London Tale …

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

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

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

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

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

“A CURE FOR TOURETTE’S!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh-uh, huh-uh, huh-uh!”

“SILENCE!” admonished #1 again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You invited a Canadian, you idiot!”

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

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

“Yes Dave.” yelped Legg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tamara translated again “He doesn’t believe it, and wonders if Americans use their heads.