Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 17

My lord, can it be true! For the love of Lassiters Lake , that devlish wag and heating system behemoth, Sherby57 has written chapter 17 . He wrote it with his brain and possibly his fingers! Dare you read it?



Catch up with the whole of Hazard of Parnsips here: https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/a-hazard-of-parsnips/

If you’re good, we might record it as a podcast so you can listen to it in the car/baffle chamber/bra generator.

Hazard of Parsnips: Chapter 15


The hour is upon is. Not literally. I don’t know how an hour would actually get up on top of us. The mere notion of it is ridiculous and doesn’t warrant the attention from the fine fellows in our solemn brotherhood. Please forgive me frippery and frivolity. Or even my frivvery and fripolity. I’m never sure which is it. Sorry. I’ve done it again. The point that I am consistently failing to make is that not only are our plans finally coming to fruition, but that I have set my sights on marriage.

That’s right. You fellas had better believe it. You do not require nanny to clean out your privileged lug-holes with a bit of string and a tub of olbas oil. You heard me correctly the first time. Of course, as this is a letter, you did not hear me at all; unless you are counting the imaginence of the words formed by your mind’s ear. But, please allow me this moment of artistic licence in a moment such as this.

So, who could this feminine flesh-bag be that finally captures the attentions of Lord Dennis\me? The situation, as you may well imagine, is somewhat complicated. My dear bum-chums, you will remember my recent incarceration for the alleged kidnapping of the arse-clown Crapper. Oh, how we laughed on my release. If only the rozzers had any inkling of even a sprinking of the myriad of depravaties commited by our fellowship. They’d literally shit a brick. Well, I’m sure that you also remember that tsunami of abuse that washed over me from my supposedly betrothed Eileen Bilton. Our nuptials had been agreed by our secret society as nothing more than a plan to seize control of her father’s land. Those golden acres are essential to the progression of our dastardly schemes. (Note: I think we may have to stop calling our plans ‘dastardly’ ourselves. I think it may possibly make us look a little bit suspicious. It’s bad enough that we’re part of an evil secret brotherhood, innit #justsayin). Anyway, this little firebrand’s abuse roused me in a way that I had never been roused before. The tenacity that she showed in her prolonged attacks on my personage were like a dog with a bone. And this made me like a man with a bone (I’m trying to imply that it gave me a stiffy). Sure, this might sound a little kinky, but we’re all perverts here. Why else would we all be members of a sinister cult-like organisation? That especially goes for you, vicar. If only your congregation knew what was going on underneath your robes. You disgust even me.

It soon came to pass that Crapper’s kidnapping was perpetrated by none other than Der Naughty Kitty. Yes, him. I know that I assured you all that he wouldn’t be a problem, but even the Stefmeister can be wrong from time to time. I digress. Upon hearing the news, Miss Bilton did me the utmost honour of writing me a gracious letter of apology. The silly bitch. She’s just playing straight into my hands. And, boy, do I ever have sweaty palms. She thinks she is still in love with Crapper, but she will be mine. I have perused my extensive library and studied my treasured first edition of “A Treatise Upon The Rules of The Game of Love: A Dazzling Insight into The Art of The Neg” by Count Neil Von Strauss. I have sent away to the finest tailor’s in all of Swindon for a jazzy red suit made of the plushest velveteen known in the empire. How could any woman not succumb to my elaborate peacocking? Then I’ll probably go up to her and tell her that her dress is nice, it’s like the one that the skinny girl was wearing earlier. Or maybe I’ll tell her that I like her FAKE nails. Bwah-ha-ha! Oh, my chums. How can any fraulein not fall directly into my lap after being given a compliment that was actually a vague insult? She’ll be like putty in my hands. Just think of how I’m going to use her to fix a window in position…. scratch that. I don’t think the metaphor really stretches that far.

Once she’s fallen for me then I’m going to do everything I can to wind her up. Only then will I once again fully experience the barrage of abuse that first attracted me to her in the first place. Oh, can you imagine living your whole life with a woman that does naught but harangue you from dawn till dusk? The deliciousness of the situation leaves me sticky with my anticipatory sap.

So, thats my plan. What do you guys think? You know you’re all, like, really really important to me. I wouldn’t want to rush into anything without getting your seals of approval. I know we’re like a team of Maciavellian miscreants, but, in many ways, I see us like those outrageous girls from Sex in The City. Oh, the hours we’ve wiled away in our chambers, deciding which one of was Samantha, who was most like Carrie and who had the whiff of Beryl about her. I hope it doesn’t affect my standing as an evil genius, but I really love you guys. Golly gosh, I’m getting quite teary here. I’m going to get such a ribbing at the next meeting!! LOLZ

Anyway, where was I? Yeah, I plan to marry this crazy chick, after all. I mean Eileen Bilton, not Charlotte Church. I don’t want there to be any confusion. Then, after we are wed, I can put the finishing touches to our masterplan. Yes, all the components are coming together nicely and even the antics of Der Naughty Kitty cannot scupper them. I will choose not to reveal any details of the plan in this letter. I just feel that if someone were to come across this menacing missive and read the minutiae of our perfect plot, then it would somehow ruin the suspense for them. Perhaps that they’re enjoying this letter as some kind of story. How would they feel if the mystery was taken away before the end? Whenever “the end” is. Real life doesn’t have an ending, does it? Well, it does when you die, but you know what I’m trying to say. Do you? I’m not really sure myself? I’ve just implied that we’re all in a giant story, but now I’m back-tracking slightly. What can it all mean?

Bwah-hahahaha-ha!! Oh my friends. How the big author in the sky would be laughing at us now. The whole world is a big story being written by our celestial scribe. It’s one of the weird beliefs of our secret society. Which you all obviously know as you’re all also members. I don’t really know why I felt I had to point it out to you. Could it be the work of the mystic bard working through my errant fingers? Or is it just because I’ve drank too much rhubarb wine? I dunno, but I bloody love you lot. Anyway, I better be off, I think I’m going to be sick.


Cool Lord D

Chapter 14: A Hazard of Parsnips

Dear brother Yurgi

I can hardly ally my feelings tonight. I am giddy with excitement, like a school girl at a Big fun concert with supporting act, Let Loose, but I am also sick to my very stomach for I have betrayed the very man to which I owe my freedom.

Would you ever eat fish and chips without salt and vinegar?

Just wondering…

I am aware of his idiosyncracies, the way he makes me spray the air with his own urine to stop ‘the nasties’, the way he has to purify the air with poetry, the copies of ‘Nugget’ in the bedside table drawer that he’s ‘keeping for his brother’, but he set me free.

It was in 1972 that he sprung me from the deplorable slavery that brought me to this country. Before I was enslaved I was a hearty, rosy cheeked photocopier fixer working in Kardashianistan. I had everything going for me. I was as pretty as a cabbage, I was clever like a sack and I was a total slag. I was like the prize truck in the Kardashianistan’s national machinery festival.

One fateful night, that all changed,

As I was going about my business (I don’t mean I was having a shit either) walking home from a particularly heavy session at the gym looking through Mrs Robinson’s things. I felt as pretty as linda Lusardi as I strutted down the streets swinging my swing and wiggling my worms. Then, on the pavement in front of me i noticed something glimmer in the pale moonlight. What in the name of riding the camel to the brothel is this? I thought in my head, where thoughts originate. It glimmered like a fish on the pavement and i bent down to closer inspect this pescian treatage.

Oh foolish fish fancying! As I squatted I heard a scuffle and before i knew it I had been trapped in a large woman catcher. I was a slave. A slave of love. A love slave.
Then, my brother, Yurgi, I awoke with the comforting sensation of my head being banged on the floor of a ford transit as we hurtled over speed bumps. My head throbbed like the motor of Kardasianistan’s most famous vegetable packing rig “Big Veg Packing Timor’. Timor. He could carry up to 20 veg packers. Why did I stray away from the farms? How I longed for the acrid stench of horse wee on straw now.
I started to become sensible of my surroundings. I tried to put my hand to my aching head, but I was bound by the hands and feet, like a prize hog. At least I could move my eyes. The transit van was transit van-like in it’s appearance and resembled very much a van that would be used to transit goods from one destination to another. Maybe some sexy washing machines or some pallets of mallets. It was almost as if it evolved with this purpose at the forefront of it’s mind. The sturdy shire horse of the van world. If I hadn’t have been so terrified I would have knocked one out there and then. But I was, and that kind of thing affects your libido as any good woman’s magazine will tell you.
My attention widened to the floor of this amazing all purpose work vehicle. Scattered all over its hard wearing, expansive floor was ice lolly wrappers, egg shell and ice cube trays, which lent the air a sickly sweet yet eggy accord.
I heard voices emanating from the spacious cab of the vehicle. They were talking in a tongue that I did not understand but I would later come to know as ‘English’. I could not understand their words, but I could tell by their tone of voice they were explaining what an economical vehicle this was. I couldn’t fault their logic.
The fluorescent motorway lights lit my captors in bursts of staccato orange. Two men and a woman were ensconsed in the front seats. Their features illuminated by the haunting sodium lamps put me in mind of an episode of Knightmare. You know the one with the kids who say “where am I?”. Yeah, the CGI thing with the big hat and all the riddles and shit…
The driver, well I say driver, but in such a vehicle i feel like the decription of ‘pilot’ or ‘captain’ would be more apt. He did appear to be in charge of the others. They spoke to him in hushed deferential tones and his replies were barked back in a voice like grit in a dyson hoover. His face was like a load of bollocks and his eyes were dark and menacing like blood in your piss.

His cockpit mate was of an undeterminable age. The top half of his head looked about 15, the bottom half about 58. His chin was that of a foetus. It was freaky, man. I thought that perhaps the fumes had made me hallucinate such an unconventional visage, but then I remembered that we were in the excellent Ford Transit. There’s no way that there would be any exhaust fumes seeping into this most prestigious of work vehicles. The mate had a nervous tick. It’s strange for punctuation to have emotions, so that I can only imagine that the brute had intimidated it into sentience. I don’t know why he carried his old school book with him, at any rate. Perhaps it carried a clue as to his motives. From time to time, he would take his attention away from the book or the pilot and turn his cumbersome head in my direction. It chilled me to my very marrow. It’s a good job that I had that marrow with me as they didn’t provide an in-drive meal.

The woman was a bit meh. Like most of her sex, she wasn’t as nice as me. I mean, for the love of Timor the rig, she didn’t even have a basque on!
When they realised I was conscious, they shouted and joked to one another. I could not understand their words but Iimagine that that they were congratulating each other on bagging such a beauty.
I wondered what was their intention? To ransom me? If that was their intention, I knew I was doomed, like a parsnip in a pig pen, coming from a long line of photocopier fixers is the oldest and most respected profession, but poorly paid. It is something you do due to the passion raging in your veins. The passion for functioning copiers! We occupy a place in the nation’s heart as exhalted as a priest, a judge or a drug dealer and that is our reward. It’s a spiritual calling.
The reality was something much more terrifying.
Maybe they would use me as their sexual plaything. I hoped so. We trundled each night, every night, like phantoms down ghostly roads, to where I know not.
Do you want to buy this dress? I’ve got too many posh frocks and I don’t need another one. Although it was gorgeous. It was just dead tight. I’ve bought some magic knickers . Where’s the olives?
Then one fateful night the trundling came to an end. The admirable transit came to a sickening halt. Silence fell over my captors and their was an air of dark menace as they exchanged knowing looks. The doors were flung open and I squinted like a squid in front of a firing squad. My ink streaming down my long luscious tentacles of woman. A wall of air hit me like a wall of air. Hot, smelly, like a restaurant kitchen abroad. I gasped and bawked and struggled for breath. My female captor grabbed me roughly by the arm and dragged my sweet ass out of my van cocoon.
She pushed me through a fire exit into a large, sprawling concrete monster. Reeling, like a fishing reel, fell crashing through fire door after fire door. Man, this venue was safety conscious. Then, I was frogmarched like a frog into a small dusty room, breeze-block lined and as cold as the cheap lino that met my feet. Little did I know that by comparison, this dungeon would soon look like Kardashinastan’s finest polyester festival when i met my next fate.
Female captor locked the door behind us. The room was so small I could smell her Charlie body spray and stench of stale sweat on her ‘body talk’ t shirt. Man, those t-shirts were so trendy. She was so close we could have kissed. I bet she wanted to.
She looked me straight in the eye, a cold hard gaze and sneered at me. I whimpered, as I sensed something bad was about to happen. She sneered harder, like shakin stevens, and threw a bikini in my face.
“put this on”
Bemused, I did what I was told. Maybe I was going to be a sexual plaything.
“Ace”, I thought.
Then, from a Head rucksack, she tentatively pulled a small box from it’s sportswear home. She handled it, as if it was a delicate rat in a sock. What treasure was housed in this case of mystery? She carefully opened the angled, pod like exterior to reveal the answer to the mystery. It was like Pandora opening her box. Of eggs.
What manner of witchery is this? My captor motioned them towards me. I shot her a look of sheer confusion. What was I to do with a box of eggs and a bikini? I had no idea as to the depths of depravity that I was scaling. Or plunging. Like a neckline. My favourite type of neckline.
Oh Yurgi, I cannot bring myself to make you sensible of the deplorable practices I was subjected to. For this was ‘the Hot Body Show’ and here began my fraught journey to ruin.
For years, my captors and I traversed the industrial waterways of Britian touring each Hot Body Show in turn. With each show, I lost a piece of that carefree, innocent slag from Kardashanistan, and my heart grew increasingly heavy, like a bag full of machinery gears, grinding into my heart. I cannot make you understand a moment of the hardships I suffered, and nor would I want to, sweet brother Yurgi, as you’d probably get a bit turned on, you massive perv. Suffice to say it was a bit shit.
One day, the hot body show tour was being hosted by the Bury Shovel Auditorium. By this time, I had learned to dissociate from the atrocities and used to view myself from above, as if a spectator to the proceedings. Man, the ceiling wasn’t that comfortable. They should probably think about padding the picture rails or something.
Me and my fellow ‘contestants’ were ‘warming up’ for the show by lighting fags off our belly buttons, all intent on ‘being number one’ or lest our captors would beat us with a copy of ‘Wide Sargasso Sea’ the most boring of Degree level module texts. Then I heard a loud bang.
At first I thought that someone had dropped the whole show’s supply of eggs for the first round, but no, I turned and saw a imposing figure silhouetted in the dusky half light of the auditorium door.

It was my liberator. It was him. It was the end of my degradation and the beginning of my freedom.
So, sweet brother Yurgi, I owe him my life. Which makes my actions of the last day so disgusting to my sensibilities that my stomach lurches with every breath and thought that my treacherous body and brain dare to conspire. Oh sweet brother, please do not think badly of your wretched, worthless wench of a sister. Er, I suppose, I’ve set you up a bit to think that. Anyway, think not badly of me, for a magic has possessed me, the likes of which i have never known. More potent than paul daniels and more alluring than Lynx Africa. That poison or potion, I own that I know not which, has but one name.
How could someone move me so much to betray the man to which I owe my life. I can only assume he possess some kind of sexual voodoo. Or he’s read ‘the Game’ or summat. Whatever witchery this beast contains, I am possessed. He intrudes into my every waking thought. He seeps into every dark nightmare and every sweet dream. I cannot be free from him and yet I cannot tear myself away. I do declare myself in love with his essence. His almond essence. Its’ quite delightful. He’s also a bit fit.
Yesterday I agreed to help my captee to escape our clutches, as once DNK did liberate me.
I am but a villainous whore, but the tantalising promise of Clarence’s love spurs me on to act.
Please send some money, some American tan tights and a jar of pickled sea cucumbers.


Your sister

Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 11

Lord Dennis

It appears that I owe you some sort of apology. At this juncture, I am not entirely sure what sort it should be; by nature I am not inclined to give you any. I will have to consult with my father’s apologepedia as the soonest convenience, but we will proceed with this letter in a tone of general apologisement.

I should explain.

You may or may not be aware that my precious Clarence has been abducted. Well, it’s pretty obvious that you are aware of it since you were accused of doing it and incarcerated for a prolonged period. I cannot help but admit that I truly believed that you were responsible for this most heinous crime and I almost wet my bloomers with excitement when D.I. Detective-Inspector announced that you were under suspicion. Indeed, prior to this proclaimation of your arrest, it had seemed that the local plod were not going to take any action against thee and I had already begun the process of rounding up an angry mob from the local village. To be fair, it really doesn’t take a lot for them to get all riled up and they were all frantically polishing their pitchforks at the mere thought of becoming unruly. This is not a euphemism. Frankly, I thought that I was going to have to tell them that you’re a kiddy fiddler, but it seemed that they were more than happy to burn down your estate on the grounds of circumstantional evidence for a possible kidnapping of a vegetable salesman. The uneducated masses do come in handy occasionally.

I literally danced the fandago when the fuzz announced that you had been taken in for questioning. I played Temptation by Heaven 17 on my father’s stereogram and giggled merrily at the delicious irony. Then I remembered that dear Clarence was still missing and it was probably a tad inappropriate for me to be so happy. To make amends, I insisted that Mrs Jennings, our housekeeper, fed me a sour plum at once, in order to remove all traces of a smile from my oh-so-sexy countenance.

As we had no further reason to cause a riot, the villagers were at a loose end and had nowhere to channel their freshly pent-up aggression. As a compromise, I suggested that they go and throw a mixture of horse manure and salad cream through the bars of your cell. In hindsight, I’m semi-sorry that I asked them to do this.

But, oh! Lord Dennis, please try and understand the emotional turmoil that I was under at the time. Not only was uber-spunk Clarence missing, but the national press was intimating that Sir Robert Williams was about to leave the Take That Society. Yes, I will concede that he is an absolute cock, but I could not help but worry about the fate of Alderman Gareth Barlow and the rest of those fine fellows. Would this fine, upstanding band of brother be able to survive without Williams’ weak mock-rappery? It was almost too much for this delicate flower to bear.

I digress. Although my monolithic slab of manhood was in parts unknown, I felt confident that the bizzies would extract his location from your obstinate mug and that we’d soon be re-united in glorious romantitude. What I did not expect was the man Kowalski.

The first I knew of this ‘American’ was when he rapped on the door of my father’s manor to the beat of Tiger Feet by Mud. It was a most unusual knock and I instinctively knew that it forbode the arrival of a most extraordinary visitor. Our butler, Brandreth, announced the constable’s arrival and relayed to me that he was wishing to speak with myself most urgently. Now, I can assure you that I am not by nature inclined to bow down to the filth, but I could feel an almost tangible aura emanating from the parlour in which he resided, so I pulled on my leggings and decided to indulge my curiousity.

As soon as I entered the room, my senses were assaulted by a sheer weight of animal magnetism. It was like a giraffe had just stood on my foot. One cannot help but feel that it is most fortuitous that I am so enamoured of my Clarence or I could well have invited Monsieur Kowalski derriere le bins du Aldi, if one can derive my meaning. I took a few moments to compose myself and it was only then that I realised that Kowalski’s eyes had been tightly shut for as long as I had been in the room. Before I could pass comment, he spake:

‘Can you hear it? Can you hear it pumping on your stereo? Yes, it’s true. That, sweetcheeks, is the goddam bassline of justice and Kowalski is here to pluck it from your four pretty, little strings.’

His metaphor was stretched, to say the least, but his meaning was beyond question. From his very stance I could deduce that he was a man with more answers than questions – an unholy imbalance at the best of times – and for some unknown reason he had decided to rain his answers down upon me.

He was uncomfortably frank and within seconds he had mentally undressed me, redressed me in something more becoming and then mentally invited me out for dinner. If I had any blood vessels left in my cheeks (following my freak boating accident) I would have surely blushed so vividly that they could have used me as a lighthouse.

When he had completed this sexually charged visual interrogation, he informed me of the reason for his being there. He was 100% convinced that you were innocent and that some ghastly chap called Der Naughty Kitty (I’m not sure if this is his real name) was responsible. Apparently, this kitty character had even sent the pigs a letter proclaiming that he was indeed the culprit! As if to rub salt in my wounds, the man Kowalski even shew me the offending missive.

I must confess that I thought it was utter bollocks. A serial kidnapper\perv called Der Naughty Kitty? It sounded utterly preposterous. Clearly, it was you, Lord Dennis, that was responsible for the disappearance of my beloved and no jumped up, but undeniably saucy, yank was going to tell me any different.

I literally bit off the policeman’s head for wasting my time with his ridiculous theory and demanded that he leave my crib immediately. He sauntered out of the parlour like a rabbit who had just won a rollover on the Euromillions, whilst trying to conceal from his wife that he had won the lottery so he could try and sneak off and live the playboy lifestyle on the French Riviera. Frankly, I didn’t know what it all meant.

I was livid and could barely contain my rage. Indeed, I insisted that Mrs Jennings joined me in one of our Fight Society evenings in the basement of a local hostelry, and I took my frustrations out on her flabby face. I had a lot of explaining to do when father didn’t get his breakfast on time the next morning, I can tell you, but it was worth it. And dear Mrs J received four farthings from the tooth fairy, which paid for another bottle of gin. It was a win-win scenario. Regardless of the successful pugilism, I remained outraged. How dare this Kowalski try and use evidence to prove your innocence when I had decided on your guilt through tried and tested gut instinct. It was unconscionable.

Anyhoo, I was completely out of sorts for the entire next day. In an attempt to raise my spirits I sat around in my frilliest of lingerie, sometimes sucking a lollipop, at other times cuddling a giant novelty teddy bear. I felt that if I could engender some FHM-style knocker-based validation then my self-worth may have been boosted. Alas, there was only father around at this stage, and I must confess that it made me feel a tad uncomfortable to have him perving on my, admittedly magnificent, arse.

Things had become so dreadful that Brandreth actually beat me when we played along with Countdown. The man is virtually neanderthal, so I wasn’t impressed. In one round my longest word was ‘egg’. I’ll say no more.

Things did not get any better. I was just tucking into my egg and soldiers in front of the fire, whilst father watched Look North West, when the bulletin did nothing more than show your visage via the medium of photography. We listened intently to the reporter and you cannot imagine the shock we experienced when we learned that the man Kowalski had done nothing less than release you from prison. I was well miffed, put it that way. I was all for jumping in the Sierra and swinging by the cop shop – I was well ready to kick off on the jumped up little man and demand that he re-arrest you at once. There was no way that he should be letting you go when my precious Clarence was still incarcerated in parts unknown.

I rushed upstairs to my boudoir to re-apply my make up. Even if I was only going to have a barney with some bobbies, I still like to look my best. It was only then that I spotted a letter sat on my dressing table – and it was written in my Clarence’s uncultured but erotically erratic hand. Oh, how my heart did race. It was like I had been sniffing poppers. I immediately ripped open the crusty envelope and read with trepidation about the horrors that my Clarence had been made to endure. And that most shocking part? It appeared that this Naughty Kitty was real after all. It transpired that I had done you a shocking diservice, Lord Dennis. In a way, it’s your own fault for always acting like such a knob.

Immediately, I knew that I must share this note with the rozzers. I say immediately, but I had to stop off via the servant’s quarters to slap Brandreth around the chops for not giving me the letter sooner. To be honest, he’s far too old to still be of any real use. We only keep him on out of sentimentality – it’s hard to fire your first lover. I know that daddy feels the same way.

Needless to say that we soon headed off to the police station. I wanted to get my encounter with the hideous, yet compelling Kowalski out of the way as soon as possible. After reaching the SHPD HQ, I demanded to see the fiend immediately. He may have been right, and I may have been ever so slightly incorrect, but he was still a colonial and needed to be put in his rightful place. Disgracefully, they left me twiddling my thumbs in an interview room while they went to get him without so much as a cup of Earl Grey. The absolute heathens.

Thirty six minutes later and Kowalski languidly sauntered into the room wearing the tightest pair of Farah slacks that I’ve ever seen. They certainly didn’t leave a great deal to the imagination, so to speak. It was almost as if it was talking to me. It was frightful, and yet I couldn’t take my eyes from it.

My moment of shame came and went, thankfully Kowalski seemed too pre-occupied with the cut of Detective-Inspector’s jacket to gloat over my mistake. The one upside is that Clarence’s letter may just be the evience required for the old bill to finally bring him home to me. Oh how I’ve missed his ruggedness. He’s like a mystic outcrop somewhere in the North Sea. Metaphorically speaking. He’s actually nothing like that. He’s not surrounded by water or covered in bird crap.

So, the point that I’ve been trying to make is that I’m sorry for accusing you of this most terrible of crimes. Again, I will point out that if you weren’t such a bounder then I probably wouldn’t have leapt to such a conclusion. Just a bit of friendly advice.

A bientot.

Miss Eileen Bilton.

A Hazard of Parsnips new Chapter *

Sherby 57: This is an exciting day for all of us. It has been far too long since the previous chapters of this epic story were published (read the previous entries, here). This delay has nothing to do with laziness. You may notice that this is a new version of chapter 8. The original chapter had to be erased due to some legal wranglings. I don’t want to go into details, I’m sure you all followed the court case. Anyway, please enjoy this wonderful, disturbing continuation of the world’s most beloved of tales.

Meow Meow,

Ja. It is me. I’m your worst nightmare. Or maybe your most erotic fantasy. It’s difficult to tell at this point.

I’m sat here cleaning myself with my tongue. Oh ja, it is very, very bristly. It kinda tickles. I’m sat in my lair, wouldn’t you like to know what it is called, Mr Policeman (if that is your real name). Oh, but I am not being so stupid as to reveal its name at this early point in the plot. I like to tease you, like a feather on a piece of string. Oooooh, ja.

So, why am I writing this letter to you? Because I like to play, baby-man. I love to play. And scratch. But I am disgressing, ja? I am thinking that it is most unresponsible for you not to be taking this letter with the utmost of seriousnesses. Am I not making myself too clear? Gut.

Maybe you are missing someone? I think that you are missing a man, so much that it is making your puny human hearts bleed with sorrow. Am I getting accurate with my proposal? You better believe it, brudder.

This is now true: I have encaptured your ‘main man’, this ‘Clarence of Crappers’. I am wholly responsible for this adventure, and I will not see those parties who are not involved being given credit for my daring deeds. This will not suffice. Your Lord Dennis is a mere amateur when it comes to the twin poodles of naughtiness. I am their master.

I am thinking that maybe you are not of the persuasion to be of believing little old me. Well, if it is evidence you require, I am happy to oblige. Please immediately upend the accompanying envelope. Danke. Now, have a little look as to what has fallen out. Oooh, ja. I can almost see your looks of bepuzzlement and it is making me feel so hot and naughty. Ja, it is true. That is one of Clarence’s eyelash parasites. I know he is kinda tiny, but I am sure you can recognise him by the pungent smell of over-ripe cauliflower. Oh, how I can see you sniffing, in my mind’s eye. It makes me tired. So very tired.

Anyways. You must try your best to catch me, dear copper. You will not succeed. I am far too wily and wiry. You can throw the best policemens in the world at this issue, but you will never discover my secretest of hide-outs. I dare you.

I’ll be see you very soon,

Someone very naughty.