Part 12b (i)

There we stood, four somnambulists suddenly awake, ancient statues amid the ruins of the washroom.

Eater, the whey-faced butler, angry and put upon at his unwarranted treatment.
Ayres, a Bengal tiger at bay, his eyes ablaze.
Me, my heart beating wildly and a deafening sound of blood rushing in my ears.
Bananas however, that most clearheaded of individuals, taking control, calmly turning the valves and taps, wetting a flannel, applying it to the butler’s eye, carefully placing the butler’s hand over it to keep it there, then gently taking the butler’s other hand, slowly extending the forefinger, using it to plug the water streaming from the wall.

The sound of rushing blood in my ears stopped.

Following that remarkable ape’s calm example, I reached out to remove some flakes of plaster that had lodged in Ayres’ beard, only to have my hand violently struck away.

“If you touch me again Maroon, or take just one step closer, or even look at me, I swear to God I shall…“ he said through grinding teeth, waving his fist under my nose.
“Maroon,” said Bananas, “I shall attend to Ayres, if you would be so good as to find an artisan or some such. The butler cannot stand here all day.”

It was obvious to me that our activities to date had taken a heavy toll on Ayres’ gentlemanly nature, so I forgave his intemperate passion and set out to find a domestic, using the respite to review in my mind the recent sequence of events.

* * *

At that precise minute, three floors below, El Barbudo our brave agent, was taking tea with his tormentor, Sarah, daughter of Doctor Evil and recent graduate of the Rhinegold Institute of Electro-Aversion Therapy…

“So all this was therapy?” he asked, one eye blinking.
“Aversion therapy, yes. Another fruit slice? They’re very light.”
“Thank you, no. And paid for by my, my f-f-friends?” he continued, his scalp crawling.
“That‘s right, Mr Bananas and Mr Ayres. Glark, top up Mr Barbudo’s cup.”
“I’m fine thank you,” said Barbudo, his beard crawling now too, “and I’m ‘cured’ am I ? Free to go and all that?”
“Why of course. You were always free to go. If at any time you’d wanted to stop the treatment, all you had to say was the agreed codeword.”
“The agreed codeword. Remind me.” Prompted Barbudo pleasantly.
“The one we gave to Mr Bananas.”
“And that was?” He was still smiling, but showing too many teeth.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
No, he must have overlooked that detail,” chuckled Barbudo.
“Oh dear.”
“Yes. Oh dear indeed.” He said, shaking his head in amusement.
“Well he’s here now, so you can take it up with him personally.”
“He’s here? At castle Alucard?” Smiled Barbudo innocently.
“Oh yes. I expect you’ll have a lot to talk about.”
“You know, I really think we have.” His smile was different now.

“Quick test before you leave us?” Solicited sarah.

“Why not?” He took a breath, “you stupid c-c-c-clot! Why you f-f-foolish c-c-card! You c-c-cakesticking piece of chandelier barnacle…”

“O.K. good. Now try the ‘big one’…” She encouraged.

Barbudo took a deeper breath, hesitated, and in a rush, bellowed out:
“Why don’t you pluck your father’s cockerel and see if your sister has her pencil yet?”

“Excellent!” shouted Sarah, skipping round the room clapping her hands.

* * *

Casting my mind back, I remembered the meeting earlier that day, of those two giants in the library, as all the while, the ungodly turmoil of the elements raged and howled on the Moor beyond.

I'm doin' it today. Alright?


First and foremost, a brief report on The Project.

I chose three highlighter colours. Saturn green for the good bits, (green for GO), A gay pink for the boring “Dennis Norden” bits, and a bright Jaffa orange for the bits that were plot development.

I had emptied my brain, had Best of Cream on the headphones, and had worked up to page 46.

“…born under a bad sign, I been down ever since I began to walk,…”

Tap on the shoulder.

An attractive slip of a girl was asking what I was doing.
I explained I was marking out the story as we had discussed, using a colour code of my own design.

Are those library books? she asked
I explained they were only the ‘big print’ versions.

It was not me who raised their voice first. That is important.

I pointed out the sign, which required no disruptions, or eating and that I was a ratepayer. She would not be gainsaid.
When I am wealthy, I shall have her sacked.

Another thought to clarify. I am not a writer. I have no pretensions on that score. I intend to write the book by following the formula, but if I’m aiming at the airport, holiday, by the pool market, it will need a couple of sex scenes.
Maybe not. I’ll have to think about that one. Books tend not to have sex scenes in them any more. I wonder if the time is ripe for a return to a bit of raunch?


British Army in huff
Will not set up the Scalectrix or Subutteo.

I am out of sorts today. The freed hostage didn’t thank his rescuers. So fucking what? It’s their fucking jobs, the blood thirsty CARDS.
He’s a Christian. He has bonded with his captors and thinks the army are paid killers. What’s the problem? Does the army now require a thank you letter or they stop your five pound note at Christmas? It takes the joy out it.

‘You’re free!’

‘Hurrah’

‘First thing, you better wash your hands and write that note, AND I want to see it before you post it.’

‘Ohhhh, can’t I do it later?’

‘I won’t tell you again.’

General Jackson, The Irish may remember him as the man in command of the soldiers who killed all the protesters by shooting them, said that the Special Air Service were disappointed to receive no thanks (and were staying in for the week with their Airfix kits.)

FUCK ME GENTLY!

Hey Jackson! Get your soldiers the fuck out of Dodge, and tell them to dry their fucking eyes.

A fat faced dimpled prick of a man was on the t.v. the other night saying what wonderful things our (British) service men and women were doing in Iraq.

Name me three, you fucking piece of shit dogsucker CARD.

Sorry, I said I was out of sorts. Anyway, I also wonder how the factions in the North would have appreciated a Muslim team flying in to Belfast to bring peace and harmony.

Sorry again. Don’t know what’s got into me.

UPDATE: This is he.

Piece of shit dogsucker.

No Synopsis Yet

All my bosses have decanted to North America to buy a secret ray-gun factory or something. The other one is in the East Midlands.

I have driven 214 miles today. It’s always the same isn’t it? The NLP has prepared me for these setbacks. I laugh in their faces HAHAHAhahahaha. STOP. Enough laughing already. And rest.

The more astute among you (everyone) will have noted a few pitfalls in advance.

I list them here.

a) I can’t write.
b) Which books to deface with the highlighters?
c) I have no synopsis, title, sample chapter(s), or plot.
d) Where’s Gothic 12b even? I mean, a book? The man’s a fantasist!

That’s enough pitfalls for the present.

I will now debunk the pitfalls in turn.

Let’s take a)

For example, is it the other boss or the other secret ray-gun factory that’s in the East Midlands? I can’t remember.

When I shut my eyes, I see cat’s-eyes and road signs passing by. A full hour tonight to get over that fucking-ratfink-piece-of-shit Bridge. Not a good start at all at all.

“I don’t understand this new clause 24.”
“What’s not to understand?”
“Why not tell me what you’re aiming at and I’ll put it in for you?”
“Ok…SIMON, hmm let me see…….Look, I’ll get back to you.”

And why? Because even I don’t understand what I’ve just written.

However, It’s of no consequence. It will sort itself out as we go. We will not be writing prose. OR Contracts. Thank the Lord Harry.

b) The books to deconstruct. I thought I’d get them out the library and say they were like that when I took them home. Problem solved!

c) The synopsis is something to think about. I mean, should it be a bald plot outline giving the game away in one go? Remember, the literary agent wants one. Fussy fucking fussikins.

SYNOPSIS

Example;

Boy X meets Girl A in Baghdad field hospital. Girl B fancies Boy X so poisons Girl A (the crazy neurotic bitch) but Boy Z drinks it first, and dies!. Boy X is closet gay and fancied Boy Z rotten, (from afar) so goes on mad shooting spree, killing Tony Blair who is there on secret talks. Boy Z was husband of Girl B….

Or should the style be more….

Late1944...The Eastern Front…
His blood-spattered hands shaking uncontrollably, Dirk Diggler opened his secret orders from Berlin. How could he have known then, that in seven short days he would see his beautiful bride Nora die in his arms, and the world’s first atom bomb dropped on Stuttgart…..

OK, we’ll just have to jump off that bridge nearer the time..

d) Gothic! Nothing at all to worry about there. It’s got tons and tons of scope. Cast of hundreds, three genres, (Stick it up your ass El B.) lots of jokes lying around just waiting to be picked up.

12B first, then I’ve got the multiple death of EL Barbudo, you know, accidental stake through the heart, battleaxe falls from suit of armour, slices his head off, they give him too much power on the resurrectionist table, he rises, falls out the window, onto the pitchforks of the gathered peasants, on and on and on…

So nothing to worry about there. I’ll get round to it soon if I get a minute.

I must attend now to my commenters in the previous post, and have a quick scan round the blogs by way of relaxation. I will of course keep you posted. That’s what a blog’s for!

How to sell books and open the door to fabulous wealth.

Here is my theory.

Total book sales in the UK have grown on average at 4.5% annually for the last 30 years. It’s 6.5% for the last 10. A phenomenal compound growth when you think about it. The market’s mental!

Check all the top selling stuff. What have they got in common? I’ll tell you. A formula.

That bloke Bernard Cornwell who writes all the Sharpe stuff, was on the radio the other week, and he said that he gathered all the books that he liked and went through them with a highlighter, marking out all the exciting bits that he liked, all the necessary bits, and all the slow bits that irritated him. Then he wrote his story with more good bits. It’s all lowest common denominator stuff but it works. It works because we expect a formula whether consciously or not. He said he was amazed no one had thought of it before.

There are I believe, only five stories. Everything is a variation on those. Is this right or total bollocks? I heard it somewhere.

It’s actually better if you’re not well read. Then you don’t compare yourself with the impossibly high standards of the classics. You’d never live it down. How can Dan Brown sleep at night, and him an English teacher? I’ll tell you. He stuffs his mattress with crisp tenners. That’s how.
Where was I? Oh yes, all the top sellers couldn’t hardly string an sentence right. Did it stop them? Did it buggery.

So that’s my theory. Analyse a couple of formulaic bestsellers a la Cornwell, and set to work changing the story to suit. After a while your own stuff will take over.

Then rewrite the whole thing.

Stephen King, (worth a bob or two) in his book ‘On Writing‘, reckons you should trim it down by 10% every pass. Also the rewrites flag up the clumsy bits you didn’t do right. Or the bits where the same word or phrase keeps cropping up. (amateurish).

That is my theory. I shall now test it to destruction.

According to FMC and I believe her, I should concentrate on the manuscript (great word that). This is good news, it frees up time for me to find a literary agent. I will make use of the publisher’s editor, they can smarten it up.


You all think I’m taking the piss don’t you?

100 UP!

For my 100th posting I had wanted the finale of Gothic. Best laid plans and all that. The anti-barney has provoked this instead.

Ever done an NLP analysis, then followed the 21 day course? They do work.

Years ago, hundreds of new mothers were asked what they hoped for their children. The overwhelming answer was “to be successful.”

The exercise was repeated not 10 years ago, and the answer was now “to be happy.”

Most philosophers will point out that happiness requires a level of disengagement from the real world, and is therefore not a virtue, not an absolute. How right they are.

Back to the NLP.
To begin, one has to write down one’s aims, then analyse the reasons for them, and follow the three week course to reinforce them. Put a bit of focus into it. You do not get what you want after the three weeks, what you get is the personal confirmation that you’ve started on the road to what you want.
It’s very effective and gets most people what they want. That is, what they decide they want. It’s efficacy leads to pleasant feelings of accomplishment and contentment. At the very least, it always dispels some of the fantasy shite that we fill our heads with, and points a way.
Starts us off.
You also realise that some of the ‘fantasy shite’ isn’t fantasy shite at all, and that if you want to, what’s stopping you?

“O.K. So what?” You say.
“He’s acting odd.” “Yeah, like a bloody Amway salesman.”
“Does he want money?”
“Where’s all this going?”

Well I’ll just fucking tell you, if you give me a minute.

I like it here, I have taken refuge, I have no complaints whatsoever. More than content, I am, it has to be said, happy here.

However, outside in the real world, I am a grumpy bastard. I like to shout from the sidelines, usually something like;

“That’s garbage! I could do better than that! Stop treating us with utter contempt.” (I mean things which occur in the real world. Out there...)

Well no longer! I am jumping in with both feet and giving it a go!

You will notice no outward change.
Cape to Rio will continue as the foremost blog in the firmament.
I may give myself another award if I see fit.
My decision is final!
But below the surface, just like the beautiful swan (sorry FMC) my project will be going like the fucking clappers!

As was often said at school, AD MAJORA NATUS SUM.

Thank you for listening.

…Cue the music…(Yehudi Menuhin)…
…Hand of God passes imbuing spark to Adam…
Music fades…

Melvin Bragg (for it is he) :
Tonight’s South Bank Show celebrates the life and work of one of Britain’s most prolific artists.
He has been known variously as ‘The Scourge of Pomposity’, ‘the new Liechtenstein’, the ‘Hogarth of the Blogosphere’.
He has courted controversy, as evidenced by the recent fatwa and his third excommunication.
His books sell out.
His retrospective at the Barbican closed to great acclaim and last year he was voted Best Beard, by Asian Babes readers’ wives.

He is of course El Barbudo.


Bragg: El Beardy, welcome. It’s quite a list of achievements.

Barbudo: Thanks Melvin. Yeah I’ve come a long way.

Bragg: And yet in March 2006, you came close to “ending it all”. tell us a bit about that.

Barbudo: Yeah. Well, I’d hit a wall.

Bragg: A creative blockage!

Barbudo: No a wall. I was on a bike at the time. Right fucking mess.

Bragg: At anyrate you surmounted your tribulations and reaped the plaudits of your peers.

Barbudo: Yeah?

Bragg: Early on, you won a Maroon didn‘t you? How did that affect the way you viewed your work?

Barbudo: Oh Yeah. Best use of the C-Word.

Bragg: The C-word?

Barbudo: 'Contrapuntal.' You see Melvin, we were a loose grouping of likeminded souls seeing how far the envelope could be pushed. A sort of Bloomsbury Group in the rough. We welcomed all comers. It was self regulating. We could spout anything really. No one gave a toss.

Bragg: You believed in ars gratia artis?

Barbudo: No, I just told you, no one gave a toss.

Bragg: And yet, it was around then that you produced a definitive, for many, a seminal work; “God Is A Stupid Cunt”.

Barbudo: Well he is isn’t he? Look Melv : You’ve got all these dirt poor Pakistanis up in the mountains struggling to make ends meet. India on the one side ready to nuke them, the Afghanis on the other, running wild, hiding from American helicopters and British Special Forces who, as it happens, are shooting anything that fucking moves. Then you’ve got your Taliban remnants who’ve totally lost the fucking plot, beheading all and sundry and what does God do? Gives them a fucking EARTHQUAKE!. Sends forth ruin upon their fucking heads, that’s what. I mean come on! I mean Christ! You don’t have to be Brain of Britain to work that one out.

Bragg: But some would argue the notion of free will…

Barbudo: Would they? They must be cunts. Where’s the free will in that?

Bragg: Moving on if I may, you famously tried to have sex over the internet with a girl in Iceland.

Barbudo: The Elfshagger! That’s right!

Bragg: How did that come about?

Barbudo: Well I figured if she shagged elves, I was in there, know what I mean? Also, coming from Iceland, the chances were she was pretty fit and probably had a runny nose. Now that combination always gives me wood…

Bragg: That’s all we have time for. Next week, the secretive, reclusive writer and philosopher, K. Ayres joins us to discuss…

Barbudo: Hey! How’s your brother Billy doing?
“I WAS A MINER, I WAS A DOCKER, I WAS A RAILWAYMAN, BETWEEN THE WARS.” Great stuff. You don’t hear from him now….


Cue the music, end credits.

The Bearded One.

A Retrospective.

From September,

Arse Fucker

So there I was, fucking the Virgin Mary in the arse - hey, she was quite particular about keeping her hymen in check - while she was sucking off Jesus (it doesn't count as sexual relations does it Bill?).
I leaned forward to adjust Christ's nipple clamps when......

Hey- are you reading this stuff?

Fuck off you cunt - this is my own private fantasy world, not yours

Who can forget;

Who's a clever bastard?

So you think you're something special just because you figured out how to read this text by highlighting it?Brainy cunt.


And what about…

Pretentious fuckers

Jesus Fucking Christ and a whole host of Angel's Arseholes, there are some pretentious fuckers out there.

"Oh look at me, I'm doing an open university course in classic history and the linguistics of the 17th century royal court. I can use words like 'contrapuntal' and 'dichotomy'. I'm so superior to you plebs."

Every hair on their balls should be pulled out one by one with a pair of fucking tweezers before a hedgehog is rammed up their fucking arse backwards.

Pretentious cunts.

While also…

Santa’s a cunt!

He doesn’t give a fuck about poor people. Rich kids leave a better quality of whisky when he visits, and are more likely to provide organic, free range carrots for his reindeer. Poor people can keep their good will and it’s the thought that counts, and stuff it up their arses.

So fuck him.

Remember this nugget?..

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH
FUCK!

And this?

Buns of Steel and Pubes of Wire Wool

Fatmammycat, you're magnetic.


Yeah, not sure about that one actually, but then there was this….

Endorsement from Harry Hutton?

Harry writes:(http://www.haloscan.com/comments/hhutton/)
“I’ll be away for a couple of days. I don't have time for this frickin' nonsense. But why not visit this filthy animal?”

Have I been frickin’ complimented or fucking insulted?


And then there was his tugged beard award, and his maroon, and the one about his brother, and the ‘god is a stupid cunt’ one, and all the others, what about...


Fuck Off!

Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! you off! Fuck off! Fuck off! alter off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck the Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! color off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck and ! Fuck off! so on off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!

I don’t know. Truly I don’t.

Jimmy Johnstone 1944 - 2006

Like all the best people, I was born at home. We all were. To this day, no one knows what the fuck our dear Mater was thinking about.
I was born on a Saturday.
As well as a midwife, a nurse, two huge gas bottles, (sent round the previous day by taxicab), a father pacing in the lobby smoking Kensitas corked-tipped, was the doctor. Not any old doctor, but Dr. John Fitzsimmons, the Celtic doctor!
Immediately I was smacked into life (something I’ve never come to terms with), he fucked off out the house to Parkhead with the injunction to my father that he, (Pop) would be to blame if Celtic lost that day.
They won, beating Heart of Midlothian 2:1.
The rest is history.
From such a start I was bound, body and soul, to the Celtic Football and Athletic Coy Ltd. 1888. Well not really, but you catch my drift?
Of the Lions, I have met in various circumstances, Bobby Lennox, Bertie Auld, John Fallon, Tommy Gemmell, Tommy Craig, Billy McNeill, Bobby Murdoch (great player).

I never met Jimmy Johnstone. There must be nearly 20 years between these photos.

A couple of years ago I was in a pub in Perth and a game had just finished on the TV and the camera was scanning the crowd picking out celebrities and so on. It stopped on Jimmy Johnstone, and a quiet, sort of reverential applause broke out in the pub. It’s not a Celtic pub or anything.
When cameras pick these people out, I’ve seen a cheer, or the odd shout (good or bad) or whatever, but I’ve never seen that particular reaction.
It’s very difficult to describe the way Celtic supporters feel about Jimmy Johnstone.
And it’s more than that, it’s a Glasgow thing.

Update: Looking at his pictures again there, I've just had something approaching a wee greet.

Part Twelve (a)

“Quick Maroon,” shouted Bananas,” grab his arm! No, the other one! No, that’s mine! There, by the soap! Don’t let him eat it!”
“Got it GB! Watch his feet. His feet! Look out!”

Crash went a fine porcelain shaving basin onto the tiled floor.
Bananas clamped the thrashing feet with one of his own, while with a spare hand he adjusted the shower controls.

“Keep his head down under the spray,” he instructed, “it’s our only hope.”
“We don’t want to drown the fellow.” I pointed out.
“Better that than…”

Gorilla Bananas left the dread alternative unsaid.
Through the rising steam, he continued his interrogation, shouting questions at the struggling figure.

“Speak to us man, are you cogent? Have you returned to us?”
“Glurg.”
“What did he say?” asked Bananas.
“Couldn’t make it out GB.” I replied.
“Right, turn up the hot as well. In fact, fill the bath and get his clothes off!”

As powerful hairy arms pulled his jacket and shirt from his back, his patent elastic braces gave way with a snap like a rifle report, sending his trouser buttons flying.
The man now fought like a Dervish, blindly grasping the bell pull, wrenching it from the wall in a shower of plaster.

The extraordinary Ape was right! Ayres was possessed!


Along the corridor, with only half an ear for the crashes and yelps echoing down the passage to him, was Eater the butler.
He was leaning with an arm outstretched against the stonework, affecting a disinterested style with a cigarette.
Miss Lindy, the object of his fascination, stood close, her back propped against the same wall, hugging her books for protection, her progress halted by the outstretched arm.
Since she had arrived, Miss Lindy had suffered the constant attention of the butler some 12 years her senior, and had hatched a dangerous plan to make use of this to pump him thoroughly.
For his part, Eater couldn’t quite believe his luck, but was nonetheless eager to capitalise on this change in his fortunes.

“Yeah, if it wasn’t for me, sheesh, I run the place actually,” he said, flicking his ash with a nonchalance practiced before a mirror.
“You must be terribly important,” said Miss Lindy, her eyes wide in approval.
“Better believe it,” he sighed, sending a perfect blue plume upwards.
“I suppose you know all the comings and goings, all the ins and outs, where The Master keeps The Key and so on?” She asked, twisting her toe on the floor in coquettish innocence.
“The wha‘?“ he began, but the jangling bell in the corridor over our door followed by another crash, brought him up short.
“Just what are they doing in there?” He wondered out loud, “I’ve seen some queer guests believe me, but that three are a rum crew and no mistake.”
“Shouldn’t you answer that? Wouldn’t want to get you into trouble,” asked the mischievous Miss Lindy.
“In a minute. What were you saying?”
“Later,” she answered, ducking under his arm, proud of her womanly wiles.

Eater stood on his cigarette and turned towards the bell, still wriggling on its spring like a new-hanged convict.


With his braces broken, Ayres’ trousers slid round his knees, suddenly reminding me of a debagging we had carried out on that sneaky little thief Wilmslow at the club.
To protect poor Ayres from injury, Bananas now held him in a ‘Full Nelson’ from the back, bending him with much heaving and grunting over the bath.

“You rang? Oh for fu…” Said Eater opening the door. With all the steam and plaster floating in the air, it was difficult to see, but quickly taking stock of the grisly tableau before him, he continued;
“I do beg your pardon gentlemen. I didn’t mean to intrude on your private…em…activities…”

He fell silent. We all did.
Suddenly quiet, we surveyed our circumstances.

“You better let him breathe GB,” I said, pointing to Ayres’ submerged head in the bath.
“Yes of course,” said Bananas, releasing his prisoner and stepping back.

I am sorry to say that Ayres, suddenly freed, swung a punch at us both. A huge telegraphed haymaker, under which we ducked, with the result that the poor serving man took a mighty sock clean in the eye.

How had we come to such a pass?