Hazard of Parsnips: Chapter 15

Gentlemen

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.

Laterz

Cool Lord D

Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 13

My Love

I have but scant moments to transcribe this latest missive, so forgive my scrawled handwriting. Using a crayon on a toilet roll doesn’t help, to be fair. I chose the pink crayon because it reminds me of you. Wink wink.

Anyway, all this talk of wax-based colouring implements is a ludicrous digression for one in such a perilous position as myself. It can only be beaten in the unnecessary information stakes by the previous statement explaining that it was a ridiculous waste of time. I think you can see where this paragraph is likely to lead if I’m not careful, so I will curb my enthusiasm for the minutiae of letter-writing digression etiquette.

I should probably get on with my tale.

This day began like any other in the treehouse. I awoke in my makeshift hammock (made from assorted supermarket-branded cereal packets), looking ragged and unkempt, yet still electrically sexy. It’s quite incredible how good I look given the circumstances. When I eventually come to, I usually just shake my head in the manner of a dog who’s just got out of a lake. This works wonders on my luscious locks and I look like I’ve just stepped out of a salon. Literally. Once my hair is pimped, I find myself psychologically ready for the perverted one’s pre-breakfast poem.

I have to listen to one of his odious odes every single morning and not one of them is any good. If I didn’t know better I’d almost think that he was making them rubbish on purpose. His grating Teutonic tones do not help matters much. The rhymes might seem a bit better if they were read out by Felicity Kendall or someone of that ilk. This morning the fiend appeared before me wearing naught but a child’s Darth Vader mask and a terry towelling bath robe. The mask was so small that it barely concealed his face. As always, however, he wore face paint under his plastic mask. Today’s design was that of a baby panda. It occurred to me that the design of a sick puppy would have been more appropriate. If the mask did a poor job of covering his face, then the bath robe was even less successful at concealing his modesty. Let’s just say that the fruits on the barbarian’s plum tree are dangerously overripe and would need thoroughly disinfecting before you even considered eating them.

I thought that I would get some respite when he started to read the verse, as he insists that I close my eyes while he performs them. He says that it will focus my mind on his words and help me to paint a picture in my mind. Sadly his wrinkly testes are burned into my retinas for all eternity and my imagination is not strong enough to overcome the noxious image. For this reason, I actually paid attention to the poem. In the words of Run DMC, it goes a little something like this:

Ooh la la

Da Kitty ist here

There’s a party tonight

Do you like beer?

 

You look so handsome

I want you to dance

I’d feel your muscles

Given half the chance

 

My friends they are coming

The treehouse floor will bend

Oh my sweet Clarence

Will you come to a sticky end?

 

Oh, how they’ll want you

With jealousy they’ll rage

But Kitty keep you safe

Locked up in your cage

 

Oh, sweet Eileen. The words of the rhyme rang shrilly in my beautiful barnet. The message contained within seemed clear. He was either going to kill me or bum me into next week. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, my sweet potato. You think that I’m reading too much into it because you always see the best in people. Come on, Eileen! Wake up. This kitty character is a molester of the highest order and I didn’t intend to stick around long enough for his plans to ‘come’ to fruition.

As usual, the rapscallion departed straight after the recital. It’s almost as if he goes off to do a day job away from his demented crimes. It’s quite laughable though, who would employ such a troll? His exit from the treehouse is the cue for sweet, demented Theresa to bring me my breakfast. The wench has been going to night school for the past few weeks to study ‘gordon blue’ cuisine. I had assumed that her primitive brain had simply misunderstood the phrase ‘cordon bleu’, however, after trying some of her meals, I assume she is just having lessons from some guy called Gordon Blue. He can only work in a greasy spoon at best, and it seems unlikely that he has any Michelin stars at all. Today’s concoction consisted of: a can of shandy bass, a plate sized Yorkshire pudding filled with minced beef crispy pancakes and croquette potatoes and half an Arctic roll (melted). To be fair, I wolfed it down like a wolf.

I had hoped that as she collected my plate that I would be able to probe her. For information! I wouldn’t touch her with yours, if you had one, which you obviously don’t. Luckily, I did not need to turn on the charm (although the tap of charisma only has to be tweaked to get Theresa gushing for Clarence), and she filled me in on the forthcoming evening’s events. Apparently tonight is Halloween. I had completely lost track of time in my isolation and was crushed to realise that I had missed the opportunity to flog loads of pumpkins. I hope that the shop is being run properly in my absence. I can only imagine that the proportion of customers that are horny housewives has radically declined since my incarceration. Anyway, that was another flamboyant digression and we all know how I feel about those.

Theresa continued. It seems that every All Hallow’s Eve, the notorious DNK hosts his annual ‘spooky disco’ for his whole network of local sex offenders. As if this wasn’t horrifying enough, Theresa informed me that I would be the star attraction at the shindig. Now, I can totally understand why that would be, I’m gorgeous, but I really don’t like to be treated like a piece of meat. Especially not by someone who wants to molest\murder me. The news galvanised my resolve to escape from the treehouse on this very day.

The rest of the morning was taken up with me scheming and getting exactly nowhere. The fortifications in the treehouse are staggeringly thorough. The main problem is all the barbed-wire, which is easy enough to clamber over, but it might result in some minor cuts and grazes to my ruggedly handsome face. There are some things that I am not prepared to sacrifice in order to secure my freedom.

In the afternoon, Theresa returned to the Kitty’s den in order to prepare me for the evening’s ‘entertainment’. She told me that I would be expected to dance for all their guests within a giant gilded cage. I’ve got great natural rhythm and so my mind instantly began to think of which of my favourite moves I could bust. I just couldn’t help myself. It’s a burden being so erotically charged. Theresa informed me that I would be expected to wear a special outfit in the cage. I hoped that it would be something like a pair of leopard-skin speedos. Something that I could really show my abs off in. Alas, my sexy attire was never destined to be something as clichéd as animal-print swimming trunks.

The wench, dressed a in cheap, PVC maid’s outfit that made me gag, started to prepare me. She stripped me naked, but never fear, my dear, it was the least sexual experience of my life. Theresa seemed to be enjoying it, though, and she was breathing all weird. You can’t really blame her, can you? I am a magnificent animal. She first washed me all over using anti-bacterial handwash. It was the cleanest that I’d felt for weeks, but it did mean I smelled of vodka. After the cleansing, I was anointed by a good quality, extra-virgin olive oil. At least that’s what she said it was. I suspect that it was probably chip fat.

After this, she began to dress me. I can barely describe the outfit that I was subjected to, but I’d better try or it won’t be much of a letter. To be fair, the outfit is quite easy to describe, I just don’t really want to. I was forced to wear an elephant thong underneath my ensemble. You know, those ones where you have to put your John Thomas in the trunk. This is the only part of the outfit that I would wear under other circumstances. Over this I was given a skin tight orange romper suit, with buttock peep holes. Where you would get such a garment from I cannot imagine. Theresa probably made it. Attached to the romper suit, in the region of my belly button, the was a sheriff’s badge from a child’s cowboy set. On my left foot was a pink wellington boot, on my right was a patent leather stiletto. My face was covered by an old pair of Theresa’s tights. I won’t comment on the stench. On the top of my head was the original woolly hat as worn by Benny out of Crossroads. I looked utterly ridiculous, and yet still somehow managed to pull the look off.

After Theresa had finished pampering me (I mean after she dressed me, I wasn’t wearing a nappy), she stood and looked at me with a certain look in her eyes. She’s quite gozzy so I’m not entirely sure, but I took it to be the look of love. My chance had arrived. I am ashamed to say it, my love, but I wooed like I had never wooed before. I don’t want you to worry your pretty little head too much though, it was purely a faux-woo. I took Theresa under my metaphorical wing and flapped for all I was worth. I complimented her wantonly on her many folds of flab, telling her that I was enamoured with the ‘curvy’ lady. I said the the smell of peanuts in her hair was driving me wild with desire. I told her that my heart belonged only to her. How I wish I hadn’t said those words, but, to be fair, they certainly paid dividends.

Before I knew it, Theresa was gushing hot, salty (and surprisingly rusty) tears down my romper suit. In her muddled English she let me know that she loved me and wished for me to make ‘scooby doo’ inside her. I didn’t enquire exactly what that meant. I dread to think. I leapt at my chance for freedom. I told the demented harridan that the only way that we could truly love one another was if I was set free and we could run away together. She seemed to believe it; what a sucker. I’m being a little harsh, I suppose. People tend to believe anything that they are told by devastatingly attractive people. I know that I believe everything that I tell myself. It sometimes gets me into trouble.

I had by this time formulated a plan to escape and I informed Theresa of the part that she would play in it. I couldn’t be sure that she would follow through, both out of loyalty to the Kitty and because she seems really, really thick. My fingers were crossed. But that was only because of the weird gloves that I had been forced to wear. I forgot to mention those earlier, sorry about that.

I sat anxiously in my cage and waited for the party to start. It was only when I heard the strains of Agadoo wafting up from the Kitty’s ghetto blaster did I know that things were on the move. It was still early, so DNK was fussing around with his tuxedo and straightening his Dooby Duck mask. Theresa was attending to the buffet. She’d obviously gone to a lot of effort but it looked like roadkill. Actually, it might just have been roadkill. Eventually, his guests started to arrive. I had expected the treehouse to be packed to the rafters, but only 3 guests arrived. I suppose that his social group is rather…niche. My cage was lowered so that I could be introduced to the visitors. They all looked as big a dick as the Kitty himself. They were:

That Creepy Mouse – he seemed to be an acolyte of DNK and clearly modelled himself on his idol. He wore a homemade mouse mask, that he’d drawn on the back of a washing powder box. His accent was trying to be German but sounded more Welsh.

Super Pervy Lemon – a true one off, dressed entirely in yellow and communicated entirely in morse code. He said that he’d like to be rubbed on my ‘pancake’.

Dave – he was wearing a simple black mask, with jeans and t-shirt. Apparently he hadn’t ‘graduated’ and so had not yet earned a sex-crime-name. He had a worryingly hopeful glint in his eye.

Let’s just say that I didn’t really warm to any of them. After I had been paraded, the curtain was shut around me and the cage was hoisted. Part of me longed to perform as I know how much they would love seeing my body in action. Alas, I had other things on my mind.

Theresa was sent up the ladder to my cage to give me my final preparations before performance. The four perverts stared avidly at the cage and barely noticed as she descended from the cage and left the treehouse. Perhaps they should have paid closer attention because it was not Theresa at all. Can you guess, my love? Can you guess who it really was that left the treehouse? Well, yes, it was obviously me.

In a ruse worthy of a really bad film, Theresa and I swapped clothes and I made my escape like a croissant into the night. I just hoped that Theresa could fool them long enough for me to get away. In some ways, I prayed that they would realise straight away because it’s completely humiliating to be confused with that sad, old bag. Obviously, the plan did work because I’m able to write you this letter.

I’m currently sat in a hedge, and that is all I know. I ran for two hours solid before I dared rest and this hedge looked mighty welcoming for a rest. There’s a friendly hedgehog in here with me, and I hope that if I smile nicely, he will make me a cup of tea. I’m on my way back to you, my darling. Never give up.

Yours hedgily,

Clarence

 

A Hazard of Parsnips, chapter 12

 

Kowlaski took a swig of pitch black, bitter coffee and gasped, in a dramatic fashion. Boy did Gregg’s make good coffee. It was like he was back in New York. But with a load of limey fuckers who couldn’t do their job properly.   He grabbed a copy of the St.Helen’s champion, god these free papers were informative and full of important local issues. My god! World of Beds has a sale on! Goddammit some plucky broad has opened a nursery and organised a fundraiser. Whatta gal. She raised forty seven goddam pounds for those kids. Kowalski needs a broad like that.

His mind fluttered back , like the pages of the free paper, to ten years ago and his ex wife, Sheila.  God he loved that woman. They were solid as a rock for ten fucking years until one day he woke up from his sweet slumber to find that Sheila Kowalski was no more that a crude drawing on the back of a flyer for Marmaris Kebab house.  How could he have not seen the signs for so long. The fact she never asked him how his day was. She was a good listener and never bothered him with the trivialities of her day, she never got changed and she wouldn’t go out if it rained.  Kowalski silently wept internally. Ten years and all he had to show for it was paper cuts all over his body.  He looked like a goddam emo. Sheila!!!!!!!! How I miss your dry kisses!

He turned the page, roused from his self indulgent sorrow by the headline on page 15.

‘HOT BODY SHOW COMES TO OLDHAM’

Right, you feisty little headline. You have Kowalski’s full attention and I’m going to read you all over. I’m going to read you like you’ve never been read before. My eyes are gonna read every single one of your letters, oh yeah, I’m going to make you feel like a real story, like you’re the only motherfucking story in the whole goddam world, you bitch.

Kowalski liked to talk to newspaper stories like they were filthy little minxes that were playing with him. It was a habit that was a throwback to being married to a drawing of a woman for so long. It felt comfortable.

Kowalski read on, aroused. He’s eyes feverishly scanned the words, poring over them like when smash hits used to print the lyrics to songs. Kowalski soon became sensible of a archaic practise called a ‘Hot body Show’ which was some kinda goddam pageant for sexy bitches or something.  The people in Britain were going goddam crazy for these shows and to become number one, well, there was nothing that goddam matched it for these crazy limeys. Apparently there were qualifying shows in Bury, Burnley, Blackburn and Bolton and Oldham and the residents of Warrington and St. Helens were being whipped to fever pitch in excitement.  There was a picture of some tacky looking broads who were beaming like Veet was on offer at Bodycare or like Ethel Austin wasn’t going into administration, and doing an irritating ‘thumbs up’ gesture.  It was this that caught Kowalski’s attention.  Broads on paper. Sheilaaaaaa! I miss your inky hands.

Kowalski angrily scrunched up the paper, drained his coffee cup aggressively, and jumped in his Daewoo matiz and drove to work. It was very convenient having his car in the kitchen, but most people thought him quite odd. Fuck them. He could get to the A580 quicker than any of those losers.

He arrived at the cop shop buoyed up by the golden hour on Wish Fm. Visage: Fade to grey was throbbing through his veins like peawet.  God he felt alive! He had also a sense of satisfaction through avoiding a traffic hotspot. He had such a sense of mastery over the back roads of St. Helen’s, they were his badgers and he was their ring master. He had the top hat to prove it.

DCI Acorah’s PA gave him a flirty smile and looked him up and down appreciatively. He held her gaze in the palm of his hand and she looked away coyly.

“Where’s the chief, Sam, sweetcheeks”

Sam blushed and looked towards the DCI’s door.

Kowalski used his finely honed detecting skills and advanced body language reading-ship skills to deduce that that she meant that he was in his office.

“thanks gorgeous”

Kowalski knew she would be looking at his arse as soon as he turned around. It was obvious really. That she would look at his arse, not that his arse was obvious. Kowalski was used to people’s eyes burning a hole in his ass.

He barrelled into DCI Acorah’s office like a crazed madman cruising down the highway in a stolen mustang, with no regard for the hearts of all who stood close by.

Acorah’s face brightened instantly when he laid eyes on Kowalski’s rippling slacks.  This expression turned to one of concern when he saw the look on Kowalski’s face. This was one vexed cop.

“Morningn Kowalski. You look nice”

“shut it, you goddam sonofabitch”

Acorah flinched. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in this way unless he was paying for it.

Kowalski continued

“listen chief and listen good. This is one godawful cake and arse party of an investigation. You gotta smarten up this whole goddam scene or I’m quitting this investigation”

Kowalski rattled a chair for effect.

DCI Acorah stared at the chair in silence while he pondered the significance of such an action. This silence lasted for a good ten minutes before Kowalski broke it by letting out an audible trump. He hated silences. It reminded him of when Sheila wouldn’t talk to him because she was a crude drawing.

“Now listen Kowalski, er, you darn, er, punk. I’m going to take your badge and put it in the drawer if you don’t pipe down, son. I’ll touch your balls, if  you speak to me like that again”.

Sam sidled seamlessly in, like an apparition, and whispered in Acorah’s ear.

“sorry, I’ll crush your balls”

Sam nodded to indicate that this phrase was correct.

Kowalksi shot Acorah a puzzled glance.

“Chief, listen up. The other guy you got leading this laughable ‘investigation’ is leading it into a goddam cul de sac”

Kowalski reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the Panini sticker book that he’d been making notes in.

Acorah was baffled by Kowalski making notes in a football sticker book. He wondered whether he could swap him a bruce grobbellaar for a Kevin keegan.  He liked being called Chief. It made him feel like he was in NYPD Blue.

“ this joker, Chief…”

Acorah had stopped listening. He was just reflecting again on how much he enjoyed being called cheif. He wondered if he could pull of a new York accent.

“chief. This joker is putting Clarence Crapper in danger” He opened the sticker book. You couldn’t write much in these small boxes, thought Kowalski. How do these limeys do it. They must have really small handwriting, tiny typewriters’ or insects who take notes for them. Maybe scarab beetles. Boy would that be cool.

“you better have some goddam proof to substantiate that claim, Kowalski” snarled Acorah

“ooh this is such fun!” Acorah thought, internally. Where thoughts tend to be generated.

Kowalski raised a sexy eyebrow, shook his head and continued

“last week DI Ian Detective Inspector spent more time staring into space and glowering at me than he did looking at maps, drawing arrows on the maps and putting up pictures of suspects on the investigation room wall”

Kowalksi slammed his sticker album on Acorah’s desk to reveal a rather tidy pie chart to illustrate the proportion of time Ian had spent on various activities. He had even used a stencil to label each component of the pie. Acorah was quite surprised Ian spent so much time on ‘celebrity heights’ on the internet. Still, it was interesting to find out how tall famous people are.

“Crapper’s life is worth more than finding out how tall Billy Crystal is, Cheif” growled Kowlaski, as if reading Acorah’s thoughts. Acorah jolted. It was bad enough Sam appeared to know what he was thinking. He blushed remembering when Sam had confirmed that she did work out and she was wearing a black bra.

“He’s hindering the whole goddam investigation”

“Send him to my office” Acorah glibly instructed. Mouth set in a firm line.

“But if you’re wrong Kowalski, Your ass is mine”

Sam nudged him

“Sorry” Acorah cleared his throat and said loudly “Your ass is on the line!”

 

 

 

Why Stefan Dennis is My Nemesis

It was a beautiful stagnant morning. I looked out of my window to see the postman shitting in a burnt out tyre just outside my door. He gave me the v’s when he caught me looking and this experience really set me up for the day. I knew I was bulletproof and nothing could soil my sunny disposition. I reached into the value bin bags ,where I keep all my best clothes, for my favourite tracksuit and striped t-shirt ensemble that enhanced my gunt to perfection. Acres if gunt goodness protruded below my waistand. I admired my reflection and fought the urge to knock one out, shedders, that’s how hot I was. I reached for my faux leatherette bomber jacket and pulled my hair into a scalp crucifying ponytail. I was just about to leave the house to have a look at the burnt out tyre that the postie had crapped in, when Stefan Dennis starts walking down my estate. He was all neckerchieved up and his slashed jeans showed an abundance of hairy leg. He says “G’day” to me and I pretended to pick the scabs off my knuckles. He persists, the mealy mouthed fool that he is. “I said G’day” he ventured. “Oh I hear you” I obstreporously replied ” but I thought I told you you’re not allowed to come near me as decreed by the papal bull issued in 1704. You tried to invade France remember? You admired their national preponderance of wearing neckerchiefs and their backpack wearing sensibilties. You wanted to sexually posess them as a nation, you sick fuck”. “Yes” Dennis blurted excitedly, “but I heard that there’s a great burnt out tyre to shit in outside your gaff and I couldn’t fight the urge any longer”. His eyes were writhing in his head and I noticed a distinct v shaped sweat stain on his t-shirt. Depsite the terrible atrocities Dennis had commited in France, such as installing discrete tombolas in every home and making the French sing “Don’t it make you feel good” every time they washed their hands (even after a wee!) there was no denying that preventing Dennis from seeing the burnt out tyre was barbaric and a punishment far weightier than his French atrocities. “There it is” I sighed, pointing at the burnt out tyre fatalisitically. “Knock yourself out” I turned away as Dennis lowered his trousers. I let him have his moment.