? What in blazes is the BBC coming to? I shall write a stiff letter to Lord Reith._

_SOUNDMAN:_ _Reith's dead and gone, mate. And this ain't the Bee-Bee-Bloody-See. We don't have the taxpayer's money to pee around with fancy sound effects. This is commercial radio. A bloody coconut, a Fah-Teng Whoopee Cushion and a dustbin lid...that's all we use._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) And it shows. Where was I? Ah, yes...the train! Well, apart from Smelly defusing a couple of bombs in the guard's van and my life-and-death struggled with a crazed Latvian assassin on the roof of the first-class dining carriage, the journey was uneventful. Here! You...the technician chappy over there in the corner. That's right, you!_

_SOUNDMAN:_ _Christ Almighty! What's up with him now? Bleeding artistes. Always moaning about something. Listen, mate! If you're so fond of bleedin' fancy sound effects, why didn't you send this crap to the BBC? They've got all the lolly._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) I did, but they turned it down. Now let's see how good your Commercial Radio Sound Department really is! I'm going to stretch you to the limit. Ready?_

SOUNDMAN: Ready, guv.

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) Very well! Arriving in Dover, we caught the ferry and were soon heading across the Channel..._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF SAILING SHIP. CREAKING RIGGING, ETC. CREW SINGS "YO-HO-HO AND A BOTTLE OF RUM!"_

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) The captain was an old sea dog..._

_FX:_ _A DOG BARKING._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) The ship was called the Baskervilles. That evening, the Captain invited us to dine at his table...but we left when he started humping Smelly's left leg!_

_FX:_ _A DOG PANTING._

_SMELLY:_ _I say! Get off me, you beast!_

_FX:_ _SOUND OF A KICK AND A DOG WHINING._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) Suddenly a storm brewed up. Fortunately it was merely a storm in a teacup..._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF A CUP OF TEA BEING STIRRED._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) Then it got worse. The wind began to whistle through the rigging..._

_FX:_ _THE WIND WHISTLES A MERRY TUNE THROUGH THE RIGGING. SOUND OF CREAKING TIMBERS._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) We retired to our cabin..._

_SMELLY:_ _I say, chaps! It's awfully stuffy in here! What's this sign say? Chain Locker Store._

_TRUMPER:_ _It's the only place we could afford. After the bally train fare we only had five shillings left!_

_BIFF:_ _I know! Maybe we should open this circular window-thingy and let some fresh air in._

_TRUMPER:_ _(IN UNISON) NOOOOOOO!_

_SMELLY:_ _(IN UNISON) NOOOOOOO!_

_FX:_ _SOUND OF LOTS OF WATER RUSHING IN._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) Within moments the cabin was filled with seawater. Which wasn't usual because we were at sea. Soon the ship began to list. First, it listed all the words beginning with the letter 'A'..._

_SHIP:_ _Aardvark, abaca, abacist, aback..._

_TRUMPER:_ _(OLD MAN) The situation was desperate. In the best traditions of the British Merchant Service, the Skipper gave the order: "Abandon ship! Captain and crew first...the rest of you bilge rats are on your own!" After that the ship sank like a stone. By some miracle the three of us clambered on top of a large cabinet from the galley which we found floating on the surface. Then we had some more good fortune. I opened a drawer and found three large wooden spoons which we used to paddle ourselves towards land._

_TRUMPER:_ _I say, I've just thought of something. We could have taken the train to Croydon and flown across the bally Channel by plane. It would have saved us all this trouble._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF TRUMPER BEING BEATEN UP._

_SMELLY:_ _Wait a sec, chaps! What's that out there? Golly! It looks just like a squid!_

_TRUMPER:_ _Get hold of it, Smelly! We need all the cash we can get!_

_SMELLY:_ _No, you dunce! Not a quid! A squid! A giant one! And it appears to be quite hungry!_

_GRAMS:_ _DRAMATIC MUSIC_

_ANNOUNCER:_ _Will Tlumpel and flends battle giant squid? What does hungly squid look like? Will owah tlee Famous Public Schoolboy Detectives finally leach Flance and lescue Voluptuous Female's lesbian lovah? Find out aftel commelcial blake..._

_FX:_ _LOUD FART FOLLOWED BY A SHOT._

_FU MANCHU:_ _(EVIL LAUGH) Enough of this bad English. People like that make you Roundeyes think all Chinese have trouble with their r's. This racial stereotyping must stop. You want r's trouble...?_

_FX:_ _LOUD FART – A REAL GUSSET RIPPER HEARD IN AN ECHO CHAMBER AND EXTENDED._

_FU MANCHU:_ _Now that's r's trouble. The world has not seen the end of Fu Manchu. Those who have dared oppose me are mere pygmies..._

_SMITH:_ _I'm six foot three!_

_FU MANCHU:_ _That is until I cut you down to size, Nayland Smith. From now on I will be the announcer on this pathetic show..._

_FX:_ _SOUND OF WOODEN LEGS BEING SAWN OFF._

When I got round to working out the rest of the story I decided to go the whole hog and turn it into a Goons script...

THE GOONS: THE CASE OF HITLER'S CROWN JEWEL!

_Sponsored by Fu Manchu, now a reformed character having attended an anger management course, the story features the famous Goons. Namely Fred Seagoon along with Bluebottle and Eccles. It appears that they were schoolboy detectives who never achieved the publicity they so richly deserved. But all that is about to change. We begin in the dark days leading up to the Second World War at a small and almost totally obscure public school in the North. Here we find our three 6_ th _Formers toasting Muffins by the fire. Namely Ronald Muffins of the Lower Third. A Voluptuous Woman arrives asking them to rescue her lesbian partner from the clutches of some white slavers and the three boys find themselves enmeshed in a complex and sinister web of deceit. Or something vaguely similar. And what of Fu Manchu, you may ask? Well, the man once described as the epitome of the Yellow Peril, (he was responsible for creating a virulent form of jaundice), is now back on his secret island producing cheap but cheerful novelty jokes._

Fu Manchu provides us with a touch of bathos mixed in with the comedy as we witness evidence of the sweat shop conditions suffered by the men and women slaving on his whoopee cushion production line. And, like Panorama, we're forced to answer the question: is the preservation of the seaside joke shop really worth all this human misery? These are weighty matters, indeed. They are matters that have confounded famous philosophers like Russell and Kierkegaard. Both men could see the moral dilemma posed by this problem, but neither was willing to forgo the pleasure of walking along the seafront and nipping in for some false dog turds or itching powder. Anyway, back to the story...

After a number of mishaps including a legendary battle with a giant squid, our heroes finally reach France and make their way to Paris. There they meet the legendary Golden Hearted Tart - a generous streetwalker who provides her services for free. Services? Our heroes are puzzled. The GHT realizes she's dealing with three virgins! "Sacre Bleu! Do I 'ave to draw pictures?" It seems she does. The pictures are very explicit. "Gosh!" exclaims Bluebottle. "I never knew you could use it like that!" She takes the boys to her apartment. Seagoon tells them there's no time for these shenanigans. They have a case to solve. The other two disagree. Seagoon will wait outside for them. Eccles says it may take some time. "We're slow learners." He's right. When dawn breaks the two boys are still virgins. The GHT contemplates a career change. She warns them to stay away from Le Rouge Derrier. It could be a trap. Naturally, they ignore the warning. (If they hadn't the story would have ended there. Perhaps it should have done. Only time will tell). As they enter the club there's an altercation with a bent French flic, involving a set of false teeth and a bottle of Calvados. They're told that Mrs Foster's partner is in the basement. The basement turns out to be an opium den. Our heroes are offered a pipe by a German doing a bad impression of a Chinese. Being naïve, they think it's tobacco. Pretty soon, they're on a psychedelic trip. Mrs Foster's partner turns out to be a transvestite working for the Gestapo and our listeners are faced with A MAJOR PLOT CHANGE! (A common device used by desperate writers trying to rescue a badly constructed story.) Still under the influence of opium, our heroes are bundled into a waiting van.

Our heroes are taken to Berlin where they experience cold turkey in a Gestapo cell. What, no sage and onion stuffing? They meet an old foe – Ubersturmbahnfuhrer Klaus von Peppery Dan of the SS Security Service. Dan informs them he's the only dwarf serving in the SS. The only other known German dwarf is called Goebbles and works for the Propaganda Ministry. Our heroes discover it was Dan's right arm that had been torn off in Blackpool. A German scientist called Werner von Blue has also fitted him with a mechanical hearing and speaking device. Proving the Nazis weren't all bad! But Dan isn't after revenge. He tells them this was all a ruse to get them out of England. A Very Important Client wants to hire their services as boy detectives. They are to meet him this very night. Seagoon protests. They have professional standards to maintain. They're working for Mrs Foster. Dan tells them they're wasting their time with Mrs Foster. She has no intention of giving them a quick thrill. Anyway, their new client is willing to pay them more. It's a deal, says Seagoon. They're taken by plane and car to a house high up on a Bavarian mountain. The client turns out to be Hitler! He tells them it's a very delicate and sensitive matter. Everyone knows that English Public Schoolboy Detectives are the best in the world. Hitler reveals the Greatest State Secret of all. Only he and three other people know about it. It concerns something he lost during the Great War. Seagoon cuts in: Is Hitler talking about his testicle? Gott im Himmel! How did they know? Seagoon sings a little ditty doing the rounds at school. Hitler's Only Got One Ball!" Shock!...Horror! Is it true about Himmler? If so, how similar is his condition? And poor Goebbles! Yet he has all those children?

Hitler confesses that the situation is much worse than he imagined. It's a PR nightmare! How can they call themselves the Master Race. Their people must never find out that three of the top Nazis have only two balls between them. They must find Hitler's missing ball at all costs. Seagoon tells the Fuhrer that he's talking bollocks. Hitler agrees. He explains how his testicle was lost. In flashback we're taken back to the trenches. Hitler, the company runner, is delivering a vital message. The Germans are on the verge of a major military catastrophe. There's no sauerkraut for the evening meal! Suddenly there's an explosion. Hitler comes round in hospital...minus half of the family jewels. A soldier called Hans Grossenfurt was with him when it happened and the poor fellow ends up with severe shell shock.

Seagoon entertains Hitler and his comrades with some jokes. Hitler is impressed. Scheiss! If only we Germans had a sense of humour! Hitler offers Seagoon a job. The Nazis are holding a big rally in Nuremberg. Would Seagoon do the warm up spot? Get the Deutches Volk into a Party mood, so to speak. Seagoon rises to the occasion. He leads the crowd in some communal singing. "There'll Always Be An England," "Roll Out The Barrel..." Then he tells some one-liners. The crowd are hungry for more. For a moment it looks like the Germans might dump Hitler and follow Seagoon instead! Magnanimously, Seagoon hands the reins to a grateful and relieved Fuhrer. Our heroes return to France to visit the spot where it happened. Maybe the ball is lying there. They find some unexploded shells, a few grenades, some skeletons, a pair of size 18 army boots, three glass eyes, a tin of bully beef, the missing portions of the Dead Sea Scrolls...but no testicle!

Maybe Hans Grossenfurt can remember something? He's tracked down to a sanatorium. He's never recovered. The doctor tells them they must whisper. Hans can't stand loud noises. He also suffers from the delusion that he's a Gypsy Fortune Teller. After crossing his palm with silver...several times...Hans tells them that Hitler will invade Poland. England and France will declare war on Germany. Hitler will invade Russia. America will join forces with the British. Finally, in 1945, Hitler will shoot himself in a Berlin bunker. "You see?" says the doctor. "The poor fellow's quite mad!" They ask Hans what happened to Hitler's ball. He tells them the Englanders have it.

Peppery Dan has an idea. Maybe the Fuhrer's ball was blown into the English trenches. Our heroes return to England. They break the bad news to the Voluptuous Woman. She turns out to be a transvestite as well! They discover that the Voluptuous Woman is really the Head of SIS. They call me "C." Eccles says it stands for "Chief." Seagoon disagrees. He plumps for "Commander." Bluebottle claims it's "Controller." "C" tells them it stands for something quite different. Our heroes are told they must find Hitler's ball and hand it over to the government. The fate of the Free World depends on it!

"C" takes them to meet one of MI6's top experts – a professor of Ancient History. "He's a bit eccentric – thinks he's the reincarnation of the Viking God Thor. Better humour him." The meeting proves stormy. The Professor tells them there's an ancient Nordic legend that says if you have one of your opponent's balls he can never defeat you. This could prove useful if England ever went to war with Germany. Seagoon laughs. War with Germany? You're as mad as that lunatic Grossenfurt! Didn't Chamberlain get that "piece of paper?" "C" thinks it's best to play safe. Those Johnny Foreigners can't be trusted. Seagoon has another objection. They're working for Hitler. And they have a duty to their client. "C" tells them it's their patriotic duty to help MI6. No go. The Association of Public Schoolboy Detectives would strike them off! He offers them twice what Hitler's paying.

_They tell "C" he's got a deal. The boys visit the War Office. There they meet a colonel in the records department. He's one of the lesser known War Poets. He recites some of his poems. They realize why he's lesser known! The records reveal that a Scottish regiment were holding that part of the line. The colonel tells them to be careful. The regiment is none other than the infamous 43_ rd _Gorbals Militia. "The Wee Hens!" Men who'd cut your throat as soon as look at you – and those are just the officers! They visit the regimental depot and are mistaken as new recruits. Our three heroes undergo a dreadful initiation ceremony reserved for Sassenachs! Seagoon declares that Bluebottle and Eccles look quite fetching in kilts. Their true identity is finally established. Just in time – they were about to do bayonet practice. Trouble is, they'd been volunteered to act as the targets! They track down the survivors from the trench._

The trail leads to one "Curly" McDuff. They learn that Curly has moved down to Manchester where he's an organ grinder and part time caretaker at the Free Trade Hall. "It must be him!" cries Seagoon. He tells them to remember the words of the song: "Hitler, has only got one ball...the other is in the Free Trade Hall!" Curly refuses to talk to them. They're no taking that Hun's bollock – it's legitimate war booty. And what a booty! He's never seen a bollock like it! They decide to wait till he's in a drunken stupor, then sneak into his room at the Free Trade Hall. But Peppery Dan has been following them. There's a final showdown between our three heroes and some Particularly Nasty Nazi Thugs. Cut to 1940 – Churchill has paid a personal visit to the school to thank our three chums. The Nordic legend says you should have both balls – but as they've only got one, it might take a bit longer to beat Hitler. Do they fancy going back there to remove the other one...?

Please Note: In order to give them extra bulk, this story may be filled with an appropriate amount of padding. Under EUC guidelines, this padding will not be more than 12.7% of the total humorous content. The story does not contain any additives other than those allowed by literary license.

And that's about as far as it got!

BILLY BANG RETURNS?

_The Hot Headed Bloke Who Blows Up When he's Angry_.

When Billy first appeared he was just a kid. Now he's 25 years old and married. His wife, Betty, suffers from Spontaneous Human combustion. Whereas Billy explodes with anger, his wife merely bursts into flames. It's a sure fire recipe for disaster. We follow Billy's exploits as he tries to cope with such things as getting a job and attending regular anger management sessions with his long-suffering therapist. It's not easy. Billy is a binge drinker who often gets into fights – with the inevitable consequences. Now, when the Old Bill know Billy's involved, they contact the Bomb Squad! We also follow Billy as he tries to survive through a selection of jobs. Call Centre operative, traffic warden, sales assistant, etc. Billy also has problems with his sex life. He suffers from premature ejaculation, a condition guaranteed to make a man angry. Finally, Betty becomes pregnant. Will she lose her temper whilst giving birth and roast the baby? Given the genetic makeup of both parents, will the baby be normal...

(I created Billy for the defunct Oink comic back in the 80's. The above was a vain attempt to resurrect him. Alas, this time he didn't reassemble himself after blowing up!)

_IDEAS FOR OLD COMIC HEROES IN THE 21_ ST _CENTURY!_

A comic strip featuring all or one of the following characters...

_BILLY BUNTER: The story features Billy Bunter and Squelch as they try to come to terms with the 21_ st _Century. The Fat Owl's problems start when Jamie Oliver visits Greyfriars. And it's not long before Billy's midnight feasts and visits to the tuck shop are in grave danger. In an effort to curb his appetite which is costing his parents a fortune, Bunter is forced to undergo various diets._

As for Squelch, his frequent resort to corporal punishment means that he soon comes to the attention of the Political Correct Brigade. Sacked from Greyfriars he sets himself up as a male dominatrix.

LAUREL & HARDY: In this story our two chums travel in time from the pages of Film Fun to find themselves hounded by the Gay Liberation Front who reckon it's about time they came out of the closet!

POPEYE: The iconic seadog is representing America in the Olympic Games. After winning a Gold in the Pentathlon he runs into problems when he tests positive for traces of spinach. Meanwhile, back in America, Bluto has been forced to attend an anger management course – with disastrous results! On his return, Olive Oil tells Popeye she's decided to become a fashion model. But when they spot her anorexic figure, she's banned from the catwalk. Popeye suggests she put on some weight and tells her to see Wimpy. A few of his burgers will soon increase her BMI. But Wimpy is embroiled in a multi billion lawsuit with the fast food industry. He claims he invented the burger and now he wants a percentage of each one sold. To add to his problems, he's being hounded by some vegetarian activists.

DICK TRACY: It isn't long before the famous Detective finds himself on charges of excessive force. And it'll take more than his wrist radio to get him out of this mess!

FELIX THE CAT: Cruelly transported into the year 2006, Felix discovers he's not as streetwise as he thought!

_LITTLE NEMO IN SLUMBERLAND: Catapulted into the 21_ st _Century, poor Nemo finds himself accused of being a substance abuser!_

OLD MOTHER RILEY: These two characters featured in Film Fun. Old Mother Riley was actually a guy called Arthur Lucan in drag. From what I've heard he wasn't a very pleasant character. In this story Kitty, his "daughter" goes on the X-Factor and gets her chance of stardom. Lucan claims he never needed her and sets out as a stand-up comic in drag. And it's not long before he comes up against the formidable Lilly Savage...

Recycling Old Images into Cartoons!

The book will demonstrate how old photographs and other images can be turned into cartoons using the appropriate software. In this case, a combination of Photoshop and Illustrator. The book will explain how each image was created so that readers can try it for themselves. It will cover single cartoons and strip cartoons. It will also demonstrate some computer created practical jokes. Finally, it will show the reader two things: just how versatile computers can be and how they can be used to falsify or distort reality.

The above comic is the only one I actually created! Once again, other things took precedence and the project lay fallow on my hard drive.

OPERATION FA CUP!

Mike Knowles & Martin Baines

From the wartime archives of the Football Association, the full story can now be told...

1940 - The Battle of Britain is over. In Germany, the Fuhrer berates Hermann Goering for failing to defeat the RAF. Hitler cries: 'Is there no one who can come up with a plan to defeat these damned Englanders?' At that moment the door bursts open and Captain Erich Sohn enters. Erich, who bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain Swede, is the former manager of a provincial German football club. Erich tells Hitler he's come up with this great idea. The plan is to select a squad of Germany's best footballers, teach them to speak English, and then parachute them into enemy territory. To avoid suspicion, they'll pass themselves off as a bunch of itinerant conscientious objectors who just happen to play soccer. Then they'll take over a struggling 4th Division club and use it to win the coveted FA Cup! Afterwards they'll return to Germany by U-Boat and announce to the world what they've done. Football is England's national game and the damage to her prestige would be incalculable. Churchill and his cabinet would be forced to resign and the Englanders would sue for peace. What does the Fuhrer think? Hitler, a frustrated football hooligan, is delighted! He gives Erich the go ahead. That's when the plan runs into difficulties. The German military are loath to let these footballers go. Hardly surprising, seeing these men are at the peak of their physical fitness. Much too valuable to waste on a harebrained scheme like this. So they substitute them for players who have been medically downgraded as unfit for combat. As a result, Erich ends up with a squad of players who suffer from a variety of psychological and physical disorders. His appeals to Hitler fall on deaf ears. The Fuhrer has turned his attention East and he's much too busy to bother about trifles like these.

Erich moans about the fickleness of dictators. He'll just have to make do with what he's got. Which is not a lot. One of his strikers turns out to be the German version of Douglas Bader. A lieutenant in the infantry prone to daydreaming, this half-witted Hun walked into a minefield. Fortunately, Teutonic ingenuity came to the rescue! Unlike Bader, who had to make do with a couple of tin legs, the German's are made of steel – and not just any steel, but the best Krupp steel! These limbs are at the cutting edge of prosthetic technology. Laufen durch technic. Another weak link is the goalie who suffers from shell shock. The slightest noise and he's cowering in the corner of the net. Along with players suffering from diverse complaints like blindness, deafness, chronic diarrhea, along with a player whose nervous breakdown lead him to constantly expose himself, these are just some of the problems Erich must overcome. If that isn't enough, there's a cockup at the spy school. Their English teacher turns out to be a German who spent 40 years working as a pork butcher in London's East End. The guy is also a devoted Arsenal fan. As a result, Erich and his men learn to speak English with a Cockney accent, (the rhyming slang really does their heads in!) Not a problem if they were being infiltrated into London. But their target is a small town called Oldbury, just outside Manchester! This is just another small hurdle to overcome.

The team arrive in England, but not without mishap. The plane drops them on top of a large sewage works. 'Now we're really in the shit!' moans Erich. They finally find the town. A real Dark-Satanic-Mills type place. Ever since the Industrial Revolution, the local population have been ground down by hard graft and poverty, to the point where they no longer care about anything. Consequently, the arrival of a group of strangers speaking Cockney with guttural German accents and muttering Arsenal slogans, who purchase Oldbury FC with a gold ingot bearing an eagle and swastika, doesn't even raise an eyebrow! In truth, the club was so useless that they'd have gladly sold it to anyone. Their first match is disaster and the Germans lose 50-0! But the local supporters are ecstatic! They congratulate a stunned Erich. Which is when he finds out the old team used to lose 100-0! The Oldbury Clarion has a banner headline OLDBURY FC DELIGHT FANS WITH A BRILLIANT PERFORMANCE! Erich and his team are hailed as saviors. With this boost to morale, the Huns overcome their difficulties and begin winning matches. (The German physio comes up with ways of coping with the team's various disabilities, like a mobile bog for the guy with chronic diarrhea!) Erich, who has an eye for the ladies, gets involved with this lass from the local cotton mill – a Gracie Fields clone. The combination of her thick Lancashire brogue and Erich's German accent makes communication difficult.

Fortunately for Oldbury, there's not much in the way of opposition. England's football clubs, also starved of talent, have had to make do with scraping the barrel. So, Germany make football history by winning the FA Cup! (Although, to be fair to the English, it goes to a shootout. And a memorable scene when one of the striker's steel legs fly off and clobbers the goalie; thus rendering him unconscious. An English substitute is found who's totally cackhanded! Thus the Germans win.) But, by this time, the players have renounced their nationality and become true Englishmen - all except for Erich,

The artist, Martin Baines, actually drew the first two pages for me.

HITLER'S PHOTO ALBUM

In October 1999, construction workers in the centre of Berlin were busily laying the foundations of a new government building when they inadvertently unearthed Hitler's bunker. Exploring their find, one of the workmen, Otto Munchausen, spotted a decaying leather briefcase hidden amongst the rubble. Inside the briefcase he found a photo album wrapped up in oilskins. It turned out to belong to none other than the bunker's star occupant, the late Adolf Hitler. The album contained an introduction written by Hitler's secretary, Martin Bormann. It would seem that Bormann had been given the task of constructing the album which was intended to show the real Hitler, warts and all. Consequently, it was only to be unveiled several years after Hitler's death. And what a find! The photographs in the album give us a pictorial insight into Hitler's life from his boyhood in Linz to the collapse of the Nazi Party in 1945. Underneath each photograph, Hitler had made some notes describing where and when the photo was taken and who was in it. In order to verify that the album was genuine, Munchausen sent it to the celebrated British Historian David Irving who declared that it was undoubtedly, "the most significant discovery since the famous Hitler Diaries!"

_Okay, there have been some dissenters. There are those who claim that the photographs have been doctored. For example, most historians agree that Hitler committed suicide in his bunker on April 30_ th _, 1945. Yet, if we are to believe the last photograph in the album, Hitler was captured the day before by a 38-year-old Berlin housewife called Gerda Kartoffle. According to Bormann's notes, the Fuhrer had sneaked out of the bunker in order to buy a loaf of bread. And, whilst waiting in a queue outside a baker's shop close the Reich's Chancellery, he was abducted by Mrs Kartoffle who handed him over to the Russians. (If one wonders why Hitler allowed himself to be captured by a woman, it seems he'd mistaken her rolling pin for a *panzerfaust). If this is true, then a lot of prominent historians are going to end up with egg on their faces. Finally, there's a theory that the album was created by the British Political Warfare Executive, (a top secret unit responsible for black propaganda). The albums were then dropped on Germany and one of them must have found its way into the bunker. The researcher who came up with this theory claims that the album shows all the hallmarks of Arthur Mee and Phyllis Stein. Mee, a cartoonist and Stein, a graphic designer, both worked for PWE during the war._

This is one book I'm definitely going to write! I've got quite a few doctored images and a basic storyline. Let's just hope I can find the time to get round to it. And I'm sure all those Neo-Nazis out there will see it's just a bit of harmless fun. In fact I' betting they're mature enough to be able to have a good laugh at themselves and their hero.

IDEA FOR TOMMY'S TAPEWORM!

Tommy works as a chef in a MacDonald's style restaurant. And, when he starts losing weight, his co-workers begin to worry. It's not that Tommy's on a diet. His eating habits are as regular as ever: one giant sized burger with all the trimmings every hour. Yet he's dropped from 22-stone to a mere 9 in the space of a few months! Something is clearly wrong. Finally, Tommy agrees to visit his GP. Whilst doing a rectal examination, the GP gets the shock of her life when the head of a tapeworm pops out of Tommy's arse. Not only that, the tapeworm greets the doctor with the words, "Guess what, Doc?" Then, extending itself like a garden hose, it introduces itself to its host telling Tommy to meet his better self. It then promptly disappears up his arse again.

Distraught, Tommy dashes out into the waiting room. From his arse comes the sound of the tapeworm singing, "Oh, we ain't got a barrel of money..." In the waiting room is a producer from the Big Brother. He follows Tommy home. Would Tommy like to be a houseguest? Ratings are slipping. The insatiable British Public is demanding even bigger freaks and a man with a singing arse is just what they need. Before Tommy can answer, the tapeworm pops out of the back of his trousers. "Forget this moron's anal orifice, my friend!" it says. "I'm the one you're looking for."

It's soon clear that the tapeworm is the total opposite of Tommy. Whereas Tommy is an illiterate slob who eats junk food, drinks beer, reads those men's magazines and listens to heavy metal, the tapeworm is refined. A fan of Gordon Ramsey, (he ends up on Gordon's "F" Word), he's into fine cuisine, drinks the best wine and listens to classical music, (he becomes a regular and popular visitor to the Proms.) And, if Tommy's not got enough problems, while his IQ struggles to maintain double figures, the tapeworm has an IQ of 155, (he later joins MENSA, much to the disgust of the more conservative members.)

More is to follow. We witness a brilliant audition on the X-Factor in which Simon Cowell says they should dismiss all the other contestants and just declare the tapeworm the winner there and then. This leads to Tommy's other half, (by now he and the tapeworm almost weight the same), becoming a pop star and a brilliant standup comedian. Eventually hosting an intellectual chat show on BB2. As for Big Brother? The other contestants stand no chance. (There's a woman who could only afford to have half a boob job and is hoping to make enough money to get the other breast done. Having one breast the size of the nose cone of an ICBM and the other the size of a fried egg has left her slightly unbalanced. Then there's an Alzheimer's, a catatonic schizophrenic, and an illegal immigrant who's also a Talban.) _Needless to say, the tapeworm wins resulting in lucrative deals with the Sun and the News of the World who, driven by jealousy because one of the contestants was planted there by the tabloid, employ their false sheik to try and sting him. The sting backfires causing the paper to pay out huge damages._

Reduced to an object of ridicule by his tapeworm, Tom seeks medical help. But this is no ordinary taenia solium. Like MRSA, this particular one is impervious to all known drugs. In fact, the only drugs powerful enough to kill it have one major side effect – they'll kill the host as well. But the medical profession promise to keep looking. Meanwhile, Tommy will just have to grin and bear it...

And thereby hangs a tale, if you'll excuse the pun. God only knows what terrible things were going on inside my brain when I came up with that one. These are the sort of images Hunter S. Thompson might have had during his drug-fuelled trip to Las Vegas. And I wasn't using any at the time. And I was sober! When I told my wife about my tapeworm idea she reacted strongly. How strongly? Well, if you call projectile vomiting a sign of rejection you could say she didn't like it. She suggested I seek some kind of counselling, but warned me that I might end up on a Mental Health Section. She also assured me that no one in their right mind would even contemplate producing such an abomination.

That's until it caught the imagination of an Indy film company called, One-Eye Dog Films. They thought it would make a great animated series for TV. I kid you not. I even produced a script for a trailer they could hawk around the TV companies. Then I came up with what I thought was an even better angle. One Eye Dog Films didn't like my revised version so we parted company. The last email I had from them was a few months ago and said, I quote: "We have John Hurt voicing the tapeworm. That is done and dusted. We need the right designer with the right look for the BBC to be happy. I have been researching looks and graphic artists." John Hurt? As a tapeworm? I could imagine the following scene with his agent...

**JOHN:** You're joking, right? Please tell me my calendar is up the spout and it's really April the First. I know my name is "Hurt," but this is too painful by far.

**AGENT:** Come on, John. You played the Elephant Man.

**JOHN:** But he was human, for God's sake! People love elephants. This is a parasite.

Will the BBC eventually commission it? If so, let them be warned that my wife will stop buying the license fee. There, that should have them quaking in their shoes. As for my version, this actually ended up as an ebook! At the time of writing it's still being reviewed. Perhaps the reviewer is experiencing some projectile vomiting. After all, the sight of a man defecating through a penis is not one that should linger in one's mind for no more than a nanosecond. One Eye Dog also suggested another idea involving fighting nuns. I sent them a synopsis and haven't heard anything yet. Perhaps Helen Mirren is appearing in it and Channel 4 are interested. Who knows? Anyway, this eventually led to the idea below with was intended to be a graphic novel...

FATHER McGINTY AND THE CASE OF THE HOLY WATER

An Idea for a Graphic Novel

Main Characters

Father Seamus McGinty: A chubby, genial, 48-year old who lives at 221b Bakers Lane in London's Soho. The apartment is over a sex shop and there, with the help of his assistant, Bob, Father McGinty tries to save the souls of those sinners who frequent this seedy part of the city. But Father McGinty is not only a priest; he's also a famous private detective.

Bob Brisket. A 16-year old who resembles a Glaswegian bare-knuckle fighter dressed as a choirboy. Not a pretty sight. Bob was a former juvenile delinquent with a string of convictions until Father McGinty persuaded him to give up a life of crime and join the choir. When not singing, he uses his fists, (and boots), along with his former criminal talents to help Father McGinty solve his cases. Needless to say, there are those uncharitable souls who hint that a priest living with a choirboy can mean only one thing. But Father McGinty maintains their relationship is entirely Platonic. And even if he were that way inclined, he claims he couldn't do anything about it because the Good Lord has chosen to render him totally impotent. Nevertheless, the rumours persist.

Whilst relaxing in their apartment, Bob remarks on the invigorating qualities of the Isle of Sillies Holy Water. The water, which comes from a well in a cave under a monastery, is bottled and sold by the monks of the Holy Order of St Cuthbert. The qualities remarked on by Bob are very similar to Viagra. An effect that is never mentioned directly by anyone, least of all the monks who bottle it. The fear being that if they did then they might have to stop selling it. And it's bringing in a fortune. So the Church has decided to go along with the subterfuge and, like everyone else, merely remarks on its "invigorating" effects.

Having some time to spare, Father McGinty gets out his chemistry set and decides to analyse the Holy Water. He decides that its yellowish tinge probably comes from sulphur deposits deep down in the earth. Then come a shock. There's no sulphur in it. Instead, the Holy Water contains traces of urea, inorganic salts, proteins, hormones and a number of metabolites. In short, it's urine! When Bob says he finds it hilarious that people are actually paying good money to drink the earth's piss, Father McGinty points out that the earth doesn't wee. This came from a living creature. He and Bob decided to pay a visit to the monastery and investigate.

Father McGinty pretends they've come on a retreat. Telling the monks they're selling bottled piss might prove traumatic. The Abbot shows them to their rooms explaining that the monastery is very popular as a retreat. He hopes Father McGinty and Bob won't be overdoing things. Some of their guests leave looking more exhausted than they did when they arrived. And the loud moaning from the guest quarters is a distraction at prayer time. Father McGinty assures him there'll be no problem. He himself is totally immune from its invigorating effects and Bob has promised to abstain. As Father McGinty enters his room he sees a large crate of Holy Water in the corner. He and Bob exchange glances.

The next day the two of them, looking as if they haven't slept, pay a visit to the well to find it dry. A monk tells them not to worry. This happens all the time. The well will run dry for a while and then fill up again. When Father McGinty points out that this is unusual, the monk replies that the Lord moves in mysterious ways. We ourselves move down to Hell. Satan, who bears a resemblance to Ronnie Rotten in Lazy Town, is sitting at a table with two figures from a traditional nursery rhyme book. One is the Queen of Tarts and the other is King Cole. After quaffing a huge flagon of ale, Satan declares he needs a piss. He walks over to a huge ornate urinal and lets fly. Being Satan it's like a fireman's hose.

In the cave there's a loud gurgling sound and the well fills up. 'There I told you,' says the monk. 'And it's got a good head on it.' Father McGinty and Bob leave the cave. Bob says assuming it's not God having a slash, who else can it be? Maybe there are prehistoric creatures down there, like in that film. Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Father McGinty says he has a suspicion but it's so unthinkable he daren't voice it. Meanwhile, on the island a party of hikers have spotted some mist. In it they see a strange oval shape. Suddenly there's a loud explosion. A few hours later a farmer spots the bodies of the hikers.

Father McGinty examines the bodies and finds what looks like large pieces of eggshell that have acted like shrapnel. We cut to a wood. Two Japanese children and their parents have come across what looks like a house made of gingerbread! Needless to say they take photos. Then they go inside and...well, we know the rest. In the town, a strangely dressed man goes into a bakery. The people notice he looks a bit simple. The man goes berserk. Using a mixture of Bruce Lee and Thai kickboxing, he decimates the customers and staff. Looking down at a display of meat pies he mutters, 'I hate pies,' and proceeds to mash them up with a flurry of karate punches through the plastic cabinet.

On the high street a plump looking boy with large hands is throttling women. And as this is going on two huge eggs on legs enter the police station and blow up. There'll be no help from the Old Bill. When news of this reaches the monastery the Abbot sends for Father McGinty. As a famous detective it's up to him to solve this mystery. If these incidents are allowed to continue they could have a negative effect on the tourist trade. Visiting the monastery library, Father McGinty finds an ancient tome. The people who did this weren't dressed up like nursery rhyme characters; they were nursery rhyme characters. As Bob and the Abbot express their doubts, Father McGinty opens the book. He tells them that the original nursery rhymes were much darker. We see some examples...

Old King Cole was an evil old soul,

An evil old soul was he.

He called for his sword and he call for his axe,

And he killed everyone he could see.

The Queen of Tarts she broke men's hearts,

And laughed for their death was slow.

A Brave of Heart,

He killed that Tart,

And sent her down below

Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,

Choked the girls and made them die.

When the King and his men came to call,

The Humpties Dumpties formed a wall,

And exploded, killing them all.

They were used to warn children of the demons that lurked in hell. But over the years they were watered down. It seems like Satan has unleashed the forces of hell. Bob puts on his fighting gear. The type of gear worn by those WWF wrestlers, the Legion of Doom. As the battle begins our dynamic duo use a range of fighting skills. For his fight against King Cole, Father McGinty dons some armour he finds in the museum and we witness a medieval joust. Battling the Queen of Tarts he uses the same weapons she does – a range of sex toys. Armed with a flamethrower Bob neutralises the Humpty Dumpties by hard-boiling them before they can explode.

In the end Satan orders his minions back in. He tells our duo that there was fissure in the sewage system. The urine was meant for the sinners suffering eternal punishment. Unlike the living, it has no invigorating effect on the souls of the dead. After being lashed with razor wire for a few hours they're herded into a gigantic vat filled with Satan's piss. This acts like lemon juice on the cuts they've received. The fissure had grown big enough to allow his minions access to the world of the living. It was his fault. Too busy partying, Satan had allowed Hell to fall into a state of disrepair. He had no intention of conquering earth because most of the population will end up down there anywhere. 'Not if Father McGinty can help it! cries Bob. Satan laughs. 'What have people been drinking for the past four years?' We end on Bob and Father McGinty as they look at each other in horror.

Had it been made it would have been great to send a copy to the Vatican for their endorsement. After all, it's probably less contentious than child abuse.

IDEA FOR SWEENY TODD'S COOKBOOK!

"If Mother Nature hadn't intended us to be baked in pies,

She wouldn't have made us so edible!"

Sweeny Todd.

Mrs Beeton had her famous cookbook - so why not Sweeny? The book started as a collection of recipes penned by the famous Fleet Street barber. Then, in 1844, a friend who owned a small publishing firm in Bishopsgate put the recipes down in the form of a pamphlet. This pamphlet became a book that was circulated underground amongst discerning connoisseurs of human flesh. The original edition, printed in Paris, was rather slim and covered recipes for pies and sausage rolls. However, in 1900, the book was extended to include a variety of dishes, both from England and abroad.

Those who imagine cannibalism died out with the coming of modern civilization are wrong! Some of you may be surprised to learn that these so-called barbaric practices have continued to flourish right up to the 21st Century. One has only to recall the ovens at Auschwitz to come up with a modern example! Then there's that indefatigable fighter for cannibal rights, Albert Todd. By forming the Worshipful Order of Real Meat Eaters, (WORME), Albert played a vital role in bringing cannibals together and giving them a sense of identity. Founded in 1923, the term Real Meat Eater refers to a boast made by Sweeny that "The only real meat is the meat of our own kind." Albert enlisted in the Essex Light infantry in 1914 and served as a regimental cook in the First World War, (where he reputedly ate a German General, monocle and all!) His wartime memoirs, "When the Bully Beef Ran Out!" was printed by Stoddard & Son in 1924, but later banned. Typical!

We WORMES are taught there are three main sources of meat. These are...

Freshly killed. This category includes fatal accidents including those on the railway system, (handy because the meat is already cut.) Victims of fire where the person has been well cooked rather than burnt. Down and outs and the homeless are also said to provide a good source of meat, although some of it can hardly be described as fresh.

Undertakers. You can identify a sympathetic undertaker by pinching your left cheek. If he pinches his right cheek you can be sure of a few cuts of choice meat before he screws that coffin lid down!

Graveyards. A good source of "gamey" meat.

This is another one I'm determined to complete. I sent the idea to an agent along with one of the recipes and he thought it was one of those joke Henry Root type letters. He couldn't believe anyone was sick enough to write a book like that. Well, he hasn't met me! The recipe was for crisps, (the Americans call them potato chips), made from the hard, yellow, skin on a cadaver's hells. I suggested dead tramps because they do a lot of walking so there should be a nice thick layer there. This is either thinly or thickly sliced, depending on taste. It could even be crinkle cut. These are then deep fried in fat. I even came up with a name for them – Walker's Crisps! Get it? Unfortunately that brand name is already being used by a major UK food company.

PNP: THE POLITICAL NUISANCE PARTY

The PNP was formed to deal with those politicians who have grown too big for their boots. The PNP's role is to monitor these politicians closely. Each time they make a mistake or talk through their arses, the PNP will point their errors out to them. The power of the general public is being eroded. Too many politicians think the electorate are just cattle to be led to the slaughterhouse and that we're only too glad to go willingly. But the worm has finally turned. Members of the PNP have sworn to make these wankers suffer by our hands as we've suffered by theirs. Prospective candidates are asked to read our manifesto.

The Manifesto of the Political Nuisance Party

Purpose of the PNP

Don't be fooled by the name! The PNP is dedicated to making a total nuisance of itself to politicians and only to politicians! After all, politicians are not shy of making themselves a total nuisance to us! What's good for the goose, right? However, we must stress that the PNP has no political ambitions itself. Neither do we have any political philosophy. We are neither Left, Right or Centre. Our only aim is to ensure that politicians maintain the highest standards of integrity.

Look at it this way. When politicians ask you to vote for them, they're asking you to trust a complete stranger. Why? Because you only know about him/her what they chose to tell you. And we feel this is dishonest because they l only choose to tell you the good points. Have you noticed that? When did you last hear a politician tell you they don't wash as often as they should or they like to have affairs with men/women/animals or all three? They go to great lengths telling you about their strengths, yet they never mention their weaknesses. In other words, they never present a balanced view. It's always biased in their favour. In effect, they're not being absolutely honest with you. This may be all right for the ordinary voter. But members of the PNP have much higher standards. They're not gullible enough to vote for someone who's prepared to be less than absolutely honest about themselves.

The favourite buzzwords in politics are openness and transparency. The PNP fully agree with these concepts. Unfortunately, the evidence suggests that politicians display these qualities only when it suits them. And then only to a limited degree. The PNP firmly believe that honesty and transparency should come before everything else. Even if being completely honest and transparent might ruin the politician's career or the reputation of his/her party. As far as the PNP is concerned, the reputation of a politician and their party comes at the bottom of the list. The ordinary voter might let them get away with it. But the PNP never will!

Before a PNP member will vote for a politician they must know not only the politician's strengths, but their weaknesses. All skeletons in the cupboard must be revealed. If the PNP member is to trust this person to play a role in running the country, they must know them inside out. Occasionally, like the rest of us, politicians talk a load of bullshit. (Okay, maybe a little more than occasionally.) And, like the rest of us, politicians sometimes give the impression they know more than they do. But, whilst we mortals can indulge in these little sins, politicians can't. If they want to rule our lives then they'll have to conform to the highest standards. So, what are the standards that the PNP demand? Well, they're really quite simple. There are only three of them.

Total humility.

Total Honesty.

Total Knowledge.

The politician must at all times be prepared to answer a number of awkward questions from PNP members. The questions are intended to reveal not only the extent of the politician's knowledge, but also their ignorance. PNP members use the ABC method. Accept Nothing, Believe Nothing, Confirm Everything. The PNP's demands may seem harsh. They may even be seen by some as unacceptable, impossible or impractical. This is a democracy and critics of the PNP's methods are entitled to their opinions. In turn, using their democratic rights, the PNP consider the opinions of their critics to be worthless. The PNP is not interested in what a politician thinks, they are only interested in what a politician knows and can prove. Politicians will be told that PNP members are not as gullible as some of the electorate. If the politician chooses to express their opinions or beliefs, these will be taken with a pinch of salt. The PNP is not interested in speculation, only facts. And any facts will have to be supported by solid evidence. Indeed, the politician will be expected to reveal any contradictory evidence in order to present a truly balanced view. This means we set out to embroil the politician in the smallest details. There are no quick, easy, answers when it comes to the PNP!

Politicians who allow their mouths make statements their intellects can't cover will be publicly shamed. And if the politician objects to the harshness of these methods, the PNP will simply remind them that they are servants of the public with no special immunity from scrutiny. Remember: brutal honesty is the only standard acceptable to the PNP. Unless the politician can provide a good excuse for not being brutally honest, (or should it be later discovered that they haven't been brutally honest), the PNP will make damn sure the electorate know about it. The PNP will examine each politician and assess their qualities. Politicians will be graded and these grades will be made public. The grades are shown below.

Grade 1: This politician can be trusted most of the time.

Grade 2: This politician can be trusted some of the time.

Grade 3: This politician can almost never be trusted.

The PNP will publish evidence showing how these grades were awarded. The slightest weaknesses will be revealed. The politician's appearance and behaviour will be placed under the microscope. Their body language will be assessed. So, if you believe that politicians are human and therefore fallible and you think you'd enjoy revealing their fallibility, then join the PNP! Our politicians have been getting away with far too much for far too long. It's time some of us showed them that if they want to continue riding on the gravy train, then their fares have just gone up.

It's a good idea, but I don't think the Government would allow this organization.

Some more comic strip ideas...

STEPHEN HAWKINS – SPECIAL AGENT

This strip features MI6's top agent - Steve Hawking! Double-0-Seven-Squared. As far as the general public are concerned, Steve's one of the world's top physicists. But this is just a cover. That chair of his chair has even more gadgets than Bond's Aston Martin. Designed by the great man himself, it's powered by a miniaturised nuclear accelerator and produces a host of deadly particles. One in particular, can alter the laws of physics governing any object it strikes. The effect is random. Sometimes the object becomes as soft as a feather pillow. Other times it becomes lighter than air. Steve's chair is rocket propelled and capable of flying through the air. A force field enables it to travel underwater to great depths, (this feature is revealed in an episode involving the Titanic.) Here are just some of the villains our heroic physicist has to face...

EVA BRAWN – a female version of California's muscle-bound Governor. Eva, however, is a testosterone fuelled female bodybuilder gone bad. A nasty piece of work, she uses a unique brand of martial arts based on courtship. This is real heavy petting. For example, her French Kiss can remove a man's tonsils and do serious damage to his larynx. And when Eva hugs you, say goodbye to your ribcage. Like all super villains, Eva's dream is world domination. And to help her she has an army of nubile young amazons.

BRICKBRAIN – this guy is brawn to Hawkins' brains. He never thinks because he can't think. So forget world domination...forget any sort of domination. Such concepts are far too complex for this Dumbo. He's just out to cause maximum mayhem.

IONSTEIN – who demonstrates what happens when an idiot savant turns his skills to crime. Ionstein is that rarest of mutants. He's a multiple savant. Although totally lacking in social skills and barely able to read and write, he's also an accomplished mathematician, physicist, biologist, neurologist, cosmologist, pathologist, chemist, engineer, musician, artist, stand-up comedian, opera singer, politician, author, (he dictates his masterpieces), chef and motor mechanic. Worse still, his skills continue to increase. If he isn't stopped, Ionstein will become the most competent man on earth and make the rest of us – including Hawkins – look like a bunch of idiots.

THE LAST COD!

Cartoon strip relating the adventures of the Last Cod in the North Sea. As well as ent _ertaining the readers, this strip will serve to warn them about the dangers the human race is facing. Forget about global warming! It pales into insignificance compared to the disaster awaiting us in the North Sea. The extinction of the common Cod. How serious is this? No cod – no fish and chips. And that would spell the end of the Great British Way of Life as we know it. Those foreign restaurants with their exotic and bowel fermenting cuisine will have taken over completely. The action takes place on land, rather than in the briny depths. How can this be, you may ask? After all, everyone knows that fish don't live very long once they're out of the water. They just flop around a bit before expiring, leaving one to either chuck them back in or eat them. Well, in the cartoon universe all is possible. Hence our Cod is able to survive like the rest of us landlubbers._

To his horror, the Last Cod discovers that Harry Ramsden's put a contract out on him. Just imagine what some people would pay to have the Last Cod served up with chips and mushy peas. Already, a number of celebrities with more money than sense have offered millions for that pleasure. To help him, Harry's hired Captain Birdeye, a sinister figure in Sou' Westerner and oilskins. A man modelled on Captain Ahab. Harry discovered Birdeye in a clinic where he was suffering from a severe addiction to Fisherman's Friend. It had started innocently enough. As these things do. Fishing in the Arctic Circle is cold work and Birdeye found that a regular supply of lozenges helped to warm his innards. A year later he was getting through 10 packets a day! His body was becoming immune to them. Finally, in order to get that same warm glow, he had to mainline the stuff. That's when he realised he needed help. It wasn't a pleasant experience, having to go Hot Turkey. Birdeye tells Harry he's beaten his addiction and the hunt is on. Is the Last Cod in for a battering? Hearing that Birdeye belongs to FFA, (Fisherman's Friend Anonymous), he tries to get his opponent addicted again. Maybe he can turn him back into a sucker. His only other hope is a scientist who may be able to clone more Cod from our hero's DNA. But first he has to find this man...

THE HIT!

Dark Gothic humour. After 25 years Charley, a ventriloquist's dummy, is facing a crisis. Acts like his are old hat. No one wants to book them anymore. All that's left are children's parties and the odd Christmas turn at the old folk's home. So Charley decides to go solo. He's going to try his luck on the Alternative Comedy circuit. But first he has to get rid of Frank, his human partner. So he hires another wooden dummy to act as a hitman. The dummy's name is Pinocchio. After all, he's Italian, right? And everyone knows Italians belong to the Mafia. Unfortunately, Pinocchio is neither in the Mafia, nor is he a very successful assassin. And when Frank discovers that Charley intends to strike out on his own, he decides to kill Charley. The theme revolves around their attempts to bump each other off. Think Itchy and Scratchy in the Simpsons.

EVILUTION

A series that combines creationism with evolution! The best of both worlds, so to speak. This groundbreaking series will heal the rift between Creationists and Darwinists. Yes, when this is over they'll embrace each other as brothers! We're talking Nobel Prize here. And all presented in the form of a simple animation in the "South Park" style. Okay, maybe just a little more artistic. Let's say somewhere between South Park and the Simpson's.

We learn that God created the Garden of Eden on earth. A showpiece paradise. Enter the Prince of Darkness, Satan. He decides to create human beings knowing they'll fuck things up. Global warming, here we come! And he creates them using evolution. Why? Because evolution is slow, wasteful and cruel to the weak. The weak are in a world of shit. Satan calls this Evilution. The series begins with our hero. A nerd called Nemo. We open on him sitting in front of his computer. We then go back in time to the very beginning and trace his origins. Hopefully it won't take as long. We start with the single celled organisms. God's happy little children with no responsibilities. Floating in the sea. One of them is Nemo who demonstrates his nerdishness by deciding to split into two cells, then three and so on. He tells the others that there's more to life than just floating there motionless. Have you things no ambition? What's the matter with you? Follow me and some of you will end up with a wife and a bunch of ungrateful kids. You'll have a dead-end job and a crippling mortgage around your fat necks. Yeah, fat. Because you'll also all be grossly overweight from eating too much fast food.

Inspired by this wonderful vision, many follow suit. Others decide to stay as they are. They evolve into plankton. Food for Nemo and his pals who become fish. Bored with eating his former selves, (they had no ambition so they deserved to be eaten), Nemo and those ambitious fish like him who are looking for a better life, evolve into sharks. Now their former fishy selves get eaten. The food chain grows with Nemo and his kind at the head of it. A flying fish tries to save its life by telling Nemo there's dry land out there. He saw it. A place of wonder. He gets eaten. Nemo now grows legs. He reaches the beach and thinks, 'Wow! What a great place. One day I'll be here with my surfboard getting a tan." The tide is going out and he tries to get back into the water. But he suffocates. Other Nemos make the same journey and suffer the same fate. Evilution at work! Those that survive evolve. Their gills disappear and they become air breathers. Now they face another hurdle. Now they have to get out of the water. But many perish on the way. The ones that make it are those that live nearest the shore. The survivors recover on the beach. Then they discover they're all males! No female can make it because the females are physically weaker. Satan's evilution has seen to that. Then Nemo arrives. His legs were the strongest and he's carried a female on his back. She has a lot of work to do. Nemo and his pals breed on land...

Episode Breakdown

1. Intro. Satan and God.

2. The protoplasm. The original couch potatoes. Nemo splits and splits again.

3. Nemo develops into weird forms. Satan and God have bets on which will survive.

4. The survivors become denizens of the deep. The Loch Ness monster.

5. Nemo has become a fish. Mankind's first step.

6. Screw the little fuckers! The fate of the plankton.

7. The Nemo fish get bigger and stronger.

8. Nemo becomes a shark. Those that didn't make it that far drop down a notch in the food chain.

9. The flying fish.

10. Nemo grows legs.

11. The tragic attempts to live on land whilst still extracting oxygen from water.

12. The Nemo sharks become air breathers.

13. The dash to the shore.

14. Those with stronger legs make it. But wait! Something's wrong.

15. The physically weaker females are left behind and drown. Extinction threatens to wipe the Nemo sharks out! But wait! What's this?

16. Nemo arrives with a female on his back. He had the strongest legs!

17. From lizards to apes.

18. Nemo and his kind get up to monkey tricks.

19. Nemo gets bored swinging through the trees. Where's his Apple Mac and his Lexus?

20. Nemo develops into Neanderthal Man. There's a slight resemblance to Steve Jobs. The journey to Silicon Valley has begun...

THE BURGER BAR!

1 EXTERIOR \- MIGHTY McGRIDDLE'S BURGER BAR - DAY

A KID walks to the main door of McGRIDDLE'S, one of those fast food joints. He's about 15. He pauses to read the posters on the windows advertising special offers like: McGRIDDLE'S MEGA WITH CHIPS AND COKE FOR ONLY £9.99!" or "HUNGRY? TRY SOME OF OUR CALF MEDICINE! MIGHTY McGRIDDLE'S SPECIAL VEAL BURGER. ONLY £5.99!"

Cut to...

2 INTERIOR - MIGHTY McGRIDDLE'S BURGER BAR - DAY

The KID enters and sees the place is empty. With its gleaming floor and shiny stainless steel glass topped tables, it reeks of super-efficiency. The KID is clearly streetwise. He saunters over to the counter and glares at the female ASSISTANT who's wearing her distinctive McGRIDDLE'S UNIFORM. She's the blonde cheerleader type with a huge grin revealing large pearly white teeth. The grin seems patently false. She talks with a distinctive nasal twang and it's obvious that her American accent is false as well.

ASSISTANT: Hi, there! Welcome to Mighty McGriddle's Burger Bar! How may I help you, kid?

KID: I want a burger.

The ASSISTANT looks around in shock, as through the KID has said something rude.

ASSISTANT: What? A burger? Holy smoke! Hear that? He wants A BURGER! Well, congratulations, kid. You've come to the right place. This just happens to be the Mighty McGriddle's Burger Bar. As a matter of fact, it says so up there. (POINTS TO A SIGN ON THE WALL) See it, kid?

The KID nods, seemingly unaware of the heavy sarcasm.

ASSISTANT: And here at the Mighty McGriddle's Burger Bar, that's all we sell. Burgers. So you gotta be more specific, kid. Because we got lots of burgers. We got beef, bacon, ham, lamb, pork, chicken, and turkey. We even got (WHISPERS) veggieburgers...for those wimps who don't eat meat. (SHOUTS AT THE TOP OF HER VOICE) YOU'RE NOT A WIMP, ARE YOU, KID?

KID: No.

ASSISTANT: Great. Because I hate wimps who eat nothing but vegetables. Here at Mighty McGriddle's Burger Bar we believe if God didn't want us to eat meat He wouldn't have invented cows. (FROWNS) Hey! Shouldn't you be at school?

KID: (DEFENSIVELY) I'm _sick, aren't I._

ASSISTANT: (SUSPICIOUSLY) Sick?...SICK? Listen, kid. I'm no doctor, but you don't look sick to me. Sowhazzwrongwidya, kid?

KID: I've got measles.

ASSISTANT: Measles, huh? Well, I don't see any spots on you.

KID: They come and go. They're called Nowja measles.

ASSISTANT: Nowja measles?

KID: (LAUGHS) Yeah! Nowja see 'em, nowja don't!

ASSISTANT: Very funny, kid! I'm laughing! See the tears streaming down my face? Hey! I bet you're bunking off school.

KID: Listen, just shut up and give _me one of your Special McGriddle Mega-Gargantuan-Double-Toasted-Meaty-Burgers with all the trimmings and French fries._

ASSISTANT: Sorry, kid. We're right out of Special McGriddle Mega-Gargantuan-Double-Toasted-Meaty-Burgers.

KID: You are?

ASSISTANT: Yeah, but I can see how disappointed you are. Tellyaaawhat! I like you, kid. You're cool. I can sense that. For a start, you're not a wimp. So I'll let you into a little secret. Our European research and development laboratory in France have come up with a new experimental extra-extra-extra-extra special McGriddle Mega-Gargantuan-Quadruple-Toasted-Meaty Burger. Youwannatryit, kid?

KID: Yes please!

ASSISTANT: Then follow me.

The ASSISTANT opens a hatch in the counter and beckons the KID through. The KID follows her.

KID: (SUSPICIOUS) _Wait a sec! How much is this McGriddle burger going to cost me?_

They stop outside a door marked "STAFF ONLY!" Above the door two lights. One red the other green. On the wall we see a SMALL BOX WITH BUTTONS. The ASSISTANT enters the code and the door slides open.

ASSISTANT: Cost you?...COST YOU? Lordy-lord...it ain't gonna cost you anything, kid! It's free...gratis. Why? Because at McGriddle's they teach us THAT THE CUSTOMER ALWAYS COMES FIRST! And because I feel sorry for you, kid! Oky-doky! In you go! Today is your lucky day! This is gonna be one meal you'll never forget!

3 INTERIOR - PRESSING ROOM – DAY

With a hiss the door slides shut. We're inside a large room with no windows. The room is empty apart from a GIANT BURGER WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS in the middle of the floor. The KID runs towards it and starts to eat as though he hasn't had a meal in weeks.

Cut to...

4 INTERIOR - MIGHTY McGRIDDLE'S BURGER BAR - DAY

The ASSISTANT stands in front of a small control panel. A TV SCREEN shows the KID eating the burger.

ASSISTANT: You just couldn't resist a free meal, could you? Well, I gotta tell that the burger you're eating contains a special chemical that makes body fat grow at an amazing rate! We wanted to use it on the animals, but they wouldn't let us. They said it was cruel. So we use it on greedy little kids like you.

5 INTERIOR - PRESSING ROOM - DAY

We see the KID from behind. His body is inflating like a giant balloon causing his clothes to rip.

KID: (SCARED) HELP! What's happening to me?

Cut to...

6 INTERIOR - MIGHTY McGRIDDLE'S BURGER BAR - DAY

The ASSISTANT grins as she as she presses a button on the CONTROL PANEL.

ASSISTANT: Goodbye, kid! Have a nice Mighty McGriddle day!

Cut to...

7 INTERIOR - PRESSING ROOM – DAY

Hearing a sound from below the KID looks down. His expression turns to one of sheer terror.

KID: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

A TRAPDOOR opens and he falls into it.

8 INTERIOR - McGRIDDLE'S BURGER BAR - DAY

The ASSISTANT stands by a table. She talks to a POLICEMAN and a MAN in a suit who are sitting down rating burgers

PC: I'm helping the Truant Officer catch kids bunking off from school. But we can never seem to find any. I wonder where they hide themselves? These are great burgers.

ASSISTANT: Our speciality. The meat is fresh in. As for those truants? You never know, you might get lucky! Have a nice Mighty McGriddle day!

EXTRACTS FROM THE POLITICALLY CORRECT DICTIONARY OF SEX

ANAL INTERCOURSE

_Politically correct definitions: Non-vaginal insertion technique; traditional AIDS virus distribution method; biological solid waste portal organic dildo insertion procedure. Example_ _:_ _She told her doctor she'd been constipated ever since her husband had started using non-vaginal insertion techniques._

BONDAGE

Politically correct definitions: Temporary mobility reduction ritual; restraint opportunity; harness modelling; collaborating in a ligature-orientated sexual strategy. Example: The book she was reading was Hemmingway's Of Human Temporary Mobility Reduction Rituals.

CONDOM

Politically correct definitions: A seminal flow inhibitor; disposable seminal fluid container; testicular products receptacle. Faulty Condom: Negatively buffered seminal flow container. Example: "Would sir like a packet of disposable seminal fluid containers with enhanced stimulatory attachments for the weekend?"

DILDO

Politically correct definitions: Non-organically based male sexual organ; lesbian artefact. Example: Her parents suspected something was wrong when she started spending a lot of time in her bedroom crafting lumps of wood into lesbian artefacts.

DOMINATRIX

Politically correct definitions: Female pain application operative; punishment craftsperson. Example: He left the dating agency after they sent him a female pain application operative.

DYKE

Politically correct definitions: professional dildo operator; lesbian artefact user. Example: They met through an advertisement in the Personal Section of Lesbian Artefact User's Monthly.

ERECTION

Politically correct definitions: Male organ restructuring; penile perpendicularity. A flaccid penis is described as: failure to achieve maximum erection; penile downsizing; negative penile growth syndrome, erecturally dispossessed; relative lengthening. Example: She observed his organ spontaneously restructure itself.

FRIGIDITY

Politically correct definitions: Sexual defence tactic; sexually challenged; in a state of negatively charged sexual excitement; chronic headache victim. Example: He called her a "Sexually challenged and chronologically gifted manufactured receptacle for transporting materials!"*

(*A frigid old bag.)

GANG BANG

Politically correct definitions: A multiple sexual experience; recreational activity for alternative lifestyle motorcycle enthusiast's association members. Example: Jodie Foster once starred in a film about a multiple sexual experience.

HOMOSEXUALITY

Politically correct definitions: Alternatively sexed individuals; sexually different; incompletely heterosexual; heterosexually challenged; nonviable partner for the opposite sex; a practitioner of non-traditional sex; person with alternative sexual needs. Example: He replied, "I fear I must decline your suggestion, Miss Witherspoon, for I am a person with alternative sexual needs."

IMPOTENCE

Politically correct definitions: Non-interactive sexual experience; incompletely successful sex act; individual with unmet sexual needs; sexually inconvenienced; in a reduced state of sexual activity; disengaged sexual activity victim. Example: "Not tonight, dear...those 10 pints of Futter's Extra Strong Bitter have left me sobriety-deprived and sexually inconvenienced."

KINKY SEX

Politically correct definitions: An alternatively orientated sexual activity; sexual needs of a non-traditional nature. Example: When she saw his comprehensive collection of rubber appendages, she realised he had sexual needs of a non-traditional nature.

MASOCHISM

Politically correct definitions: Pain experience opportunity; pain volunteer; punishment opportunity; voluntary failure to maintain one's pain-free potential; force beneficiary; painful stimuli abuse; physical abuse management; discomfort addiction. Example: The discomfort addict went to Soho looking for a suitable punishment opportunity.

PENIS

Politically correct definitions: Organic dildo; inflatable male lower body adornment; sperm migration instrument; seminal fluid transporter. Example: His bright red Porsche was clearly an inflatable male lower body adornment substitute.

PREMATURE EJACULATION

Politically correct definitions: Alternatively timed ejaculatory response; a non-mutually shared orgasm; accidental delivery of seminal fluid; seminal incontinence; a seminal discharge misadventure. Men who suffer from this condition are said to be: ejaculatorily challenged or have special ejaculatory needs. Example: After going to bed they experienced several seminal discharge misadventures.

SADISM

Politically correct definitions: Conducting a pain fulfilment ritual. Example: Hubert bent over the chair as the woman they called The Iron Maiden prepared to conduct yet another pain fulfillment ritual.

TESTICLES

Politically correct definitions: Seminal fluid containers; organic temporary housing for potential future birth canal travelers. Example: He said, "I've just made an awful seminal fluid containers of this job!"

VIBRATOR

Politically correct definitions: Low-powered penile shaped electromagnetic instrument for orgasmic enhancement using fluctuating wave-transfer technology; oscillating dildo. Example: "Just lie back while I use this low-powered penile shaped electromagnetic instrument for orgasmic enhancement using fluctuating wave-transfer technology on you."

VIRGINITY

Politically correct definitions: Negatively orientated sexual activity phase; person of unused sexual organs; temporarily sexually inexperienced; sexual experience non-possessor; sexually disorientated; sexually challenged. Loss of virginity, (popping the cherry): Non-surgical removal of hymen survivor; post-celibate individual. Example: "I'm sexually challenged, so please be gentle with me."

I used to write for those "top shelf" magazines. Here's one article I never got round to finishing. Probably because not many men would like to be seen reading it.

THE IMPOTENT MAN'S GUIDE TO THE INTERNET!

Comfortable with the size of your penis? Some men feel that the Good Lord has shortchanged them. That whoever was responsible for quality control took their eyes off the ball. That when the bits were being put together they got the parts mixed up. That there's some dwarf out there with a two foot dick who can't believe his luck! And this has provided some lucrative business for those who work in the sex industry. Take this glowing testimonial...

"Hi, I am Joe, working for a reputed multinational corporation. I had a small penis (Just 4.5" erect) and I needed to enlarge it badly...Read how I enlarged my penis."

Sounds like a satisfied customer. Multinational Corporation? Well, we can rule Microsoft out for a start. Micro and soft? When they saw the size of his tackle they wouldn't have let him in the building. Bill Gates probably ruled that geeks didn't need big penises. After all, they'd be too busy developing computer software to think about sex. Joe tells us his penis was only 4.5. 4.5 what? He didn't say. Maybe he was bashful. Millimetres? In that case he would definitely need to enlarge it! Centimetres? Feet? My penis is 4.5 feet long and I'm still not happy with it? And have you ever heard of a guy complaining his dick was too big? So let's see what relief is on offer for guys who don't measure up.

Penis Enlargement Pills

These are described as herbal substances that increase the flow of blood thus enlarging the penis. But does this herb increase the blood flow in just the penis or everywhere else?

WOMAN: You've gone very red, darling.

MAN: I'm filling up with blood.

Very romantic. The problem is that an enhanced blood flow will only make the penis harder. It won't make it any bigger. So is there a herb that can actually make your penis grow? These people seem to think so...

"Apart from enlarging the Penis, users tell us that they have experienced reduction in premature ejaculation, increased semen production, harder and stronger erections and a tremendous increase in sex drive and stamina. So not only will you have a bigger Penis but also great sexual energy and power. All in all - A Great Bedroom Booster!"

Almost sounds too good to be true, right? Increased semen, eh? What if you take an overdose? Just imagine this scene in the mortuary...

COP: So how did she die, Doc?

PATHOLOGIST: She drowned in semen. Her entire body was filled with it.

COP: Wow! So she wasn't the fattest woman on earth?

PATHOLOGIST: No, it was semen, not blubber. She stinks of it. And you didn't notice? Don't you policemen ever masturbate?

Of course, this herb would need to act just on the penis. Otherwise other parts of the body would also grow. And you'd get this happening...

1st MAN: My dick is nearly two foot long and it's still too small.

2nd MAN: I wish my dick was nearly two foot long.

1st MAN: Yeah, but you're not eight foot tall.

Penis Traction Devices

This is what the ad said...

"A Penis Extender can be worn underneath a loose trouser and can be adjusted to apply the desired amount of traction in order to stretch the penis. Over a period of time, the penis cells grow and multiply under this force thereby elongating the penis. This is one of the most sure-shot ways of stretching the penis to a bigger size."

There was no picture so it was left to the imagination what this penis extender looked like. My imagination came up with a lead weight on the end of a piece of string. The heavier the weight, the faster the result. A 100lb weight would need very baggy trousers but would probably work in minutes. If it didn't pull your dick out!

Proposed Standard Reply to those Scam Emails

Dear

Have no fear! You've come to the right person because I'm well versed in proposals such as yours. Indeed, I've dealt with a number of them. Obviously, with my vast experience in these matters, my services do not come cheap. The financial burden for transferring any money into the special account I use for these transactions, (obviously, for tax purposes the account is in a false name), will be yours and yours alone. My fee for allowing you to send this money to me will be 99.9% of the total amount involved. Wait! Let me guess. I sense you're experiencing a tremendous feeling of joy in the knowledge that I'm allowing you to keep a full 1% of whatever money this person left to you. There is far too much greed in this world and I hope that this act of awe inspiring generosity I've reinforced your trust in me. No, no! Please! There's no need to thank me. Just remember that I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart.

Hoping to hear from you soon and have a nice day!

TRAIN TO BE A TIT!

You can earn big money as a qualified Male or Female Tampon Insertion Technician.

What is a Tampon Insertion Technician?

Because female celebrities lead busy lives they often don't have time for mundane tasks like shopping, cleaning, cooking, etc. So they employ people to do these things for them. Then there's the monthly period. A messy and time consuming job at the best of times, for some celebrities the dreaded PMT's could make the job of changing a tampon even more stressful! Far better if someone could do it for them. And that's where you come in. As a Tampon Insertion Technician you can make those monthly blues go away!

No qualifications required! But applicants must have good eyesight and a steady hand. After all, we don't want that tampon to go into the wrong orifice! Once our student TITS have been trained in basic female anatomy and hygiene they could end up earning £50,000 + a year! Here are testimonials from some of our former students.

"A bleeding good job!"

F. Hanny.

"The work is very absorbing."

Var Jinah.

"They like it because you have to kneel down in front of them."

T. Watt.

Apply: TITS Training College. Tarmpax Lane, London CU4 NT9

Idea for a Letter to the Health Minister

People should be encouraged to smoke. And to smoke their cigarettes, cigars and pipes when they like, where they like. Okay, you may think this is about personal freedom or a blow against the nanny state. But you'd be wrong. This is about cleansing the human race. Because smokers and potential smokers suffer from a form of retarded development that weakens their instincts for self-preservation. Smokers are the intellectual runts of the litter. Why else, given all the medical evidence, would any sensible person choose to smoke? Does smoking go hand-in-hand with the instinct for self-preservation? I rest my case.

Sensible people would never consider spending good money just to coat the insides of their lungs with tar. And for what? People have said it acts as an appetite suppressant. Really? So why is it I keep seeing fat people smoking. Maybe it's not fat. Maybe they're filled with smoke. Maybe all that inhaling has increased the size of their lungs. In my book anyone who buys a product that significantly increases their chances of dying a horrible death is not playing with a full deck. You think that's too harsh? Okay, let's run a check on the smoker's IQ. Let's check and see if those nicotine addicts are capable of rational thought. Here's the bottom line: if smoking was harmless then the medical profession wouldn't care less if you smoked or not. Even babies could smoke. You could buy the little one twenty Benson & Hedges along with the disposable nappies and have a clear conscience. You could have a photo in the family album showing Johnny, aged 11 months, enjoying his first Marlboro.

But even smokers know that would be wrong. Smokers know that the medical profession want them to stop smoking for a good reason. Why else would they do it? But the smoker continues to clutch onto straws. Hey! Maybe all that medical evidence is wrong. Maybe it shows the opposite is true. That smoking is good for you. What about that guy who smoked all his life and lived to be a 100? In which case, most people who smoke all their lives will also live to be a 100, right? So where are all these octogenarian smokers? The medical profession must be hiding them from us. Somewhere, in a secret location, there's this town filled with 100-year-old people puffing away. And they're thinking, 'That's funny. Why can't we show ourselves and prove smoking is harmless?'

Smokers will also claim that it's down to freedom of choice. You either choose to smoke or you don't. Okay, let's put this into perspective. That means the 114,000 people who die each year of smoking related diseases can tell themselves they exercised their freedom of choice. And what about the grieving relatives? Do you imagine the doctor is going to say, 'Well, at least your mother had the freedom of choice to do that to herself.' Some consolation, eh? Hang out the bunting. Let's have a street party for their mother's freedom of choice.

The truth is, they were free to buy that first packet of fags. After that they had no freedom of choice. They were hooked. Because nicotine is a highly addictive drug. Just like heroin. Except that heroin contains just one toxic compound whilst tobacco contains over 400! Those smokers must really enjoy living close to the edge. Smokers probably regard crackheads as wimps. 'Hey! This fag has more than 4000 chemical compounds and 400 of them are toxic. How toxic? Well, one causes cancer, another is addictive and raises your cholesterol and a third reduces the oxygen in your body. So forget that white powder. Live dangerously.' Heroin and tobacco. One screws up your head and the other screws up the rest of your body. And the only difference between a nicotine addict and a heroin addict is that one is using a legal substance and the other one isn't.

So that's the freedom of choice smokers are talking about. A potential smoker voluntarily choosing to give themselves less chance of remaining healthy and more chance of getting lung cancer. Not to mention all those other medical problems they might pick up. At the very least, their teeth might fall out? So what? They'll get dentures. So they might become impotent? No problem. There's Viagra. Does anyone actually think that deciding to smoke is a good lifestyle decision to make? Okay, they might defend that by saying that at the time they decided to smoke, they didn't think of the potential hazards. What? They see someone smoking and their mind just goes blank? The sight of a cigarette is so powerful an image that it temporarily destroys their common sense? Rubbish! They know the risks. It's just that they're not playing with a full deck. Freedom of choice should be used wisely. In my book anyone who uses their freedom of choice to inhale the toxic smoke from a common weed is a danger to the human race. They are spreading some bad genes.

One final thought. This isn't often mentioned, but addiction is also a form of slavery. And Mr Nicotine is a cruel master. He does his best to try and kill the person he's enslaved. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. Mr Nicotine is just as stupid as his victim. So why would any rational human being allow Mr Nicotine to do that to them? To allow their lives to be ruled by an inorganic compound. How can anyone be that gullible? Yet smokers never complain about these things in public. Instead they complain that they can't smoke where and when they like. Isn't that weird? And you still think these people are playing with a full deck.

Just think of the money we'll save. Less mouths to feed and less sick people clogging up the NHS. Reliving the strain on health care resources and the elimination of idiots. You'll be killing two birds with one stone."

SAY CHEESE!

Mike Knowles

When the Apollo 11 astronauts landed on the lunar surface the last thing they expected to find was that the moon was made of green cheese.

But that's precisely what they did find.

It was Neil Armstrong who first discovered this amazing fact. Picking up a small moon rock he discovered that it was both crumbly and, when examined closely, had a faint greenish tinge. He took it back to the lunar module where he and "Buzz" Aldrin examined it.

'Tell me I'm not seeing things, Buzz. It looks just like green cheese, right?'

Buzz put the lump up to his nose and sniffed. 'Smells like it as well,' he said.

At first they thought that this was some kind of hallucination. Before going out they'd had breakfast, so maybe some joker had spiked some of the drinks with LSD. It certainly couldn't have been the moon's atmosphere because there wasn't one. And they were well protected in their space suits. Maybe it was their oxygen. But everything else seemed perfectly normal...apart from the strange moon rock Buzz was holding. There was a silence as the two men tried to digest the impossible fact that the moon might, indeed, be made of green cheese. Then they realised there was something else they had to digest.

'Who's going to do it?' asked Neil.

'No way!' cried Buzz. 'That stuff might be lethal. Even if it is green cheese, just think how old it is.'

'Yeah,' said Neil. 'But it's in a vacuum. It'll be preserved.

The discussion continued for some time. As mission commander, Neil could have ordered Buzz to taste the moon rock. But he didn't. Collins in the module called over the radio wondering if they were okay so Neil told him they were conducting a delicate scientific experiment. Eventually, Neil decided that someone just had to taste it and he wasn't going to let Buzz risk his life. So he put a piece of the "rock" in his mouth and chewed it. Buzz looked at him in horror.

'Well?' asked Buzz.

'Holy shit!' cried Neil. 'It is cheese.'

They pondered this for a moment. Then Buzz shrugged. 'Okay, but that doesn't mean the whole moon is made of it. Maybe someone dropped that piece.'

'Yeah, sure,' Neil snickered. 'Maybe a bunch of alien picnickers were on here. Or maybe it's those moon creatures HG Wells wrote about.'

'Or maybe the Russians got here first.'

Neil shook his head. 'Russians don't eat green cheese. They eat caviar.'

'Then we need to check,' said Buzz.

And check they did. Only to end up having their worst fears confirmed. Inspecting the landscape around the module they found that other pieces of moon rock were also made of green cheese. And that the moon dust was green cheese that had been finely grated. The discovery seemed to make them go light-headed. Buzz joked they could have spaghetti and sprinkle the stuff over the top.

'Or Lasagna,' said Neil. 'Okay, it's not Parmesan cheese, but we're not in Luigi's Restaurant we're on the fucking moon, right?'

They began to laugh hysterically. Finally they had to hyperventilate to regain control.

It was Buzz who brought it up. 'So what do we tell Mission Control?

'We tell them nothing,' said Neil. 'We tell them everything's fine and dandy and take some of those moon rocks back. Let them figure it out.'

So that's what they did. And NASA's first - and perfectly natural - reaction was to accuse the crew of Apollo 11 of playing a practical joke. But Neil asked them where else could they have gotten that green cheese from? Maybe they sneaked it aboard before takeoff, replied NASA. Then they sent the men for psychiatric evaluation. Meanwhile, the media were told the mission had been a major success but that, for technical reasons, the astronauts had been unable to bring any samples back with them. Yes, it was very disappointing but it was just one of those things. Meanwhile, back at the laboratory, the "lunar" samples were carbon dated just to prove that this was all a hoax. A sick joke perpetrated by some pretty sick astronauts. Who should either be confined to a mental institution or placed in front of a firing squad. Only to discover to their utter dismay that this green cheese was over 40-billion years old! The tests were done again. With the same result. The equipment was thoroughly checked. It was working perfectly. Confronted by this evidence, the scientists locked themselves away and tried to come up with some sort of rational explanation. Because no one wanted to go to J. F. Kennedy and say, 'Mister President. The moon is made of green cheese.' But, try as they might, there was only one explanation and it was proving a difficult one to accept. Finally, the leading scientist stood up.

'Ladies and Gentlemen,' he said. 'We must face the facts, no matter how incredible they may seem. Let's just pray there are no other surprises in store for us.'

At this point a timid voice was heard from the far end of the table. 'If the moon's made of green cheese, sir, then what's the earth made of?'

EYE

When I arrived at the laboratory, Professor Hung Lo was waiting to greet me. I'd met him once a few years ago when I attended one of his lectures shortly after he'd won the Nobel Prize in Genetics. But he'd aged since then and his hair was now white. But he was still an imposing and charismatic figure. To make matters worse, my visit required both tact and firmness and I just hoped my nerves weren't showing.

'Doctor Proctor,' I said, holding out my hand. 'From Ethics.'

He shook it briefly. 'Ah, yes. I have friends there. A nice place.'

'Ethics,' I said. 'Not Essex. I'm from the General Medical Council Ethical Committee.'

I explained that the GMC had picked me because I knew a little about genetic engineering. In fact, I'd written a series of articles about the subject one of the Sunday supplements.

Professor Lo was unimpressed. 'I never read the Sunday supplements. Only the Lancet, the New Scientist...scientific and professional periodicals of that nature.'

'All work and no play,' I quipped.

'Shall we get this over with?' Lo snapped. I followed him to his office which was cluttered with papers and the remnants of a canteen lunch. "So, who was it?" he asked, settling down in his chair and fixing me with a frosty stare.

'Who was what?'

'Don't be obtuse, woman. The whistleblower.'

'Please address me as Doctor Baker. And you know as well as I do, that we're not at liberty to divulge that information. I'm here to establish whether or not the allegations are true.'

'Allegations?'

'That your work here contravenes the guidelines on medical research as laid down by the GMC Ethical Standards Committee. That you have cloned a human being. And that, by doing so, you have caused unnecessary suffering.'

The Professor laughed. Which made me angry.

'I see nothing funny about it!'

'Political correctness!' Lo retorted. 'Everyone knows that the General Medical Council is pandering to politically correct Guardian readers and hysterical New Age Activists...the sort of people who protest about GM crops and every other branch of scientific research.'

The Professor had momentarily dropped the detached and analytic mantle of a scientist. It was clear he wanted to show me that genetic engineering was more than just a job. It was his underlying passion. I recalled what one of his contemporaries had told me: "Strip away the professional mask and you'll find a man with a mission." Others were less charitable. 'Lo's applying for a job in heaven. He wants to be God.'

This discussion was getting us nowhere, so I decided to go for the jugular. 'Professor Lo,' I said. 'Is there any truth in these allegations?'

For a split second Lo looked away. Was it guilt? Then he sighed.

'Yes, we have cloned a human being.'

'By cloned, you mean in the same way Doris the Sheep was cloned?'

'Yes. Its name is Cyclops and it's six months old.'

'It?'

'We...' Lo looked mildly embarrassed. 'Haven't been able to determine its sex.'

There was a pause as I tried to take this information in. 'I see. Is it alive?'

'As far as we can determine, yes.'

I frowned. His answer didn't make any sense. Either the thing was alive or it wasn't. I decided to leave that for the moment. 'This name you've given it...Cyclops. Isn't that rather unusual?'

Lo stood up. 'You'd better see for yourself.'

With some trepidation I followed him down the corridor to a small room. The door was marked in big red letters:

OUT OF BOUNDS! AUTHORISED STAFF ONLY.

BY ORDER OF PROFESSOR LO.

As we entered I almost expected to see bubbling liquids in test tubes and massive coils giving off electrical currents. Like Frankenstein's laboratory. Instead, I was confronted by one of those incubators that keep premature babies alive. It stood in the middle of the room, hooked up to various tubes and monitoring equipment. I turned to look at Lo who nodded at me. I realised that I was on the verge of one of those momentous occasions that shape society. Of course, the ethical problems were well known to me. But there was a more fundamental question. If it became commonplace to clone perfect babies in the laboratory, it might also be possible to produce the female eggs synthetically. And then what use would men have for us women?

Taking a deep breath, I walked towards the incubator and looked in. For a moment I thought I was going to pass out. As a doctor I had witnessed many horrible sights. But nothing had ever prepared me for this. There, on a large gauze pad, was an eye. Just an eye...nothing more. A big blue one.

I turned to Lo. 'Is this some kind of sick joke?'

Lo shook his head.

Struggling to maintain my composure, I took out my notebook and pen. All right,' I said. 'We appear to have a living organism in the shape of a human eye. It has no limbs, no trunk, no head, ears nose or mouth.' I paused, glancing at Lo. He looked bored. Which made me angry again.

'Is there anything else you need? Lo asked. 'If so I'm sure my assistant can help you. I'm a very busy man.'

I controlled myself. 'Yes, there is, Professor. I'll obviously have to make a full report about this to the Committee. Perhaps you can supply me with a photograph of...of...Cyclops. Without a photograph, it may be difficult convincing my colleagues that I wasn't hallucinating.'

'You will have my full cooperation.'

Lo escorted me to the main entrance. As he held the door open I stopped and turned to him. It was a rhetorical question, but procedure demanded I ask it. By the way. Just for the record, Professor Lo. Is there anything else wrong with it?'

'Yes,' he said. 'It's blind.'

Wasting Time

Below is a report of a recent trial at the Crown Court in Eastbourne that appeared in the Law Review. The Law Society have expressed some alarm and the report, which contains extracts of Defence Counsel Rowan-Berry QC's cross-examination of the main witness for the prosecution, Detective Inspector Goosegog, is reprinted below.

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Detective Inspector, would you agree that the deliberate reporting of a false crime in order to waste police time is, in itself, a genuine offence._

_GOOSEGOG:_ _Yes._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _I see. And being an offence you are therefore obliged to investigate it?_

_GOOSEGOG:_ _That's right._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _So one could argue that the time spent on this matter has not been wasted because it has led to a prosecution._

_JUDGE:_ _I think I can see what you're getting at. However, in this instance it is merely the time the police spent dealing with the false crime that was being wasted._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _I don't wish to labour the point, Your Honour, but to me it seems logical to assume that the investigation of the false crime would have been a total waste of time if nothing positive had come out of it. But something positive did come out of it. They discovered that an offence of wasting police time been committed. Yet they charged my client with wasting their time. But it wasn't wasted if it eventually led to a prosecution._

_JUDGE:_ _It was wasted mounting an operation for a bank robbery that turned out to be a figment of your client's imagination._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _But the charge he is facing now is somewhat ambiguous. It relates to wasting police time. Does this mean that all the time they spent on this case was wasted? Because if it was, why bother charging my client?_

At this point the Judge adjourned the proceedings and ordered the two QC's to report to his chambers. As they entered the Judge seated himself behind his desk and turned to Angelica.

'I'd like Counsel for the Defence to explain her argument.'

'It's really quite simple, Your Honour,' Angelica replied. 'My client is charged with wasting police time. Yet I've demonstrated that their time wasn't wasted because it ended with my client being charged with an offence.'

At this Mr Watermelon, Counsel for the Prosecution, raised his first objection. 'My Learned Friend is twisting words,' he said. 'The police would not have had to charge her client if he hadn't given them false information. Therefore he's the one responsible. Her client didn't have to commit this offence. If he'd kept his mouth shut the police could have been concentrating on other matters.'

'By that argument,' countered Angelica, 'John Smith didn't have to steal that car and Mary Muggins didn't have to go shoplifting. If they hadn't then the police could have been concentrating on other matters. Are we now saying John Smith and Mary Muggins should also be charged with wasting police time? Of course not. My argument is a simple one: Discovering, by whatever legitimate route, that an indictable offence may have been committed cannot be considered a waste of police time. Because that is precisely what the police are paid to do. And that is precisely what they did in this case.'

Watermelon raised a finger in the air. 'Yes,' he said triumphantly, 'they discovered that your client had wasted their time.'

Angelica shook her head. 'The time it took them to make that discovery wasn't wasted because it led to a prosecution. So precisely what amount of time was wasted?'

At this point the Judge broke in. 'It was the time they spent mounting the operation before they discovered your client's information was false.'

'But they needed to do that, Your Honour,' Angelica explained, 'in order to discover that it was false. Far from being wasted, the amount of time we're talking about was absolutely necessary in order to establish the facts.'

'Your Honour,' protested Counsel for the Prosecution. 'My Learned Friend's example of John Smith and Mary Muggins is nothing more than an attempt to muddy the waters. Taking and driving away a motor vehicle and shoplifting cannot be considered a waste of police time. Why? Because we're talking about real crimes, not imaginary ones.

'If the offence under Section 5(2) of the Crime Law Act relates to an imaginary crime,' countered Angelica, 'Then why has my client been charge with it?

'The crime her client reported,' cried Watermelon in desperation, 'was the imaginary part. The real offence was in reporting it.'

'But he had to report the imaginary crime, 'explained Angelica, 'in order to commit the offence he's now charged with. In the same way John Smith had to break into the motor vehicle in order to steal it and Mary Muggins had to leave the shop with unpaid goods in order to commit the offence of shoplifting. It's really quite simple and I fail to see my Learned Friend's problem. A first year law student could follow it. If the police had, after acting on some false information, decided to do nothing further about it then they would indeed have wasted their time. If, however, they decided to use the time it took them to determine that the information was false to mount a prosecution, then that time would not have been wasted.'

'No, not completely wasted,' said Watermelon. 'They managed to salvage something out of it.'

Not completely, eh?' replied Angelica. 'Maybe my Learned Friend can tell us precisely how much time was wasted?'

Watermelon had his reply ready. 'The time spent on the false information.'

Angelica smiled. 'But if they hadn't spent that time they wouldn't have known the information was false. And they wouldn't have known an offence had been committed. I ask my Learned Friend again...precisely how much time was wasted?'

A look of panic came over Watermelon's face. 'Your Honour! Order her to stop. She's doing my head in.'

At this point the Judge decided he'd had enough. 'I see no point in discussing the term, "wasting police time." Counsel for the Defence has demonstrated that this leads us into a circular argument. Whilst I agree that there appears to be a paradox here, I cannot allow her argument for I feel it would create a dangerous precedent. There would be anarchy. People would be wasting police time with impunity. No, I'm afraid I must overrule on this one. Should she attempt to present it to the jury I will instruct them to ignore it.'

The court reconvened. Realising she wasn't about to make legal history, Angelica now had to ensure that her client wasn't convicted. So, once the Prosecution had rested their case, she announced that Edward would testify in the witness box. At first he'd refused to give evidence on his behalf. However, during recess for lunch, he had mysteriously changed his mind. The transcript shows what followed...

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Mr Tangerine, when the police charged you with wasting their time, what did you say to them?_

_TANGERINE:_ _I told them I had no comment to make._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _In other words, you refused to answer their questions. As was your right._

_TANGERINE:_ _Yes._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _I see. And how did the police react to this?_

_TANGERINE:_ _They said it would look like I had something to hide._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _And you did have something to hide. Tell me what happened on the night you left the Dun Cow after hearing about that bank robbery._

_TANGERINE:_ _I was abducted._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _And by whom were you abducted?_

_TANGERINE:_ _By aliens._

_WATERMELON:_ _Your Honour, I really must protest! This is the first the Prosecution have heard of this!_

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _That is because I only learned of it myself just before my client decided to testify. Apparently he was too embarrassed to talk about it until now. May I continue, Your Honour?_

_JUDGE:_ _By all means._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _I'm obliged, Your Honour. Now, Mr Tangerine. Could you describe, to the best of your knowledge, what happened to you?_

_TANGERINE:_ _I was making my way across the common when I saw this light shimmering in the air above my head. It came from a large, saucer-like object, that was floating about forty feet from the ground. I knew what it was immediately. You see, I happen to be a member of the local UFO Spotters Club. It was obviously an inter-galactic vehicle operated by an advanced intelligent life form from another planet. Suddenly a hatch opened underneath it and this beam of light hit me._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _And what happened then?_

_TANGERINE:_ _The beam of light transported me into the UFO._

_WATERMELON:_ _Your Honour! The Defendant is clearly making the whole thing up in the hope of pleading insanity._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Really? Was my Learned Friend there the night my client walked across the common from the Dun Cow? If so, this has to be an amazing coincidence. What on earth was my Learned Friend doing there?_

_JUDGE:_ _Were you there, Mr Watermelon?_

_WATERMELON:_ _No, Your Honour._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Then how can he be so sure? If my Learned Friend intends to raise an objection may I suggest he refrains from letting his mouth make statements his intellect cannot cover._

_WATERMELON:_ _Your Honour!_

_JUDGE:_ _I entirely agree with the sentiment expressed by Counsel for the Defence. You're a fool, Mr Watermelon._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _I'm obliged to Your Honour. Now, Mr Tangerine. Will you kindly tell the court what happened to you after you were transported into the UFO?_

_TANGERINE:_ _It's...it's embarrassing._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _I realise that. And this is why you didn't mention it to the police. Because you were scared they'd make fun of you. Am I right?_

_TANGERINE:_ _That's right._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _But try and tell us now. I can assure you that no one will laugh at you. You have my word on that._

_TANGERINE:_ _They...they made me drop my trousers and bend over a table._

_WATERMELON:_ _Your Honour!_

_JUDGE:_ _Be silent. I want to hear this._

_TANGERINE:_ _They were just like the ones you hear about. They have these almond shaped heads and big black eyes._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _And what did they do to you?_

_TANGERINE:_ _They...they..._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Take it slowly. There's no rush._

_WATERMELON:_ _Your Honour! I really must protest._

_JUDGE:_ _Be silent, Mr Watermelon! Or I'll be forced to charge you with contempt of court. Go on, Mister Tangerine._

_TANGERINE:_ _They inserted something into my back passage._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Something?_

_TANGERINE:_ _It looked like a stainless steel probe with a flashing red light on the end._

_JUDGE:_ _You must have a very unique back passage, Mr Tangerine._

_TANGERINE:_ _Just an ordinary one, Your Honour._

_JUDGE:_ _Come now, Mr Tangerine. These aliens travelled hundreds of light years through the galaxy just to examine it._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Have you told anyone else about this?_

_TANGERINE:_ _I told Doctor Foster._

_JUDGE:_ _Doctor Foster?_

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Yes, Your Honour. He has a consulting room in Gloucester._

_WATERMELON:_ _Doctor Foster from Gloucester, eh? Does he by any chance live next door to Mother Goose?_

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _Very droll. But I can assure my Learned Friend that Doctor Foster does exist. He's a psychiatrist. You've been seeing Doctor Foster for about a month now, am I right, Mr Tangerine?_

_TANGERINE:_ _That's right._

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _And could you please tell the court what Doctor Foster thinks is wrong with you?_

_TANGERINE:_ _He reckons I'm related to a German Baron._

_JUDGE:_ _A German Baron?_

_ROWAN-BERRY:_ _My client is referring to Von Munchausen, Your Honour._

_JUDGE:_ _I think I've heard enough. Unless the Prosecution can come up with a good reason not to, I intend to stop this case and discharge the jury._

A Nursery Story

When he arrived in Soho to examine the nursery he saw that it was over one of those sex shops, which definitely wasn't a good location. The fact that it was advertised in a telephone box indicated that they were just starting out and keeping advertising costs down. But the only other adverts were from tarts offering various services. So that would have to be discussed. And they were going to have to move to more suitable premises. The note pinned on the wall said the nursery was located on the second floor and when he knocked on the door it was opened by a well-built woman in her 30's with blonde hair. His attention was immediately directed to the fact that she was wearing a tight fitting nanny's uniform. A very tight fitting one. And in his embarrassment he tried to make a feeble joke.

'Good morning,' he said. 'I'm Peter Piker from OFSTED. Has that uniform been passed by Health and Safety?'

She smiled at him. 'Whatever do you mean, you naughty boy?'

_He blushed and stammered, 'It... er...appears to be a little on the small side_.'

'Yes, it is.' She said. 'I sometimes find it hard to breathe so I have to loosen it for a while.'

She began to giggle. After an awkward pause he asked her if this was Nanny Bigboob's Nursery.'

'That's right, dear,' she said. 'Come in.'

Entering the premises Peter explained that he was here to make sure she was fully qualified and equipped to run a nursery. Oh yes, she told him. The equipment's top notch and she was fully qualified all right. Her clients would vouch for that. Peter then informed her that it was rather dark and pokey in here. And that a little child could get hurt bumping into things.

'I very much doubt that, love,' she replied.

He was about to ask her what she meant when they entered the living room. For a moment he couldn't believe his eyes. 'Oh my God!' He cried. 'What's that? It looks like a...'

'That's right, dear,' she said. 'It's a working facsimile of a medieval rack.'

As bold as brass, she showed him some handcuffs attached to a pulley and then directed his attention to an Iron Maiden standing in the corner. Seeing the look of horror on his face she laughed and told him not to worry. This particular model had rubber spikes. And, she pointed out, (no pun intended), that although the rubber was hard, it wasn't lethal.

'After all,' she laughed. 'We can't have real spikes can we? That would be against Health and Safety Regulations.'

' _NO!'_ he shouted. 'This will never do.' She looked puzzled so he told her that under no circumstances could they allow her to have any children in here.

'Children?' she cried. 'What the hell are you on about? You think I'm some kind of pervert?'

'Not at all, Nanny Bigboobs,' said Peter quickly. 'I think there's been some misun...'

But she didn't let him finish. 'Listen,' she said. 'If you want to see if I'm qualified then we'd better get to work."

'To work?' he said.

'That's what you're here for, right? Although I never knew that the Office for Standards in Education inspected BDSM establishments.'

'BDSM?'

'Bondage, Discipline and Sado-Masochism.'

She proceeded to tell him that they'd wasted enough time and that she had an important client coming at eleven thirty. Someone in show business. And he didn't like the punters seeing him there. By now Peter was becoming totally confused. Seeing him standing there with a glazed expression on his face she smiled and said, 'Are you staring at Nanny's big booby-woobies? Is it because Nanny-wanny forgot to put her bra on this morning? You can tell Nanny-wanny isn't wearing a bra because we can see the shape of her big red nipples sticking up under her uniform.'

Regaining his composure Peter told her to stop saying these things and there had obviously been some sort of mistake. Whereupon she slapped him hard across the face!

'If you want to look at your Nanny's booby-woobies,' she said. 'You're just going to have to ask, aren't you? Go on, then. Ask nicely. Please, Nanny...can I see your booby-woobies.'

He stepped back out of range and shook his head. 'There's obviously been a terrible misunderstanding,' he said. 'I thought that this was a genuine children's nursery.

'Then you're a stupid bugger,' she snarled. 'It is for children but it's for big children like you. Now, are you going to ask to see my booby-woobies?'

'Certainly not!' Peter cried. He tried once again to explain that there'd been a terrible mistake. At which the woman rushed towards him and slapped him again. This time even harder!

'OUCH! That's it! I'm calling the...'

Before he could make a run for it, she kneed him in the groin. He sank to the floor in agony and when his vision cleared, (the blow had brought tears to his eyes), he saw that she was holding this big leather riding crop. That did it!

' _All right! All right!'_ _Peter yelled. 'Show me your...booby-woobies.' If he was hoping that this would placate her he was to be sorely disappointed. Sorely in the literal sense because her response was to whack him hard on the leg with the riding crop._

' _OOOOWWW!'_ _He cried. 'What the hell was that for?_

'For not asking nicely,' she replied smugly. Then, while he was writhing in agony from this latest blow she told him that Nanny Bigboobs expected all her boys to be nice and polite.

'So let's hear you do it properly.'

'Very well,' he said, swallowing his pride. By now he realised it would be worth any amount of humiliation just to get out of here in one piece. 'Can Peter-weeter please take a look at his nanny's booby-woobies?'

'All right, Peter-weeter,' cooed the woman. Rubbing his bruised leg he watched apprehensively as she took her top off and they both flopped out. They reminded him of those watermelons that win first prize in gardening competitions.

'There we are, Peter-weeter. Now, are your mummy's booby-woobies as big as this?'

Peter told her that he'd prefer it if she kept his mother out of this. This merely resulted in another whack across the leg.

' _No... no!'_ _he cried. 'Your breasts are definitely bigger.'_

Thwack!

'Tut, tut!' she said. 'We don't use naughty words like breasts. In my nursery we call them booby-woobies. 'Have you got that?'

'Yes.'

Thwack!

'Yes what?

'Yes, Nanny,' he groaned.

'That's better, Peter-weeter," she said. 'Now I want you to suckle Nanny's nipple-whipple.' You can pretend you're a baby feeding from your mummy's booby-wooby."

This made him blush again. In desperation he reminded her that he was an OFSTED inspector. And OFSTED inspectors didn't go around suckling the nipples of strange woman. They left that sort of behaviour to other people like politicians. But immediately regretted it when he saw that Nanny Bigboobs had replaced the riding crop with a cattle prod. Before he could apologize for his latest gaffe his body convulsed in a shower of sparks and he almost passed out. And that was only the start! Nanny Bigboobs turned out to be a very strict and pedantic disciplinarian. The slightest thing seemed to upset her. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she told him it was over and watched as a naked and bruised Peter began, painfully, to get dressed. Then, satisfied that he'd suffered enough, she went into the bathroom to wash the blood out of the enema kit.

'You'd better go,' she called. 'It's almost eleven-thirty and you don't want Nanny-wanny to get angry again.'

' _Aggghhh!'_ _groaned Peter as he tried to stand up on the red raw soles of his feet. This was one inspection he wasn't going to forget! Grimacing he hobbled over to the door to hear her yell that he'd been a good little boy and that Nanny was thoroughly delighted with him._

'Thank you, Nanny-wanny!' cried Peter.

'My pleasure,' said Nanny. 'I'll see you same time next week and this time you can be a policeman.'

Unlike poor Spike, I'm able to get my unfinished work out whilst I'm still alive. Hold on! There's that chest pain again...

THE END

