Whisky Charlie One – An (Almost) Private
War
A novel of sorts by
Mistersoft
Just to reiterate
(again), this is just a story, it is historically inaccurate, factually
inaccurate, logistically inaccurate, militarily inaccurate, medically inaccurate,
geographically inaccurate, scientifically inaccurate, linguistically
inaccurate, religiously inaccurate, diabolically inaccurate, grammatically
inaccurate and prone to bad spelling and even speling mist-aches.
Chapter One
Flabby was fcuking fuming. It had been a hard day at work; you can use a hell of a lot of energy just trying to avoid work as he knew to his cost. All he’d wanted to do was to settle down with a nice, cold Lofty-Brau, the beer of choice for all trained killers. Then he was looking forward to watching his precious Emmerdale, the soap of choice for all trained killers. Yes ok, he had the Lofty-Brau but as the lights went out, he’d managed to knock it off the table and there was now most likely a puddle on the floor. Flabby fumbled about in the dark but decided it wasn’t really the right time for some self-abuse so crawled across the pitch black room heading (or so he hoped) for the kitchen where he knew there was an SAS-Lite torch in the kitchen drawer. “Bollox!” he shouted finding the puddle of beer. “Fcuk it!” he shouted as he found the empty bottle causing him to slide across the room and bang his nose on the telly. “Arrseholes” he cried as the TV fell on top of him with a loud crash. “By fcuk, I’m a bit out of practice” he said to himself leaving himself wide open to doubts about his sanity. “People will think I’m fcuking barking talking to myself” and he was perfectly correct.
Flabby’s ears pricked which is extremely painful and not to
be tried at home unless qualified and/or in the presence of a competent adult.
There were voices coming from outside and Flabby didn’t need to think twice
about the accent. “I think I’ve got company, so I have” he said out loud and
totally ruining any suspense as to the ethnicity of his unwelcome guests.
Flabby crawled as quietly as possible towards the kitchen knocking over a plant
pot and dragging the rug with him. He reached on top of the worktop and grabbed
what he thought was a knife from what he thought was the knife rack. Suddenly
the lights went on and Flabby desperately tried to shield his eyes. The
backdoor crashed open and two large dark clothed figures complete with
balaclavas rushed in though while very dark, what was visible in the eyeholes
were almost definitely Caucasian. Flabby looked up and found himself looking at
a Glock. “Lucky he didn’t have a gun” joked Flabby to himself. “Are you going
to stab me with that?” asked masked intruder number one with a heavy
Masked intruder number two (the posh one) was also armed but he favoured a Steyr. Flabby knew instantly that it was an M-A1 as the author had just googled it. So with a Glock and a Steyr then all we would need is the Sound of sodding Music and the Austrian connection would be complete. Flabby was used to thinking on his feet but as he was sat on the kitchen floor, he was (for now) out of ideas. The electric carving knife was at the end of the kitchen thanks to a less than subtle hint from masked intruder number one so of no help to him at the moment. “Are you here to kill me?” asked Flabby who would rather know the truth as any dialogue could prolong the situation and time was what he really needed. He needed a quick conclusion like a hole in the head. Masked intruder number two (the posh one) gestured with his Steyr that Flabby should head towards the living room. Flabby walked slowly and carefully to the living room, tripping over the rug, tripping over the bits of the plant pot and sliding on what was left of the Lofty-Brau puddle but fortunately unscathed, sat himself down on the sofa. Masked intruder number one gestured that Flabby should pick up the TV, which he did and to his surprise, the thing still worked. He was glad he’d gone for the official SAS plasma widescreen model rather than a cheaper version.
Masked intruder number one pulled what looked like a DVD
from his back pocket and shoved it into the DVD player. Pressing play seventeen
times as while the official SAS plasma widescreen model TV is great, Flabby had
skimped on the DVD player and while it was one of the top ten in
Masked intruder number one and number two both removed their balaclavas with a flourish. Ok, no drum fanfare but it was cleverly done as you couldn’t fault their synchronization. Flabby found himself looking at considerably younger men than he had first thought. Masked intruder number two (the posh one) was a relative baby. They had both lowered their weapons and Flabby did not feel in any shape or form threatened. Masked intruder number one of course now un-masked introduced himself as Smith and the relative baby as Jones. Flabby knew they weren’t real names and names used to be colours but that’s just so last year to do that. An ID card was flashed in front of Flabby’s eyes and apart from the Chip and Pin and Maestro labels, all he could make out was MI11. Mr Jones explained “MI11 was created by the amalgamation of certain parts of MI5 and MI6. It was going to be MI7 but that was already in use by the undercover branch of local councils. The ones who spy on people to make sure they pick up the dog’s shite in the park or are actually entitled to claim Incapacity Benefit while still working as a plasterer’s labourer.” Flabby butted in “Then why the fcuking heavy-handed tactics with me?” “Because there’s a leak, a mole somewhere” explained Mr Smith. “We thought you might have been already got at. We’ve already had a serving member of the SAS on trial for selling beer to troops” Flabby knew the story and it had been a shock to them all. If he’d done it he would have dropped the prices a bit. It’s ok making a buck or two but that was daylight robbery.
“Do I mind if I get a beer?” asked Flabby and Mr Smith and Mr Jones nodded in approval. “Suppose they fcuking want one as well” muttered Flabby finding that the fridge was empty. “Bollox!” he muttered to the fridge and headed for the cellar. He was on about the third step when an invisible hand picked him up and threw him down the stairs. He landed on something soft, his head but cushioned by a huge pile of Emmerdale calendars from years gone by. Flabby knew exactly what had happened and without waiting for the author to explain it to him, came to the conclusion it had been an explosion. Crashes and bangs still came from upstairs or as he guestimated, what was actually left of upstairs if anything at all, so decided to wait out for a couple of minutes. The air was thick with rubble and breathing was not easy but he resisted the temptation to rush upstairs and suck in the sweet night air. After a few minutes more, he guessed it might be safe so grabbing a torch after rather a long fumble trying to find it, he carefully climbed the stairs. The door to the cellar was still intact but only just and as he carefully pushed it open it fell off its hinges and broke into bits. Creeping round the door opening, the upstairs was a scene of utter devastation. He crunched his way carefully towards what had once been the living room. Sweeping the torch across the floor, he made out a couple of vague shapes on the floor. Reaching down, he didn’t need to feel for a pulse to know they were both dead but helped himself to the Steyr and the Glock. With a farewell greeting of “Alas Smith and Jones” Flabby torch in one hand and one of the pistols in the other, started to make his way outside.
By the look of the damage it hadn’t been a static explosive device and he really suspected an RPG or some sort of missile. This was emphasized as he spotted a brilliant flash, a hundred or so metres away and the backdoor and most of the kitchen disappeared in a ball of flame. This seemed as good a reason as any to get reacquainted with the cellar. He was missing one of the pistols but fortunately the torch had survived the incident. He knew that by now, the firework display would be attracting attention but would the police respond and a truncheon and some pepper spray is not much of a match for an RPG or a missile. “Come on think Flabby” he said more for my benefit than his. The electricity was off, the phone was down and he was really thankful they didn’t have gas but armed with a torch and checking which one it was, a Glock he was up against it a bit. He shone the torch round the cellar trying to find anything he could use. His mobile was upstairs as was the secret gun locker where he kept the more desirable hardware and heavier firepower but he knew that in pitch black darkness, he wouldn’t reach it without a torch and once that torch was seen, he’d be history. An old and partly used box of fireworks lay in a corner and he briefly thought of using them but on checking the contents you can’t really take on an assassination team with a box of sparklers and some jumping jacks. Or could you?
Flabby gathered together the sparklers and the jumping jacks shoved the sparklers into the waistband of his trousers. Ok, his eyes watered to start with it became quite pleasurable in time. The jumping jacks he shoved in one trouser pocket and the Steyr in the other as he’d just found it again by tripping over it and with those sparklers, that was the mother of all eye watering moments. “Bugger!” he groaned as his SAS Hippo lighter (just like a Zippo only fatter) in brushed aluminium with built-in compass and nuclear spark system thus doing away with the need for flints, available direct from the SAS or other leading retailers was upstairs as well. So that plan knackered, out came the sparklers and the jumping jacks so some more eye watering moments but on finding a box of matches in a drawer, back in they went again and Flabby actually looked as though he’d been crying and if the truth be known, he had. Again he was thrown to the floor by that invisible hand and I won’t mention where that invisible hand was trying to shove the sparklers. Needless to say, it was an eye watering moment as yet another explosion tore the house apart. He picked himself up, dusted himself down regretting it instantly and decided against the sparklers so chucked them back in the corner. He was under siege though unlike Steven Seagal he didn’t quite have the martial arts skills or a dodgy ponytail though the author does but enough about him.
Again he looked round the cellar and there gathering dust
was his old skis. When I say old, I mean old as these were wooden. Again Flabby
had a brainwave and grabbed one of the skis. Using the washing line that he’d
almost hung himself on (three times at least to my knowledge) he constructed a
pretty cool looking bow and any English archer at
It was deadly quiet and Flabby’s ears had finally stopped ringing but he could hear voices. He positioned himself at the foot of the stairs and with an arrow at the ready, raised the bow in anticipation. The voices seemed to get closer and closer and he thought he could see flashing lights. “I’m ready for the barstewards this time” he said to himself thinking this could be them closing in for the kill. He had his matches ready, the Steyr and the Glock ready and the bow ready and the torch ready and he just knew he could hold off an army as long as they were decent enough to come down the stairs one at a time. He thought he recognized a voice but was it the mind playing tricks or the explosion had dislodged some earwax? He did recognize the voice it was Knocker Down and he was calling out to him. “Down here you w@nker!” cried Flabby keeping it polite. The ceiling shook and there was Knocker with a mobile nitesun in his hand and it was frying the eyes out of Flabby. “Turn the fcuking searchlight off you tw@t!” shouted Flabby getting rid of the bow and the Steyr and the Glock and the Matches and turning off the torch and subsequently falling over the bow. Flabby found the torch again and switched it on. He climbed the stairs two at a time mainly as one in two were now broken but Knocker pulled him up the last couple. They shook hands and embraced but in a seriously manly fashion. “What the, where the, who the?” Flabby had so many questions and Knocker was only too happy to oblige.
It seems that a breakaway cell of a splinter group of a rogue faction of some dissident republicans formerly from the Continuity IRA had targeted Flabby in revenge for the death of Slob Murphy and had known all about MI11 and the activities of Mr Smith and Mr Jones. It was also common knowledge about the mole as all respectable governments and even British ones have a mole. Moles are generally principled individuals but in this case, said mole had a crack cocaine habit to finance so was no problem to recruit and there were never ever any problems keeping the bugger happy. Knocker told all this and everything was now perfectly clear except why Flabby had spent so long in the cellar when the hit squad had buggered off hours ago. If it hadn’t been for a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses, he would still be there now.
Chapter Two
Flabby had spent rather a restless night at Knocker’s house. He was homeless, carless as that had been in what was the garage and all that was left, apart from boxes and boxes of crap which miraculously and unfortunately had survived the blast, was one solitary fluffy dice and a bit singed round the edges it was. He was also potless as he’d broken his one and only pot even before the hit squad had turned up. Flabby washed and looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was greying now as the entire supply of Grecian 2000 had also been a casualty. There were lines on his face or so he thought but then realized it was just that the mirror was absolutely bogging. “I’ll have a word with Knocker about that” he said to himself. He headed for the bedroom and put on some of Knocker’s old clothes and bloody old they were. “I hope fcuking flares are back in fashion” he uttered and headed downstairs for breakfast. Picking himself up in the hall as he’d managed to trip himself up on a wayward flare and fallen down the stairs, he walked into the kitchen and uttered some good mornings. “Morning Flabby” replied Knocker looking resplendent in his pinny. “Eggs ok?” he asked. “Didn’t hurt myself a bit” replied Flabby. “No you w@nker, I meant are eggs ok for breakfast?” shouted Knocker not a morning person by all accounts. “I knew they’d gone” said Flabby referring to the fact he’d spent hours in the cellar when the hit squad were long gone. This was roughly the eighty-second time he’d mentioned it and it probably won’t be the last. “Course you did Flabby” replied Knocker for roughly the eighty-second time. “Boiled?” asked Knocker. “No, just going a bit thin on top” replied Flabby miles away. “For fcuk sake will you pay attention!” shouted Knocker again, his patience tried to the limit.
So they settled down for breakfast and the conversation topic wandered but somehow always seemed to get back to the fact that Flabby knew the hit squad had already gone or so he said. Knocker mostly ignored him but did throw in the odd “Course you did Flabby” for good measure. Breakfast finished Flabby fell up the stairs this time and managed to find one of Knocker’s old tracksuits that did smell a bit and had some strange stains in even stranger places but at least it would pass a Health and Safety inspection though with those stains perhaps only just. So managing to negotiate the stairs safely Flabby sat back in the kitchen and waited as Knocker now with pink gloves did the washing up. Flabby wasn’t sure if Knocker looked more like Kim or more like Aggie but decided not to try Knocker’s patience any more and dropped it. “Right let’s go” said Knocker. “Aren’t you going to take your pinny off first?” asked Flabby. “Fcuk it!” shouted Knocker and tried to undo the knot of his pinny. Quite difficult to do when you’re wearing rubber gloves I would imagine though the fact they were pink probably made no difference. So Knocker now finally pinny-less they jumped in the car and headed off for Flabby’s brief/debrief. Of course the car was in the garage and they had to go into the garage first. But as it was a bit on the small side, the garage that is, not the car, Knocker had to back it out first and then Flabby climbed in. I did originally neglect to mention this as I thought that by mentioning garages, I might hurt Flabby’s feelings but I was obviously wrong. Apologies for that and back to the story.
Now Sterling Lines has seen some changes since we were last
there. Joe the Security Guard is long gone and if you have a spare minute or
two, I’d like to tell you what happened to him. It’s a sad story but please
bare with me or shouldn’t that be bear with me? Whatever and if you’re not
interested in what happened to Joe, then are perfectly entitled to skip this
paragraph and we can all continue with the story proper in a minute or two. So
back to Joe. Joe had always been asleep in his hut, something he’d done
virtually since the day he started but during a particularly bad period in his
life he suffered from insomnia. Sleep at night was not a problem but a day
became a long and drawn out bore without dropping off for forty winks at
regular intervals. To relieve some of the boredom, Joe took to reading. At
first Jeffrey Archer would send him off to the land of nod with no problems but
later even this failed to work so Joe resorted to harder stuff. He digested and
spat out whole the Complete Works of Shakespeare, Tolstoy’s War and Peace was
an afternoon read and even the SAS Publishing series of ‘Guess the Ghost
Writer’ featuring some of the men he’d actually kept waiting while asleep on
the job couldn’t satisfy his appetite. Ghost writers were regular visitors to
Sterling Lines as after each and every SAS operation, the whole escapade would
be in print in a matter of months. Of course this all didn’t help poor old Joe
who was desperate. The long hours of staying awake were taking their toll. He
even tried Insomniacs Anonymous but fell asleep during the meeting. On his way
out of the meeting, he’d been the last to leave as nobody had dared to wake
him, he walked past a newsagent shop and it was one that sold lottery tickets.
Actually the only thing it didn’t seem to sell was newspapers but that’s not
really important right now. Joe bought a ticket and he won. A double rollover
jackpot of nine million quid. So Joe is now languishing on some
Right, so welcoming back those who skipped the last paragraph, let’s get on with the story. As said previously, Sterling Lines has seen some changed since our last visit. We already know about Joe’s fete as he has one every Saturday because it reminds him of home or if you didn’t before, you do now but security on the camp was now handled by Group 6, a subsidiary of QinetiP which is one of the world's leading defence technology and security companies and it provides (usually cheapskate) security for most of the MoD. The man on the gate today was Tomasz Schafernaker, not the one who does the weather on the telly but another one. He had been especially selected due to the fact that he never answered back but the fact he didn’t actually speak any English probably had something to do with it. The camp entry system or barrier to those not in the security industry was all electronic and Tomasz was really only there just in case the camp entry system buggered up, which it seemed to do on a daily basis. Knocker slid in the camp entry system electronic memory device or ticket to the uninformed and the camp entry system electronic memory device reader spat the bugger out. Knocker swearing under his breath climbed out the car, picked up the camp entry system electronic memory device, climbed back in the car and tried again. The camp entry system electronic memory device reader again spat out the camp entry system electronic memory device so Knocker gunned the engine and drove through the camp entry system, snapping it off where it joined the camp entry system vertical directionary control mechanism or box what holds the raising and lowering mechanism and the motor in plain (ish) simple English. Tomasz was unmoved and after scratching his nuts as they were a bit sweaty, switched the kettle on for a nice cup of tea. You could still just hear Knocker swearing, quite amazing really as there were helicopters landing close by. An interesting fact is that the black Agusta 109 which took over from the Scout as people only used to dangle from them, has been replaced by the Septemba 109, a marvel of British, Italian, German, French and American engineering though most of the parts are actually manufactured in China except for the seat covers which come from Indonesia. The only downside of the Septemba 109 really, is you can’t lick it or suck it as the paint unfortunately contains lead. Still, a small price to pay I say.
“Morning Flabby” said Major Tom. “Morning boss” replied Flabby. “What the fcuk happened mate?” asked Major Tom though not really a question as he’s already read this chapter so more of a rhetorical question I suppose. “The barsteward led me right up the fcuking garden path” replied Flabby answering anyway and I have a sneaky suspicion he’s talking about me. “Yep, it’s not just God that moves in mysterious ways, crap authors do as well” speculated Major Tom starting to annoy me. They sat in the briefing room and talked of many things, energy prices, if Major Tom will have to give his family heirloom to the Russians as its Georgian or according to the hallmark it is. “We’re going to have to put you and Knocker in a safe house Flabby” explained Major Tom and Flabby hoped it would be safer than the last one. A door opened and in walked two ‘suits’ and a quick check of their ties showed one was an MI5 suit and the other an MI6 suit. The way to tell is that MI5 have green ties with red stripes and MI6 have red ties with green stripes. There, some totally useless information for you and something to tell all your friends, if in fact you have any. “Which of you is Smith and which of you is Jones?” asked Flabby totally au fait with the workings of the intelligence services. “I’m Mr Heliotrope, MI5” said the first suit. “And I’m Mr Magenta, MI6” replied the second suit. “Back to bloody colours again I see” remarked Flabby smiling. The suits explained in long and boring detail how a handful of republicans were quite prepared to take on the security services including the SAS and after last night’s show seem perfectly capable of doing it as well. All those involved in the Slob Murphy affair were now in safe houses or would be within a few hours. So Flabby, Knocker, Ryan Christopher and of course the walking chimney ‘Smudge’ Smith would be sharing one house and ‘Danny Boy’ Dhmorerghahenaienain (Wilkins), ‘Taff’ Leek, ‘Jock’ Ferguson and ‘Nige’ Nigel Ruperting-Smythe would be sharing the other. Rikshaw would also be joining to make up the numbers and just in case they wanted any dodgy gear. “So who the fcuk’s going to protect us?” asked Flabby. “We are” replied the two suits almost in unison and I don’t mean the union. Flabby laughed, oh how he laughed as the two rather annoyed suits just looked on. “And who the fcuk’s going to protect you?” added Flabby almost pishing himself.
The move to the safe house was needlessly complicated with
decoy cars leaving Sterling Lines while Flabby and Knocker were flown out in a
shiny new Septemba 109. “Don’t forget, please do not suck or lick the
paintwork” shouted the pilot also rather needlessly as Flabby’s sucking and
licking days were over or were as far as his love life was concerned. Of course
the pilot had to mention the paintwork as in today’s sue and be damned climate
you just had to get your retaliation in first. Flabby and Knocker had also
signed (in triplicate) an indemnity waiver form so that was them suitably done
up like a kipper. The pilot did his pre-flight checks, selected the in-flight
movie, chose the subtitle language, checked his emails, downloaded a TomTom
update, watched something on YouTube, checked the Army Aviation website as he
was a member, chatted to a rather nice girl on Pacefarty and then shut down as
fuel was low. After half an hour, the Septemba 109 now fully refuelled and with
a jerry can in the back just in case lifted off blowing Major Tom’s Smart car
onto its side. Still, he had been warned about that before and since it’s only
half a car, it must be half the damage. The pilot knocked it into top while the
crewman played Tomb Raider and the Septemba headed away from
The Septemba landed at the army camp at Beachley narrowly
missing the
They were whisked inside which isn’t as painful as it sounds and found themselves in a nice airy light kitchen. Some of the suits patrolled the perimeter while others checked the house and one even swept it for bugs. Flabby switched the kettle on while Knocker drooled over the Aga, not the one called Khan that’s the Imam of the Nizārī Muslims but the big fcuk off cooker in the corner of the kitchen. “We’re fcuked Flabby” remarked Knocker. He didn’t mean they weren’t perfectly capable of taking on and defeating the republican scum but they were being protected themselves and had no weapons of any shape or form. This was actually very quickly changed as one of the suits pressed a keypad hidden in the back of the utility room and a door popped open. Inside was a vast array of weapons in all shapes, sizes and calibres. “Fcuk a stoat!” shouted Knocker. “It’s like being let loose in a sweet shop” exclaimed Flabby helping himself to a few handy pieces of weaponry including the world famous assault rifle and Flabby’s own personal favourite, the Heckler O’Koch G36C. So now armed to the teeth and a bit more, Flabby and Knocker sat in the kitchen feeling a bit more upbeat. There was still no sign of Ryan and Smudge but one of the suits explained they were en route. “I hope we’ve left them something” joked Flabby stroking his gat. “Neither of them could hit a barn door at twenty paces” joked Knocker though this was of course untrue as Smudge if not smoking or lighting up or stubbing out or flicking his ash or opening another packet could shoot the balls off a fruit fly. There was a bit of sudden activity from the suits and Flabby hoped this was Ryan and Smudge. He was right; one car with all its windows open looked as though it had caught fire. As it ground to a halt, the suits debussed left, right and anywhere they could find for some fresh air. Out of the car stepped Smudge with a huge grin and a ciggy in each hand. From the other car in less dramatic fashion out stepped Ryan and then there were four.
Chapter Three
And what a reunion they had. As the suits nervously
patrolled the perimeter, checked the rooms again and for some unknown reason
swept the whole house for bugs yet again, there was some serious male bonding
going on and male bonding of a type that only really trained killers (or
possibly Millwall supporters) participate in. Smudge coughed loudly and spat
into a plastic bucket doubling up as a spittoon. He lit another ciggy and
Flabby turned the telly up as Smudge’s wheezing was a bit loud. Flabby was
genuinely worried about Smudge, his health was not good and of course Smudge
made light of it and while he would have a chest cold or a bout of flu, he
never seemed to address the real reason for his poor health and that the fact
he was probably born prematurely due to lighting one up in the womb and chain
smoking ever since. They all knew that thanks to Ryan Christopher they would be
eating like kings and the author will be constantly googling trying to find new
recipes for him to dish up. Knocker was of course Knocker, as subtle as a brick
but hard as nails and in Flabby McAndrew they had one of the finest tactical
brains west of
Ryan and Smudge were shown the weapons cache but only after grabbing a suit as they didn’t know the code. Actually it was ‘000’ but they do change it on a daily basis so I don’t suppose I’m giving too much away. The two helped themselves to some weaponry and it seems that the Irish assault rifle, the Heckler O’Koch G36C is definitely a favourite among trained killers. So everybody suitably armed it was time to think of better things and rumbling stomachs might give you a clue. Ryan checked the cupboards in the kitchen and apart from the normal brew making kit, a ten year old tin of corned dog and a mousetrap, the cupboards were bare. So grabbing the nearest suit, Ryan made out a list that would see them through the next few days. The suit disappeared but returned within a couple of minutes as he’d forgotten his TomTom. I think he went to Waitrose in Monmouth as the black cherry jam is always better there though all the till dollies are at least sixty so there’s no temptation to linger. After an hour or so, he returned and carrier bag after carrier bag was unloaded from the car. There was enough to feed a small army and with the four SAS men plus four suits as two of the suits had returned to base, it wasn’t really far off the mark. Ryan was totally at home in the kitchen and perusing the book the suit had bought for him from Waitrose, he planned the menu for the next few days. Incidentally the book ‘Culinary Tips for Safe Houses’ is available at all good bookshops and even Waterstones.
Of course the more astute of you who firstly know what astute means and secondly keep an eye on the plot just hoping I’ll fcuk up might have noticed that while nine grown men are now hiding in a brace of safe houses, said nine might have wives, girlfriends, significant other halves, boyfriends or even the odd Filipino houseboy and they would be at risk as well. You don’t think I’d leave them at the mercy of republican scum and even dissident ones do you? Sadly the life of a trained killer is generally a solitary one which is why they go around usually in fours as they get lonely, very lonely indeed. Of course months away puts a strain on any partnership/relationship and sadly of the nine, only Nige was still married but he wouldn’t go into details about whether it was happily or not. Fortunately his wife and their munchkins were away at daddy’s place as Nige had married into money. So his wife was tucked up safe and sound in the country though quiet it wasn’t as Nige’s sister-in-law was swapping bodily fluids with a VIP who shall remain nameless but the reason daddy’s house was no longer as quiet as it used to be was there were sodding Chinooks landing night and day as the VIP buggered off from his so-called training in the firm’s vehicle to slip one up his piece of totty. He also ran an excellent taxi service for those wishing to attend stag nights but that had been nipped in the bud when the newspapers and even The SCUM got wind of it. So Nige’s wife was hunky dory (whatever that means) and the rest, while they did have mothers and some even fathers had been assessed by the security services as requiring no extra protection other than their own.
Not so far away and unbeknown to Flabby and company, the
other five made themselves comfortable in their safe house. The security
services didn’t usually put all their eggs in one basket so to speak but even
though house prices were now falling, you get a lot more safe house for your
money in the
Of course when I say Jock or Taff are retired from the SAS, they never really retire. Each and every member or former member can be called up with bugger all notice and sent to some godforsaken place without even thinking about their human rights being violated. This of course makes it simple for idiots like me as I don’t have to check who I pensioned off in previous episodes. I’m a lazy bugger and I’m not fcuking stupid though perhaps I should leave that up to you to decide as this is only chapter three. It could and probably will be downhill from here on though I’ll try my best. So Jock, Taff etc. had arrived at a house close to Coleford in Gloucestershire. They were actually just a few minutes drive from Flabby though not that they knew that. The house again was isolated, had good visibility, was again surrounded by potential meat and most importantly and especially to one of the suits as he flicked through the channels, it had Sky Plus. As at the other house, the cupboards were bare except for a bottle of bleach and an (unused) packet of condoms that were fifteen years out of date. Rikshaw and a suit headed off for supplies which does seem a bit stupid even to me but if that’s the way they want to play it, if they’re not bloody careful they’ll get themselves killed. Rikshaw did have a way of blending in with his surroundings though stood in the line at the check out at Kwik Save; the suit looked like a spare pr1ck at a wedding. But they had a boot load of food and apart from a local thinking the suit had appeared in ‘Men in Black’ and asking for an autograph, the shopping expedition went without a hitch. They drove back constantly checking they weren’t being followed with a couple of detours just to make sure and arrived back to see the other suits doing what suits do best which in this case was nervously patrolling the perimeter and checking the house for bugs (again).
Again as with the other house, this one too had an Aladdin’s
cave. A suit punched in the secret code (000 again) and a door swung open to
reveal some pretty impressive weaponry. Taff wondered why the suits had this
feature installed as they never seemed to use anything from the vast selection.
Ok, they had rather lumpy wallets and he was sure he’d caught a glimpse of an
Uzi but it seems that this nice collection had been put there purely for their
benefit or so it seemed. Actually it wasn’t for Taff or the others’ benefit.
When procuring a safe house there are myriads (lots) of factors to take into account.
The main one is of course location though as the defence cuts hit home actually
price became the main factor. But just like an MP who gets a reasonable salary,
it can be topped up with expenses and loads of them. This was also the case
with safe houses as the extra expenses had to be spent each year otherwise some
shiny arrse civil servant would recommend cutting it the following year. At
first, most safe houses had hot tubs installed but after a rather worrying
incident when inadequately armed suits had failed to protect somebody in a safe
house, the policy was changed. The embarrassing thing (for MI5/MI6) had been
the poor sod had gone to meet his maker while sat in the hot tub. From then on,
a mini armoury was installed in all safe houses run by MI5 and/or MI6 though it
was only recently that a lock had been fitted after another extremely
embarrassing incident when a burglar had thought he’d hit the jackpot. The key
code entry system was actually only fitted just the other week as after a
security assessment, the bike lock had been found to be inadequate. Of course
all this and more can be found out using that excellent reference book ‘Safe
Houses of the
So as the evening drew to a close as does this chapter, our illustrious heroes (and the suits) settled down for a quiet evening and that sort of hints that there won’t be any action until chapter four so if it’s action you’re after, you might like to skip the end of this chapter. It’ll just be me waffling on, trying to up the word count and talking about bugger all really. It’s a shame to start the action now as you’ll only have to wait until tomorrow or even possibly the next day for any action to be satisfactorily concluded though I could add a warning shot (literally) to our heroes that safe houses don’t always live up to their name, as that poor sod in the hot tub found out to his cost. Hot tubs might be beneficial to health or the ones you don’t get Legionnaires Disease from but a couple of rounds from a Glock/Steyr (delete as necessary) and any possible benefits go out the window. There was an argument going on at Coleford. Max Boyce was on TV and Taff was insistent he would watch it. Unfortunately this clashed with an interesting documentary about Salmonella and Ryan wanted to watch that. Jock wanted to see the footy, Danny Boy wanted to see if he could get any porn and Nige wanted to watch the day’s proceedings in the House of Commons. Sky Plus might be advertised by stars or people who think they’re stars but none of the buggers have ever been in a safe house though perhaps Ross Kemp came the closest as while camping out in Canada and being shite scared of bears, a safe house was what he’d been mostly whining for. Though I think he might have meant a safe house rather than a safe house. Who knows and if the truth be known, who fcuking cares. There were TVs upstairs but unless you ran a cable from the Sky Plus box you got bugger all. A normal signal from an aerial is virtually impossible as safe houses have tin foil linings in their roofs. It doesn’t help with comms which is why the suits were always outside appearing to talk to either their hand or their jacket lapel.
Taff was desperate to see Max Boyce and decided that this required a bit of effort and a bit of ingenuity. As the others argue, Taff lugged one of the smaller TVs down the stairs and set it up outside the backdoor where there was a power socket and a plastic table and some chairs. No, he hadn’t forgotten the aerial either for what good it was in the house and connected it to the TV. Plugging in the TV, Taff switched on and performed what looked like Tai chi holding the aerial in the hope of getting a picture. Stood like a Welsh version of the Statue of Liberty, Taff switched the TV to auto search but apart from the cars in the drive it found nothing. He changed hands, stood on one leg, stood on the table and something flashed on the TV. “Fcuking footy!” shouted Taff as the live game Jock wanted to watch appeared. It looked a tight game with Inverness Rhododendron leading Glasgow Park Rangers one nil. But footy was not Taff’s passion and neither really was the game involving odd shaped balls, he just wanted to see Max Boyce and I suppose somebody must but I’ve personally never known why. Taff moved the TV to the edge of the table giving him a few more areas to explore with the aerial and finally with loud cry of success, the TV spat out the dulcet tones of Max Boyce. Taff sat down and cursed as the picture disappeared and pulling up a chair sat on the back of the chair still holding the aerial and there was a crystal clear picture but not for long. A shot rang out and Taff twisted and hit the deck like a stone. Max Boyce did the decent thing and buggered off mainly as when Taff fell he’d pulled the telly onto the floor. The suits were out first but only just as eight bodies tried to fit through the backdoor at the same time. Rikshaw hit the lights and they dragged the very limp body of Taff into the kitchen while the suits ran about like headless chickens. “Can you tell how bad it is?” asked Jock worried about Taff and feeling slightly guilty. “It doesn’t look good mate” replied Rikshaw feeling for the wound.
Chapter Four
Rikshaw dragged Taff into the hall and at least here, he might be able to switch the light on without attracting too much unwanted attention. The suits were on panic stations and were really just getting in each other’s way and more probably more likely killing each other than the person or persons unknown who had shot Taff. I was going to introduce all the suits but they haven’t said a bloody word to me and as far as I can make out, they’re a bit stand-offish and seem to have a thing about authors. Well that’s fine by me as maybe I’m not a real author but good manners cost nothing so bollox to ‘em. Unless I get a bit of respect then there won’t be four suits there’ll be two. Fcuk ‘em, it’s no loss. Sorry, Rikshaw managed to get the kitchen door closed and switched on the light. He rolled Taff into the three-quarter prone position mainly as it wasn’t a very big hall and Taff’s head was up against a small wardrobe and every time Rikshaw moved him, his head banged on the door. “Don’t want to make things worse” he said to the unconscious Taff. Yes, Rikshaw could detect breathing and finally he found the wound or the graze on Taff’s temple. “You lucky fcuker” whispered Rikshaw realising how much of a close call it had been. An inch to the right and the number of members of the Max Boyce Fan Club would have been halved. Rikshaw ran to the bathroom keeping low passing the window and not bothering to switch the light on. Maybe a mistake but a sensible one and once he’d unhooked the toilet brush from his leg; he grabbed the first aid box and made his way back downstairs again. Rikshaw took the brandy bottle out from the first aid box, opened it and took a long swig. “I’ll save you some” he said to the still unconscious Taff.
Outside, things were chaos or as far as the suits were concerned it was. Danny Boy, Jock and Nige were already covering the ground between the house and the area they guessed the shot might have come from. This was made all the more dangerous as the suits were blatting off at the slightest rustle and the neighbour was going to be extremely pished off in the morning as the idiot suits had already killed two of his sheep. Danny Boy was first across the field and he leant against the dry stone wall to catch his breath. Jock arrived a couple of seconds later and Nige just after that. They spread out still using the wall as cover and Nige actually found a part of the wall where he could look through rather than peering over and offering up his head as a target. For what he could see, there were two men and a car. It was dark but there was a moon and Nige could make out that one was holding what looked like a sniper rifle, while the other appeared to be on the phone. Nige reckoned he could let off a few rounds without blowing his face off so with some rather over complicated hand signals indicated to Danny Boy and Jock what he intended to do and what he expected them to do. Danny Boy was looking the other way and Jock thought it was a film, so he tried again and finally got the message through, though Jock seemed to be telling him that it was just one word. He repeated the signals to Jock who finally got the message but knowing Jock, he was just taking the pish.
Rikshaw carefully switched the Heckler from safety to the ‘firing through a dry stone wall’ setting and opened up. Danny Boy and Jock popped up and let rip too. The one holding the phone leapt up in the air and the mobile in his hand flew through the air and landed in some bushes. The one holding the sniper rifle clutched his leg and fell to the floor. The other tried to support him but they fell to the ground together in a heap. Just as the three were heading in for the kill or to at least make the situation safe, the suits turned up. One particularly nauseous suit seemed to be in charge and in a horrible nasal, whiny voice shouted “Ok, we’ll take it from here” The three just looked at him and maybe that was a mistake but the suit’s dealing with the situation came to an abrupt end as while all this had been going on, the republican scum with the sniper rifle had let one go and at that distance and that size of forehead he couldn’t miss. The suit in charge collapsed to the floor with a nice neat hole in his forehead. Danny Boy and company let rip and the suits joined in but the republican scum had already made it to the car and with a crash of gears and the odd bump into a tree, it roared off into the distance. “Fcuk it!” shouted Danny Boy, kicking the obviously dead suit but just to make sure. The other suits looked rather pale and in shock and one rushed to be sick over the dry stone wall. The dry stone wall was dry stone no longer. “Try and find that fcuking phone” said Danny Boy and the three searched in the area where it had landed. Finally after a good ten minutes, it was found but by a suit and silly fcuker had trodden on it. “Never mind, we still might be able to get some info off it” said Nige rather too kindly in my humble opinion. “You won’t but we will” replied the suit who had obviously finished being sick and was now (trying) to take charge. “Please your fcuking self” said Jock glaring at him.
Danny Boy, Jock and Nige walked back to the house still cursing suits. The suits had completely taken over and car after car arrived carrying more suits and spare suits and some suits took the mobile phone for analysis and suits combed the undergrowth and suits set up tents close to where the republican scum had been and forensics suits arrived and took the earth away and the bark off a tree and a few rocks from a dry stone wall and a helicopter landed in a nearby field frightening all the sheep and waking up the cows and the neighbour come to that and even more bloody suits made the house seem suddenly very small. All the suits seem to look alike and it was like watching the Matrix but what they hadn’t addressed or if they had, they weren’t telling our five illustrious heroes was how the fcuk the republican scum found out where they were. Jock’s crack that “It could only be suit” did nothing to enhance SAS-suit relations. Even Taff laughed at that though his head hurt like buggery. The suits had wanted to take him to a special (no doubt suit) hospital but he refused point blank. It was probably squaring up to a suit and shouting “Come on then you w@nkers, I’ll take the fcuking lot of you on” that swung the decision so Taff did not go to the hospital and the word ‘hospital’ was never mentioned again.
The five sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. Well actually they had a cup each just to celebrate and the head suit was there as well but he didn’t have a cup of tea as they didn’t have Earl Grey in the house. The head suit was not alone and had brought a couple more along perhaps just for company or maybe for moral support but you could really tell he didn’t like the way Jock was looking at him. “We’re going to have to move you” said the head suit. “To be fcuking shot at again, I think fcuking not” said Jock glaring at the head suit with all the hatred he could muster and being a Glaswegian that was quite a lot. “Has anybody an better ideas?” asked the head suit. “You can fcuk off so you can and we’ll take the fcuking fight to them so we will” said Danny Boy not happy at being nursemaided especially by inadequate nursemaids. “Who bubbled us?” asked Nige keen to dish out some good old fashioned discipline along with some suitable punishment. “We don’t know but we suspect that it’s somebody at a very high level. Between you, me and the gatepost, there is a mole but we’re making sure the stuff passed on is either very low grade or just plain rubbish” The head suit was apparently laying his cards on the table. “We’ll give you a chance so we will but don’t make me live to regret this otherwise you will as well so you will” said Danny Boy. “But if anything happens, we do it our way so we will” added Danny Boy. The head suit nodded in agreement, his cards most definitely marked. So the suit entourage disappeared and three cars including Rikshaw’s were loaded up with all the provisions and the contents of Aladdin’s cave and headed off into the night to yet another safe house. The suits had wanted the boys to return the weaponry as it was allocated on a safe house to safe house basis but staring down the barrel of a Glock, the suit relented and agreed it could all be sorted out later.
They actually didn’t drive very far so if you’re ever in the
area and it’s not the high season then as you see all those empty houses, they
aren’t necessarily second homes, they’re more than likely to be safe houses.
MI5/MI6 jointly run theirs but then there’s Special Branch and Immigration and
Customs and normal plods and I bet every organization or branch of the
government has at least one so in actual fact there isn’t really a housing
shortage in the
They all sat round the dining table and shouted at each other as it was a monster table and even just passing the salt involved quite a journey. They discussed how the suits were acting and whether there would finally be some action in this story as they were bored so god help the readers. They understood the author (how they laughed at that) was trying a slower pace but there’s slow and there’s dead and the pace was currently just a touche above the latter. But they had every confidence in the author (that brought a sardonic smile) and knew they were in his capable hands (cue more laughter).
At roughly the same time in an underground car park in
central
In the other car was a Des O’Connor originally from
Jonesborough,
Meanwhile back in the first safe house in Clearwell, Flabby had heard the shots and grabbing a suit by the throat, asked “What the fcuk’s going on?” I thought I did mention the first house was in Clearwell but perhaps I didn’t. Hold on a minute, I’ll go and check. Be right back, don’t go away……………………………………………
Right back again and I’ve checked. No, I didn’t mention exactly where the first safe house was but at least we all know now. It’s not really that important other than the fact that Flabby wouldn’t have heard the shots if the other house had been somewhere like sodding Dubai but for the purposes of the story, Clearwell is close enough to Coleford or the outskirts of Coleford to be able to hear shots especially if it was at Sling, which is still classed as Coleford even though it’s a couple of miles outside the town. There’s a bloody good pub at Sling called the Miners Arms and when it’s not full of miners (or even minors), it’s full of bikers. An excellent pint of Warsteiner can be had there though give the Orepool Inn a miss as that’s full of bloody tourists and/or knife wielding chavs from all over the forest, plus ‘ole bill’ sits in a lay-by just by the turning to Clearwell and they’ll breathalyse anything that moves and sometimes even motorists. Sorry, I wandered off a bit there but where were we? Oh yes, Flabby had a suit by the throat and the other suits were outside mainly as they were staying well clear of Flabby and the rest but there was some frantic talking to the hand or the jacket lapel going on. “Make him talk Flabby!” shouted Smudge. “Yer and make the fcuking author write us a bit of action. I’m fcuking bored fcuking rigid here” added Knocker subtle as ever.
Chapter Five
Right, so we’ve ascertained Flabby heard the shots. They were very faint but Flabby had trained ears as all trained killers do or have or whatever. It’s perfectly feasible he would have as unless the chavs at the Orepool Inn had the jukebox up too loud then apart from the odd sheep farting in a field; it’s a fairly quiet area. Also as Flabby had been outside because Smudge had been upping his nicotine levels before retiring, then it all makes sense to me. Anyway that’s the way it’s going to be and while the missus does the proofreading unlike SOME, I can’t afford a ghost writer so you’re stuck with me and my version of events however ridiculous it might seem at times. Flabby squeezed the suit’s throat even tighter for no real reason other than I’m not keen on them either so I don’t see why they shouldn’t suffer a bit. “Where the fcuk are they?” This was a side of Flabby we haven’t seen for a long time, in fact not since he got the double glazing fitted. Well that was a bit of waste then. I’m not really sure if the suit didn’t want to answer or just couldn’t but he was turning slightly blue. Flabby released his grip and the suit gasped in some air. I would have said fresh air but Smudge had just lit up again. Flabby pulled the Glock from the waistband of his trousers and winced visibly as it had pulled a couple of his arrse hairs out. He pointed it at the suit and asked one more time “Where the fcuk are they?” That was too much for the suit and finally Flabby heard what he wanted to hear. To cross Flabby is something you do at your own risk but Flabby with no house, no car and all his Emmerdale memorabilia blown to bits was a completely different ball game. He was just plain evil.
So the eight in two cars headed off towards Monmouth as the
suit had of course told him. The suits had been relieved of their weaponry and
it was all shoved in the two boots away from any temptation. With two suits per
car they wound their way through the narrow lanes finally reaching Redbrook and
the border. No Checkpoint Charlie or SM70’s as this was the border between
So now in the one car they set off until they realized that they didn’t know where in Monmouth to go, so after a very well executed three point turn they headed back to Redbrook and retrieved the suit from the crashed car. He was wittering and burbling a bit but he seemed to know where to go though this time, they didn’t make the mistake of letting him drive. It was quiet in Monmouth, most good and decent people were tucked up in bed and only the odd mugger or burglar was on the streets. The suit directed them through Monmouth and after about five minutes, they turned into a long narrow lane. Flabby pulled over and they all got out. Well except the suit, as he was still wittering and burbling so with an apology he didn’t really mean, Flabby pistol whipped him across the head and the wittering and burbling stopped. “He’s going to have a fcuking headache in the morning” remarked Smudge. “And?” replied Knocker kicking the suit and quietly shutting the car door. At the end of the lane was one very bored suit. In fact all the suits were bored stiff but this suit in particular was on the gate and to relieve the boredom was playing with the electric gates. “Gate opens, gate shuts” muttered the suit. “Gate partially opens, gate partially shuts” It wasn’t exactly mind-blowing but it was something to do. “Gate almost opens, gate almost shuts” He was starting to enjoy this. “Gate opens” But he was cut short as he felt something jabbed into the small of his back. “Gate stays fcuking open” It was Knocker and just to ensure it, he pistol whipped the suit who collapsed in a well dressed heap on the ground. Knocker reached down and retrieved an Uzi from the suit and threw it into the field across the other side of the road. A sheep rudely woken by the Uzi bleated in protest but then all was quiet again. It was at this exact moment that the one remaining peacock decided enough was enough and was last seen trying to hitch a ride on the M50.
Flabby and Knocker headed down the main drive using any available
tree as cover while Ryan and Smudge followed the perimeter fence in opposite
directions from the gate just in case any of the suits were insomniacs and
liked to patrol at night. Sure enough, a hundred or so metres away Smudge
spotted one of the suits taking a pish against a tree. I said metres as the
security services are totally metric now which does help them especially in
operations abroad as at least they know how far it is to the nearest border
when, sorry I meant if things go wrong. Of course it all gets confusing if the
Americans are involved and as they’re just plain fcuking awkward they still use
the imperial system and one they invented themselves. It’s not for nothing that
Flabby and Knocker ducked and dived from tree to tree but
the safe house appeared all quiet. They reached the front door or almost as
Flabby was slightly suspicious about the grand front porch. It was not enclosed
and Flabby really thought it would be an ideal place to shove a movement
detector. His intuition was spot on as hidden on one of fake Georgian columns
was the detector. He checked the other side and that was clean or clean-ish as
there were some nasty stains on the foot of the column and it looked as though
every dog for miles used it for marking. An idea rolled about in his head and
he gestured to Knocker. Meanwhile Smudge and Ryan had made their way round the
extensive perimeter fence and met up. They could see the backdoor in the
distance as the house was surprisingly well lit up. A conservatory which was a
bit of an eye sore was to the left as they looked and to the right was a large
single storey extension that was actually the billiard room. The swimming pool
was also between them and the back door with some sort of movable cover for the
364 days it wasn’t warm enough to use an outdoor pool. At that particular
moment, the pool was open to the elements as the movable cover mechanism was
shot, so the pool was covered in leaves and in the deep end, a couple of dead
hedgehogs floated close to the diving board so it had obviously been a suicide
pact. They made their way towards the backdoor and skirted the edge of the
pool. Smudge dropped to his knees and lit a ciggy up and if you think that
would have been highly non-tactical then let me tell you Smudge was an expert
at smoking while on operations and apart from the time in Northern Ireland when
Slob Murphy had got his just desserts, Smudge had never ever compromised any
operations. As he smoked Smudge’s eyes wandered, it was a bugger sometimes and
he’d hoped that glasses would have corrected this but sometimes it came in
handy. Just past the totally knackered movable cover was a small sensor and
Smudge knew exactly what it was. He gestured Ryan over and they both stared at
it intensely probably hoping it would just go away. It didn’t, so Smudge just
crushed it under his boot. Nothing happened at all, not a sausage, no alarm
bells, no flashing lights, no releasing of a pack of Dobermans as Smudge knew
that this sensor was a Vista and it was about as reliable as an ex-alcoholic on
a distillery tour. It was only after an update (SP1) that
Flabby struggled with the sheep. Getting it over the fence hadn’t been a problem though others had followed and he had suddenly become very drowsy. Finally the sheep settled down and actually seemed to like it. It settled down in his arms and even (almost) forgot the pain from when the Uzi had hit it. More sheep followed and Flabby began to feel like the Pied Piper of Hamelin as the sheep followed him like sheep. You would think that a flock of sheep would have made a racket but these ones were good as gold and on reaching the porch and the movement detector, Flabby and Knocker made ready. One sheep, sorry I don’t know their names or even their numbers and I don’t mean their phone numbers but one sheep finally walked past the movement detector and all hell was let loose. Lights flashed and alarm bells rang and the front door was thrown open and out rushed a suit waving an Uzi but tripped up over one sheep, was butted by another as it was jealous and the suit was last seen disappearing under the sheep as if he’d been sucked under in quicksand. Flabby grabbed the Uzi which the suit had dropped and threw it to one side. Another suit followed but this one was more careful. An Uzi appeared round the front door and that was when Knocker crashed the Heckler down on the suit’s forearm. There was a cry of pain and the Uzi flew through the air landing on a sheep’s back frightening the crap out of it and the now totally panicked sheep stamped into the house bowling over the suit with the sore arm.
Flabby rolled through the door, not easy as there were still sheep on the rampage but ending up in a large entrance hall, he quickly spotted a suit flat on the floor and now no longer a threat. Outside the other suit had broken free of the sheep and he received a pistol whip from Knocker for his trouble and was now sleeping like a baby. Flabby looked quickly around but there were no more suits but what or rather who he could see was Jock standing on a large landing and he was laughing. “Brought your friends I see Flabby” he laughed neatly sidestepping a lone sheep that had made it upstairs. More faces appeared on the landing and eventually all five stood there looking down on the strangest scene they’d seen in their lives and they’d seen a few strange ones. At that moment Smudge and Ryan appeared from the back of the house as after working out which window to break, they had found that the backdoor had been open and so they were able to just walk in. “Get all the suits here” Flabby barked out the orders. “And you lot get fcuking dressed, especially you” said Flabby to those on the landing especially Nige as there’d been no more dressing gowns or male ones so he was stood there in some horrific pink house coat. Knocker, Smudge and Ryan collected the suits from where they (or the sheep) had left them and kept a watchful eye on them in the hall. The sheep were getting bored and perhaps the novelty of freedom was wearing off as they slowly made their way back to the field but not before virtually trashing the downstairs of the house. Upstairs wasn’t too bad at all though bedroom number four is now a bit of a no-no due to a nasty stain on the bed. Actually that had been Taff’s room so maybe it wasn’t the sheep after all. Taff was to hear about that for a very long time to come.
The one conscious suit now minus the tape and the tie wraps sat
in the middle of the entrance hall on a rather messy floor. There was sheep
shite everywhere and you didn’t have to try too hard to detect a distinct odour
in the house. Flabby had gone through the pockets of the suit’s suit and had
made an interesting discovery. The mobile that had been inadvertently discarded
by the republican scum and then trodden on by a numpty suit had come up trumps
and they might now have a lead. Flabby talked with the suit, they weren’t too
bad really and officially they were on the same side but it was just sometimes
that was very difficult to believe. “So you’ve got an address?” Flabby asked.
“Is it under surveillance?” “What about the high level traitorous barsteward?”
The questions went in thick and fast and finally answers were forthcoming. The
address that apparently the republican scum hit squad had used was in
Chapter Six
Flabby decided they wouldn’t head off until the morning and
so those that had just got dressed, got undressed again and headed off for bed,
a sofa or a couple of chairs pulled together. In fact anywhere they could get
comfortable. Nige insisted on wearing that god awful pink house coat again but
only until he climbed into bed. There was just perhaps the one good thing about
that house coat and that was it did match the slippers. So they all spent a
comfortable night though some were more comfortable than others. It was early
or early enough and Smudge was already outside filling up the pool with dog
ends while he topped up his nicotine levels and took in the fresh (ish) morning
air. Rikshaw was to take his car to
For your information, a ‘get out of jail free card’ is not
the one associated with the board game Monopoly or for those who have played it
for long (ish) periods, Monotony. A get out of jail free card is actually a credit
card sized card with the holder’s personal details held on chip and encoded so
well that nobody can retrieve them, sometimes not even the SAS. It’s actually a
ModF124589/SAS/569044 which doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue so hence a get
out jail free card. On the card is a telephone number and any plod or customs
official can ring the number quoting the individual serial number on the card
and then be told to mind their own fcuking business. A very handy piece of
equipment, as being pulled over by a plod because of a dodgy tail light and
then subsequently being found in possession of a boot full of weaponry could
sometimes prove embarrassing or painful, especially to the plod. There were even cross border agreements so
Flabby and company heading off to
They said their goodbyes, Flabby told everybody to keep in touch so Jock phoned Taff on his mobile. “Stop fcuking around Jock!” shouted Flabby but he was laughing as well. They raided the mini armoury (the code was 001) and spare weapons and ammunition was thrown into large sports bags which they also found in the armoury. The bags were a great way of shifting large (ish) quantities of ‘hardware’ but they weren’t as inconspicuous as they could or should have been. Questions had even been asked in the House of Commons as the Mod spending on sports bags had risen from five thousand pounds in 2001 to almost twenty thousand in 2007 and the figure was still rising. Apparently the bags were constantly ‘borrowed’ by in particular the suits and nobody ever seemed to return them. The MP for Lundy Island (West) Sir Desmond Lyneham had asked the Defence Secretary why such a large amount of money was being spent on sports bags when there seemed to be very little sport being played. The Defence Secretary’s reply had been drowned out other members shouting “order”. And ordered they were as the Under Secretary later signed a requisition form for another fifteen hundred. The rumours that the Defence Secretary reply had been “Mind your own fcuking business” were later found to be untrue. So Flabby and company had been extremely lucky that this mini armoury still had its sports bags. Oh and I almost forgot to mention it but the reason the sports bags were so conspicuous was that they had ‘Property of HM Government’ stencilled in large letters on both sides.
“Right let’s go and watch out for the suits!” shouted Flabby. Rikshaw’s car sped off showering them in gravel as Knocker put the last sports bag in the boot and slammed it shut. Flabby was still slightly worried about the suits and he had this niggling feeling they hadn’t seen the last of them. When you’re working outside the law, life could be extremely difficult and he knew the suits weren’t just content working outside the law, they liked to make it up as they went along. But of course there was the advantage that it was highly unlikely that the suits would inform the police so unless the suits had men already in position then there wasn’t much chance of them being sussed. Though of course the suits could probably guess where they were heading. And all this was fine and well but at that very moment a large dark black car was already blocking the gate while others equally dark black positioned themselves behind it. Flabby of course couldn’t see this but he soon would. “Suits!” he shouted making Knocker jump. Flabby who was driving as the steering wheel was on his side, spun the car round and raced back down the drive. The suits didn’t follow so they were pretty sure they had Flabby trapped. “What about the rear entrance?” asked Smudge. “This isn’t the time to think about sex” replied Flabby laughing but gunned the car towards the back of the garden. Of course Smudge knew there was a rear entrance as it was him who had made his way round the perimeter fence when they had taken the house. He should have mentioned it and it’s probably my fault as I obviously haven’t debriefed him properly. While the perimeter fence was state of the art, the rear entrance wasn’t and quite a lapse of judgement as far as security goes but even the suits aren’t infallible. “Hold tight!” screamed Flabby rather needlessly as Knocker had already crushed the life out of the arm rest. They crashed through the gate sending it flying. Down and just off the track a solitary suit sat in his car with the door open and picking his nose. He paused, a digit still almost making contact with what little brain he had and quickly pulled his legs into the car as Flabby roared past taking off the door. He reached for where the door pocket usually was but it was now a hundred metres or so down the track. He knew he had to call in but first things first. “Got you ya bugger” he said and withdrawing his finger, he flicked something rather large and disgusting at a nearby squirrel that had got closer to see what the fuss was all about.
Flabby raced on down the track with Knocker navigating. The two in the back bounced about but that didn’t stop Smudge lighting up a ciggy. “This is just like Tanita Tikaram the Finnish rally driver” Knocker was enjoying himself though he was having a few problems telling his hard left from his hard right. “Was she fcuk a rally driver and was she fcuk Finnish” replied Smudge bouncing about somewhere on any and/or all of the back seats. “I thought it was a he” replied Knocker warning Flabby of a big fcuk off bend coming up. “She always sounded like that” replied Smudge now on the rear middle seat. “Who the fcuk do I mean then? asked Knocker wondering what the rallying term for a dead end was. “Who fcuking cares” butted in Ryan also on the rear middle seat. “STOP!” screamed Knocker as the dead end he’d seen on the map was now right in front of them and the map hadn’t shown the concrete bollards. Flabby stood on the brakes and all four of them were now in the front. Knocker protested loudly as three on a seat was never comfortable and with Ryan’s elbow in his face and Smudge’s ciggy burning his leg, comfortable he was not. They stopped but only just and piled out of the car especially in the case of the three on the passenger seat as they fell onto the ground in a heap. Flabby gave the concrete bollards the once over and came to the conclusion they that these were immovable objects. The suit in his car hadn’t been dropped in by air so there had to be a track off the main track they had obviously missed. Flabby reached into the boot and pulled out the mother of all sports bags. He placed it on the ground, quickly as it was bloody heavy and unzipping the bag, pulled out the Arrsebuster Missile Launcher. “Back the car up a bit” said Flabby and Knocker reversed about a hundred or so metres back up the track only hitting a tree three times. Obviously not the same tree but they did all look a bit alike. Flabby carried or more accurately dragged the Arrsebuster away from the bollards until he thought it was safe. The reason that the Arrsebuster is so heavy is that this was one of the earlier prototypes and they have a lead acid battery, also this was the Arrsebuster Twin, twice the power so therefore twice the destruction.. The later productions models actually only use a couple of Duracells so for it to be fully operational you just need to mug a passing bunny or nick them out of somebody’s Sony Selfish. Though these days, a Sony Selfish is quite rare, as the world and its dog has an Mp3 player and some iPods have their own built-in nuclear reactor. There are actually other power sources for the Arrsebuster and even the dynamo on a bicycle is enough to get it up and running though you do have to pedal like buggery.
Flabby switched the Arrsebuster on. It asked him if he was sure. He tapped ‘yes’ and it again asked if he was sure. He tapped ‘yes’ again and menu turned into that all too familiar blue screen of death with an error in line 1056 of the stupid bloody questions module. Flabby rebooted and the Arrsebuster played a naff tune while booting up. Flabby tapped in answers to more stupid questions after ten minutes or so he was into the main menu. “Flabby, we’ve got company” said Knocker and looking up the track, he could just make out the familiar dark black bonnet of a suit’s car though he couldn’t quite read the bumper sticker as this particular car for some unknown reason, had one on the front. Flabby spun round and locked onto the target. He tapped ‘yes’ eleven times after adjusting various settings and answering more stupid bloody questions. The missile roared off scorching Flabby’s nasal hair and hit the front of the car. Nothing happened but wait for it. Flabby had switched on the time delay function enabling the suits to get out. Bodies flew out of the car and then it disappeared in a ball of flame. Flabby spun round again and after a while and some frantic tapping, he fired again. The bollards disappeared as if by magic though it did rain concrete for a few seconds. Larger chunks peppered Flabby and company and the car received a nasty dent on its bonnet but otherwise, things were fine. Flabby threw the Arrsebuster into the boot and jumped into the driving seat. Knocker didn’t mind too much but Flabby got out again to let him out then jumped back in again. The other three dived in and Flabby sped off at a great rate of knots. They raced down the track and finally hit a main road. Flabby using all his navigational skills headed off in the direction he thought was right but after an argument with the TomTom, relented, did a quick u-turn and headed off in the opposite direction and now hopefully the right way. Flabby kept a nervous eye on the rear-view mirror but all he ever saw was Smudge.
Now finally on a motorway, Flabby settled down for the long drive ahead. They had not been followed though there was this deep mistrust of any other car on the road that was black but fortunately there wasn’t a dark black one in sight. They pulled into the service station and after paying almost twenty quid each for a scabby bun and a frothy coffee at Murphy’s Authentic Irish Takeaway, they felt a bit better, slightly more human but definitely poorer. There was a car rental there as well and Flabby alone went in and hired himself a large saloon and not a black one, not even light black. He paid using his SAS credit card (APR 19.5%) and gave his home address even though it technically didn’t exist anymore. He knew the suits would be able to trace the card payment but he still had a few more tricks up his sleeve. He drove off from the car rental and parked it at the far side of the large car park, just out of the range of the CCTV. He walked across to where the others were and drove the car and parked it next to the rental. They transferred all the boot contents across to the rental. Once the boot was empty, Flabby checked each and every hidey hole and under the spare wheel, he found that he was looking for. Neatly wrapped in some sacking was a couple of sets of number plates and using the patented fixing system, a matching set now adorned the rental car. Flabby stepped back, admiring his handiwork and almost got himself run over by a milk tanker. He then went back into the service station and using a slack handful of cards, withdrew a large amount of cash from various accounts. He needed a leak so headed for the gents and had already spotted the Chav, who had been eying him up at the hole in the wall. Flabby stepped into the nearest cubicle and waited. People came and people went but with a quick check under the door he could still see the Chav waiting for him. He flushed the chain, even though he hadn’t done anything and opening the door walked to towards the exit. The Chav asked him for a light and Flabby reached into his pocket and shoved the Glock into the Chav’s stomach. He pushed the Chav into a cubicle and sat him down on the toilet. With remarkable speed, Flabby swung the Glock hitting the Chav over the back of the head and said Chav said good night. Flabby locked the door from the inside and jumped over it leaving the Chav sleeping peacefully on the toilet. He had a quick pish, washed his hands and headed back out to the car cursing as the fcuking hand dryers had gone t1ts up.
They continued their journey and finally reached Holyhead
for the ferry to
Chapter Seven
Rikshaw was driving and badly. Finally, after three road
rage incidents, a minor accident, a nasty moment on a level crossing and a
fight with an AA rep at a service station as they hadn’t wanted to join, they
made it safe and sound to
They drove to the NEC but it was closed to the public but not strictly being the public and being somewhat more determined to get in than the average punter, they managed to strike up a conversation with one of the security guards coincidentally also called Joe. They had immediately spotted his veteran’s badge and being ex-mob, this was one Joe that would be easy to strike up a friendship with. Joe was also no dummy as he had already spotted the SAS parking permit on Rikshaw’s car but there’s not many that can resist the temptation so on and on (and on) went Joe about how he knew somebody that had been in on the Iranian Embassy affair back in 1980. There’s always one but in the case of people knowing people who were there at the time, there’s sodding hundreds possibly even thousands. But Joe wasn’t a bad old stick and once he’d finished his story, he was basically there to help. He didn’t ask and they didn’t tell him but this would be something he would tell his grandchildren sat on his knee though that was uncomfortable so he sat them on his knee. There’s nothing better than a good old story and at least it’s free as have you seen the price of Werther’s Originals in the shops? Bloody scandalous! There were already lorries and vans unloading as the celebration/exhibition preparations got underway. The five now with (almost) free access to the NEC wandered about trying to look vaguely Irish which in Danny Boy’s case wasn’t a problem. They stood in the car park spitting as the Sinn Fein trailer drove past but apart from that, there didn’t seem to be anything untoward going on. A Glasgow Celtic mobile stand was parked outside waiting to be put into place in one of the halls but Jock joked that they shouldn’t get too close to something associated with a footy team who’s most famous claim to fame was that they played in hoops. A sudden urge to wash their hands seemed to come over the five and so thinking enough was enough, they headed back to check in at the hotel.
The Chamberlain Hotel was just off a main road and quite
close to the city centre. An impressive red brick building and it suited their
needs to a tee as it had totally secure parking. The totally secure parking was
in fact an old factory opposite the hotel but run by the world’s most miserable
barsteward who was also a job’s worth of the highest order. Once your car was
parked, it was secure and you were totally secure in the knowledge that no
matter how hard you pleaded, you weren’t going to get your car back until the
job’s worth was good and ready and you had a disc from reception. That way if
you were in luck, you got your car back but no other bugger would. The rooms
were somewhat basic though Jock was lucky enough to get one at a corner of the
building. Each corner had a tower and the rooms while strangely shaped had an
excellent view of the
Danny Boy thought about walking into the city centre but decided against it. He ordered a drink and something to eat. Such was the demand that the only thing left on the menu was an Irish kebab or Connor Kebab as it was advertised on the menu. Everything else was ‘off’ and when Danny Boy finally got his kebab, it looked ‘off’ as well. The rest either rested or read a book and those that couldn’t read, just went through the motions. Jock was arguing at the other bar as he hadn’t wanted a Connor Kebab. Apparently even a plate of chips was ‘off’ and his comment about another Potato Famine had not gone down well at all. He settled for a packet of crisps and he finally settled for bugger all as when opening the crisps, the bag ripped and everything ended up on the floor. He stormed off in a huff and was last seen outside a fish and chip shop close to the city centre. Rikshaw lay on his bed trying to sleep while Dolores O’Riordan from the Cranberries blasted out from an adjoining room. “If I don’t get any fcuking sleep, I’ll end up looking like a fcuking zombie” he said to himself as Dolores threw her voice yet again and U2 blasted out from further down the corridor. These were the times a trained killer always values, the lull before the storm. Some would just quietly meditate, some would cross-stitch, some would contemplate their navels and others would check their kit so well they’d end up breaking it. Taff sat in reception and ordered a coffee. He picked up a copy of the Potato Grower’s Monthly and put it back down again. He picked up a catalogue for menswear by Hug O’Boss but put that down again as everything in the catalogue was green, even the print. His coffee arrived and a rather confused waitress went into the kitchen and asked if they did in fact have such a thing as De Valera sugar. She thought better of passing on the sous-chef’s reply of “He’s taking the fcuking pish” and explained to Taff that they must just be out of it at the moment. Taff picked up a copy of Graham Norton’s biography and thumbed through the pages, waiting for his coffee to cool.
Finally it was time to go and returning to reception and obtaining a disc, they were finally allowed out of the secure parking facility. Rikshaw joined the dwindling traffic and they headed towards Tile Cross. Tile Cross at night was not much different to Tile Cross during the day except it was probably better lit. The runway lights and the streetlights and car headlights all combined to light up Tile Cross like a Christmas tree. A plane roared overhead knocking off the aerial of number 33 Bovril Terrace but still landing safely. Number 15 had received her visit and was now relaxing in the bath until suddenly spotting a floater and jumping out. She had to get the dinner on anyway, as the floater disappeared down the plughole. Rikshaw pulled up a safe distance from number 9 and the five kept watch. Number 9 was still in darkness or as this was Tile Cross, comparative darkness. The local neighbourhood watch did spot the car parked suspiciously and the tap on the window made them jump but sometimes truth is the best policy or almost the truth as they learned from the patrolling nosey neighbour that the house was occupied and there were seldom any lights. There were two occupants of the house and they were indeed both Irish but neither of them sounded like Terry Wogan and most definitely not like Graham Norton. So as the patrolling neighbour headed off to ‘surprise surprise’ patrol the neighbourhood, they knew slightly more. The patrolling neighbour was also happy that the police were actually bothering their arrses as Jock had told just a tiny white lie.
“We’re going to have to go in so we are” said Danny Boy.
“You stay with the car Rikshaw and sound the horn if anything happens. Danny
Boy you come with me and Jock and Nige go round the back” said Taff taking
control of the situation. They quietly opened the car doors and a Glock, a
Steyr and even unwisely, a couple of Hecklers were tucked into trouser
waistbands. The Hecklers were removed and not without a couple of nasty eye
watering moments. Jock slammed the car door shut and the street was filled with
the sound of the other three going “Sshh!” A dog barked in the distance and a
dustbin lid rattled as Tile Cross hadn’t got round to changing over to wheelie
bins. A pair of tomcats fought over a queen cat and the heavily delayed flight
from
Meanwhile back in the story, Jock and Nige climbed over the high gate though it was somewhat embarrassing for Nige as it swung open with him still trying to untangle himself from the barbed wire that had been nailed to the top of it. Danny Boy and Taff crept up to the front door. The patrolling neighbour continued his patrol and on seeing the pair waved. Taff and Danny Boy waved back though not so politely. The patrolling neighbour finally headed home determined to give that desk sergeant down the nick, a piece of his mind in the morning. Taff and Danny Boy carefully checked the front door and the windows for any sign of life and whether any were open. It’s so much easier going in that way rather than the less than subtle size ten or a stun grenade. As they didn’t have any stun grenades, then it might have to be a size ten door key after all. Stun grenades were actually supposed to be on the list for all mini armouries but it was at the Christmas party that when trying to photocopy her arrse, Doris the typist had left a nasty stain on the list covering up the words ‘stun’ and ‘grenade’ and despite Tipp-exing the list half to death, the stain never came out and so because of that, no mini armoury ever had any stun grenades. Jock and Nige were meanwhile trying the doors and windows as well but with slightly more success. There was a patio door at the back and with a short, sharp lifting movement, Jock lifted the door off its runners and walking to one side, leant the whole door against the side of the house. They were in and crept through the conservatory and into the house. There was no sign of life except for somebody peering through the letterbox. “Let us in you w@nker” whispered Taff rather loudly. Jock crept towards the front door unfortunately treading on a squeaky toy. There was the sound of movement upstairs and Jock switched on the light on his Heckler to find himself looking at a rather large Doberman. “So that’s who the squeaky toy belonged to” he thought to himself as Nige carefully and slowly opened the front door to let the other two in.
The Doberman was not growling and in fact didn’t look
aggressive at all. It sat on a step and its head turned from side to side in
what Jock hoped was being inquisitive and not the precursor to trying to rip
his throat out. The Doberman continued to stare at them and it actually looked
very friendly. Jock called it, not easy in this sort of situation and the
Doberman walked down the stairs and straight towards him. It rubbed his leg,
held up a paw and then rolled over asking to have its stomach tickled or Jock
hoped it was his stomach. Jock tickled the Doberman’s stomach and he seemed to
have made a friend for life. The dog’s ears pricked up and it looked up. Jock
and rest heard it as well; a sound from upstairs and it seemed to be getting
closer. Suddenly a shot rang out and Jock cried as he felt the sting of a round
grazing his arm. The Doberman changed and how it changed, it seemed to change
in size and it was a mass of fangs as it flew up the stairs and got stuck into
whomever or whatever had fired the shot. Another shot rang out but all the four
could hear was the sound of a devil dog ripping something or somebody apart.
The screams stopped and then suddenly started again and those sounds which
would occasionally haunt them in later years also started again. Then there was
silence, a complete, total and utter silence, well apart from another joy rider
being chased down
The Doberman ran down the stairs and sat itself next to Jock. Jock stroked its head and it felt rather wet. He checked it with a quick blast from the light of the Heckler and he could see it was blood. He looked at the others, they looked at him and the Doberman rolled on its back offering its tummy again. Nige made his way upstairs and after what seemed an age came back down but definitely less tactically than he’d gone up. He switched on the hall light and explained. “The two up there aren’t going to give us any trouble. In fact they wouldn’t give anybody any trouble ever again” The Doberman was now washing its bloody face and looking as butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth even though it had just dispatched two republican scum to meet their maker. The four checked the house from top to bottom and they found a large cache of weapons which they helped themselves to and a whole bundle of paperwork which might or might not be useful but there was too much to go through at the house. The newly acquired weapons and the bundle of paperwork were thrown in the boot and the house was made tidy, so no fingerprints left or anything that might incriminate them. There was nothing they could do with the bodies upstairs and when I say bodies, I’m using that very loosely. There of course remained the problem of what to do about the dog. It only had eyes for Jock though it wasn’t unfriendly with the others. But it was a one man dog and that man had a hotel room in a hotel where no dogs were allowed. While the four would have no qualms wasting a busload of republican scum, they did have respect for other dumb creatures and the way the Doberman had taken care of the two upstairs then this one certainly wasn’t dumb.
The house suitably clean with the two carcasses still upstairs, the four and a Doberman jumped into the car and headed off back to the hotel. The miserable barsteward at the car park was still on duty but on seeing the Doberman, his eyes lit up and he smiled, it wasn’t wind, he really smiled. Throwing caution to the wind, Jock explained their dilemma and the previously know as a miserable barsteward car park attendant offered to look after it as the old factory had a few offices that were going spare and they were warm, dry and a perfect place to look after the dog. He would feed it and walk it and he didn’t even want anything for his trouble. Actually if the truth be known, the dog was warming to him but Jock was his master and only Jock. They all thanked him and headed across to the hotel. The paperwork could wait until morning and they undressed, showered/bathed and climbed into their own respective beds. It wouldn’t be long before they would drift off; it had been a tiring day. But that’s not what they thought as ‘The Birdy Song’ suddenly blasted out at 120 decibels and more. There was a wedding at the hotel and the wedding party had only just started to party. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Eight
Smudge sat outside on a rather windswept deck at the blunt
end of the ferry. He could see the
It was about an hour’s drive to
They checked in which didn’t take long as the spotty youth
had gone for a lie down and somebody with a bit more between their ears was now
on reception. Their rooms were on the third floor and with an excellent view of
some shops on the opposite side of the road but if you stood on a chair you
could see the church and also the delivery yard of the local abattoir. If you
opened the window you could also smell that so the windows stayed firmly shut
for the duration of their stay. They all met in Flabby’s room and discussed
what was going to happen next. It wasn’t hard to guess but they were perfectly
correct as what happened next was that Smudge lit up a ciggy. Flabby thought of
opening the window but remembering the abattoir, decided against it. He turned
on the fan but it was so noisy, he switched it off again. They had just an
address there in
The address they’d obtained was Avenue Road and it was
number 45. They sauntered past the Dissident Republican’s Tea Room, over the
Dissident Republican’s bridge and headed down Avenue Road. They passed the pub;
the Dissident Republican’s Arms and crossed the road by the Dissident
Republican’s Bookshop. Finally right next to the Dissident Republican’s
Retirement Home was number 45 and it was the Dissident Republican’s Social
Club. The front of the building was adorned with murals and without looking too
closely; Cilla Black had some sort of significance in dissident republican
ideology as she was quite heavily featured. “We can’t just walk in” said
Knocker stating the obvious. “We could have done with Danny Boy here” said
Smudge lighting up another ciggy. “Danny Boy is too well known in republican
circles” explained Flabby. “It’s a wonder he’s not on the fcuking wall next to
Cilla” he added. Danny Boy’s frequent undercover work had made him both famous
as well as infamous in
“So what the fcuk do we do now?” whined Knocker even more impatiently. Knocker was not one for surveillance work and just wanted to blast, kill or at least maim things. “Well there’s fcuk all we can do here” said Smudge stubbing out a ciggy under his shoe. They headed back to the front of the Dissident Republican’s Social Club and Flabby wasn’t sure but he was bloody sure he’d seen a curtain twitch in an upstairs room of the house opposite the club. There was also the fact that a dark black car was now parked outside the house and it hadn’t been there before. Keeping close to the building opposite the club, Flabby explained his suspicions that there were probably suits in the room above them and while they weren’t a hindrance, they could possibly help. Flabby rang the doorbell of the house. He could hear somebody descending some stairs and a bit of a wimpy voice asked what he wanted. “Pizza Delivery” replied Flabby in the worst impression of an Irish accent you will ever hear. The wimpy voice explained they hadn’t in fact ordered pizza. “It’s going cold” replied Flabby in that terrible accent. The door opened a fraction and Flabby barged in with the other three close behind him. The suit with the wimpy voice was sprawled on the ground and was reaching inside his jacket. Before Flabby could say anything, Knocker’s boot hit the suit between his legs and after a loud grunt, he lay on the floor whimpering with all thoughts of reaching for a weapon gone. Flabby reached down and helped himself to the suit’s pistol and climbed the stairs. Another suit was sat looking through the world’s biggest telephoto lens and seemed deaf to Flabby’s arrival. Flabby stuck the pistol in the suit’s back and he jumped. Knocker was already dragging the other suit from downstairs up the stairs and there was no resistance whatsoever. He threw him none too gently on the floor and the suit continued to rub his genitalia and whimper.
“So there is no pizza” said the first suit, now finally
feeling better and slightly peckish. Flabby just smiled and shook his head.
“Sucker” Knocker was enjoying himself driving home the point the suits had been
suckered. “What’s with this?” asked Flabby pointing to the camera and the
monstrous lens. “Des O’Connor” said the other suit and pointed to a laptop on a
nearby table. Flabby went through all the piccies the suits had taken and there
was Des O’Connor and what looked like his associates or partners in crime. Most
of the shots were of the street and the front of the building but some appeared
to be from the inside of the club as while the dissident republicans had a goal
of a thirty-two county Ireland, they also were involved in money laundering,
racketeering, counterfeiting, drug running, bank robberies and all of this took
up a good part of your time so if you have a social club, then the last thing
you really worry about is the curtains or the lack of them. “Who’s this?” asked
Flabby, seeing a face he recognized. “That’s Bertie Astern, Irish Special
Branch” explained the suit. So the Irish Special Branch were actually doing
something as there had always been doubts about how keen them and the Garda
were to rid the island of Ireland of the terrorist threat. Many a cross border
cooperation had turned sour as while Flabby had never bothered too much about
borders, this one in particular had been a bone of contention for years with
republicans living ‘down south’ and launching attacks in Northern Ireland and
then using the republic as a safe haven on their return. Flabby had visited
Back in the hotel, they were again in Flabby’s room and were
peering over what the suits had given them. One of the suits had been kind
enough to nip down to the Dissident Republican’s Eason’s and had printed out
all the photos on one of them there machines what prints out digital piccies.
It had been expensive but what the hell when you can claim it back on expenses.
He had also photocopied transcripts of various conversations as thanks to
Bertie Astern, the Dissident Republican’s Social Club was also bugged. Flabby’s
mind was working overtime. Something or was it someone had got his little grey
cells working overtime and as he went through all the piccies yet again, he
just couldn’t see it until the last picture and there it was. On the wall of
the Dissident Republican’s Social Club next to the Dissident Republican’s
Social Club dartboard and just to the right of the Dissident Republican’s
Social Club one-armed bandit, there was a picture on the wall. Flabby
recognized the face but he couldn’t put a name to it. He could put words to it
like “Slimy toad” and “backstabbing greedy barsteward” and then it hit him. The
man in the picture was an MP and a British MP, so what the fcuk was he doing on
the wall of the Dissident Republican’s Social Club? Flabby rushed down to the
lobby and flicked through all the national and international newspapers trying
to find a picture or a reference to the MP. He found nothing but borrowing a
laptop from the hotel and coughing up for a Wi-Fi connection, he googled ‘slimy
toad backstabbing greedy barsteward MP’ and up he came with almost a million
hits, the MP was John Squashcott and he was Parliamentary Under Secretary for
Flabby handed back the laptop though not before finding out
as much as he could about the MP and also the dissident republicans. After all,
he had paid for an hour so he made sure he got his money’s worth. He headed
back up to his room and the other three were still there though it was difficult
to tell as Smudge had been chain smoking since Flabby had left. Flabby left the
door open and the air slowly cleared as he explained to the other three what
he’d found out. His voice lowered to a whisper as a chambermaid went past but
she just gave them a customary glance before heading off to a room at the end
of the corridor due to the fact one of the guests had obviously had a puncture
in their incontinence pants as the bed was swamped with pish. “Fcuking swamp
rats” she said in Polish as she pulled off the bedding. Back in Flabby’s room,
now with the other side of the room almost visible, Flabby talked with the
other three. “We can’t keep it to ourselves” argued Knocker who hated the suits
with a vengeance but he couldn’t see them taking on an MP with all the
protection especially
Flabby followed his footsteps to the house opposite the Dissident Republican’s Social Club and knocked on the door. A different voice answered but word had obviously got around. “It had better not be pizza” said the voice behind the door. “No it’s not pizza but we do need to speak” said Flabby feeling slightly ridiculous talking to a door. He kept a nervous watch on the Dissident Republican’s Social Club but it was shut and the street was empty. Finally Flabby was let in and this time there were three suits. One was fortunately for Flabby one of the head suits so Flabby told him everything he knew and even pointed out John Squashcott in the piccy on the laptop on the table. The suit was amazed and while you might not like suits, well Flabby certainly didn’t, you can’t fault their speed of action, as the head suit left Flabby to his own devices, he frantically rang people using a strange looking mobile. This was apparently the mobile the security services used and totally secure. They weren’t normally available to Joe Public but somebody once told me you can get them from the Carphone Warehouse. You have to ask for them as they keep them under the counter. So the head suit finished his calls and told Flabby to leave it with him. He did ask Flabby what his plans now where but Flabby lying like a cheap naafi watch, told him that there wasn’t much else they could do. If Des O’Connor was after him then it was personal and Flabby was the sort of bloke who took personal things personally and if anybody was going to sort it out, it would be him doing it in person. He said his goodbyes to the suits but only the head suit answered and he walked back to the hotel. He headed up to his room and was relieved to see it was empty. He lay down on the bed still fully clothed and shut his eyes. Seconds later he was dreaming of killing somebody with a blunt object. He’d always loved that dream and it had served him well throughout the years.
Chapter Nine
It had been a very long night at the Chamberlain especially
so as most had by now heard ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ at least ten times. It seemed
to be a favourite with the wedding party; it was most definitely not now a
favourite of our illustrious five. Finally the sun popped its head up over the
After breakfast, they all met up in Danny Boy’s room as it
was somewhat larger than the rest. They trawled through all the paperwork they
had found at the house and a couple of things attracted their attention. One
that was there was a list with all their names and addresses on it and Flabby’s
name had a tick by it. Now being trained killers and also being ex-directory as
far as BT went, there was no way this information could have been obtained
without somebody having access to the system or somebody within the system.
Members of the SAS keep a deliberately low profile not just on duty but off
duty as well and they weren’t in the habit of going around leaving open
invitations to hit squads of any persuasion or political bent. “So somehow
these barstewards had got hold of the info and it would be really nice to find
out how, so it would” said Danny Boy and the others nodded in agreement.
Another thing that caught their eye was receipts and letters all with the same
company letterhead. Murphy’s Irish Gifts was supposedly a proper company as it
had been registered at Companies House and there was even a VAT number. The head
office was supposedly at Newry in
So they were finally getting somewhere and about fcuking time too. The icing on the cake was the floor plan of the NEC and it showed the exact location of the stand, Murphy’s Irish Gifts would be using. It was slap bang between the Dirty Leprechaun Company who made plaster leprechauns in rather compromising poses and the Irish Potato Board which this year would be selling chips. The ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’ exhibition wasn’t due to kick off until midday, so they had plenty of time to get there and according to Joe on security at the NEC, they would also have no problems getting in. So with a few hours to kill, Nige settled down and watched ‘Debbie Does Droitwich’ on one of the soft porn channels the hotel provided, Jock wandered across to the old factory for a chat with Jade the Doberman, Taff watched another specialist channel courtesy of Sky and the hotel, the Max Boyce Channel, Rikshaw read a book and Danny Boy tried to catch up on some sleep. Jock tried to explain to Jade that he couldn’t come with him to the NEC as on the floor plan it had been quite specific that no dogs were allowed. He did wonder if the exhibition would ever get going as Amy Winehouse was supposed to be opening it and she was a dog of the highest order. Jade seemed to understand or as far as dogs can and playfully tried to rip Jock’s throat out. They rolled on the floor, one man and his dog but Jade got over excited again and Jock decided to go back to the hotel. He collapsed on his bed, shut his eyes and dreamed of Andy Stewart and the White Heather Club. He woke up in a sweat and then realising it had all been just a nightmare or should that be a daymare? Mopping the sweat from his brow with a pair of underpants he’d found under the bed, he dozed off again but this time more peacefully.
Jock felt as though he’d only been asleep for a couple of minutes and in fact he had but his forehead was itching. He made a quick reminder to self never to mop his brow with somebody else’s underpants again and headed for the bathroom to put on some SAS baby lotion. It kept his skin young and had fungicidal properties so was used for many things. No trained killer would ever be without his SAS baby lotion or the shampoo or the ‘no tears’ bubble bath, available from all good department stores where the ground floor usually smells like a tart’s boudoir or directly from the regiment. All callers by appointment only please. Jock dabbed his forehead and the burning sensation seemed to die down. He lay back on the bed but not before picking up the underpants carefully with a pen and dumping them unceremoniously in the bin. He closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep sleep only to woken up the chambermaid vacuuming the room next door. Jock was not a happy teddy though neither was the chambermaid as with the vacuuming done she was now trying to scrub footprints off the ceiling. “Bloody sodding stag parties” she cursed in Latvian. Jock dozed off to the sound of her mopping the ceiling and woke up ten minutes later as Rikshaw had finished his book and he wanted a natter. Jock fcuked him off but nicely (ish) and lay back on the bed. A knock at the door startled him and it was the chambermaid. “I do you now” she said in broken English. Jock grabbed his jacket from a chair and stormed out of the room. “Not unless I do you first!” he shouted and headed down the corridor ruining a shoe cleaning machine and deliberately knocking over a plant pot and a waste bin. Jock settled down in the very busy reception lobby and slept like a baby until Danny Boy had to wake him.
“Wake the fcuk up!” shouted Danny Boy and the spotty youth on reception headed off for yet another lie down. Jock opened one eye, scratched his nuts, farted, scratched his nuts again, farted again and opened another eye. “By fcuk that was a good sleep” he said smiling and with a huge stretch farted yet again. A thin faced looking slip of a girl on reception gave him a look, you know, that sort of look but Jock was totally oblivious to it all. He stood up and walked towards the lift with a purpose and the purpose was to change his underpants as one of those farts had been a bit on the loose side. Once in his room, he undressed quickly showered and using the same pen lifted his now slightly soiled underpants and dropped them in the bin on top of the other pair. He also hoped he would remember never (ever) to suck that pen. He quickly dressed, slapped on some of the SAS Brute aftershave and smelling something like a cross between a lavender bed and a sewage works, headed down to the lobby to meet the rest. “What the fcuk’s that smell?” asked Danny Boy. “Brute” replied Jock. “Brute yourself” joked Nige and got rather a long look from one of the campest reception bods you could ever hope (not) to meet. The reception bod smiled, his hand on his hip but Nige pretended not to notice. Feeling rejected, the reception bod went into the back office and spitefully added a few quid onto all of the five’s bills. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned but camp reception bods are far worse.
At the NEC, Joe saw them right and they managed to park very
close to the main entrance. He had also managed to suss out five passes so the
five wouldn’t have to pay. Joe didn’t mind and he was proud to help. He would
be boring the t1ts off everybody down the local for many months to come telling
tales of how he’d worked with ‘them’. The five entered the NEC and the sound of
fiddly dee music was all around directly contradicting The Troggs and later Wet
Wet Wet, as it was love that was all around according to them. Still, at least
Reg Presley earned enough to tour the
They made their way past the Sinn Fein stand and that was worthy of two covert spits until they finally reached the Murphy’s Irish Gifts stand. Sure enough, leprechauns with enormous genitalia were next door at the Dirty Leprechaun Company stand. Two leprechauns were locked together and Jock almost pished himself when some women asked if 69 on the sign was the price. Taff rested his foot on a leprechaun’s enormous phallus until somebody from the stand pointed out his error. Apparently they do snap off quite easily and are quite susceptible to frost. Taff made a mental note never to expose himself in colder climes and moved across to the Murphy’s Irish Gifts stand. There really wasn’t much to see. A few cheap tea towels, some spoons with crests that could have been anywhere, some thimbles that were much the same and just basically crap and/or tat. But they seemed to be doing a roaring trade as rather suspicious men in suits would disappear into the back of the stand for periods of up to quarter of an hour. Each and every one would come out holding a leprechaun and nothing like the ones in the next stand but smaller apparently heavier leprechauns and they were obviously fragile as some seemed to handle them like eggs. One even came out with two leprechauns and it was quite enjoyable seeing him trying to open one of the doors to the lawns without putting one down. He actually dropped one and all five noticed the reaction of the stand. They had dropped to the floor like a stone and covered their heads as if these leprechauns were exploding leprechauns or something equally ridiculous. They all laughed if off as they clambered to their feet but Danny Boy had a deep suspicion that the leprechauns were not as innocent as they looked.
They made their way back to the car passing the real Daniel
O’Donnell who had obviously had enough of being mothered. He was wearing seven
hand knitted jumpers and looked a bit flustered. “Fcuking old trouts” he cursed
ungratefully. “I wish I’d joined the French Foreign Legion like I was going to”
he added and the five looked at each other incredulously. “Bollox, I’m off to
get pished” muttered Daniel and pushed his way past them. The five stood round
the car talking, voices lowered every time somebody walked past but it was
Danny Boy who seemed to be doing all the talking. “It has to be so it does” he
said trying to argue his point. “It’s fcuking ridiculous” said Jock not really
buying it. “Who the fcuk had heard of exploding leprechauns?” he asked more
rhetorically. “They’re not exploding leprechauns so they aren’t but they do
contain Semtex so they do” argued Danny Boy and this time driving the point
home. “It makes sense” said Nige warming to idea. “Not to me it doesn’t” Jock
was not convinced. “We’ll just have to get one for ourselves so we will” He
just knew he was right and it had to be the only explanation. Semtex is a
plastic explosive that is easily available, very safe to use providing you can
tell the difference between a 12 hour timer and 24 hour timer and was an IRA
favoured method of blowing the fcuk out of things. It’s made in the
So yet again they played the waiting game but until the NEC shut this time. The exhibition shut at ten but Taff reckoned they should give it an extra hour before they made an appearance as cleaners could still possibly be working and even those with stands could be replenishing their stock. Jock suggested they bring Jade but Taff was against it. Jock argued and looked at Taff with sad eyes and Taff relented. Joe would be of no help to them as he knocked off at half-ten, just in time to tell his tale of working with ‘them’ for the umpteenth time. The five and Jade drove towards the NEC and parked up a fair way from it. They couldn’t get through the barriers without attracting too much attention so they would have to tab it. ‘Tab it’ is a loose military term for walking or running and is generally used to hide the fact that an order has just been given to walk or run. It’s all psychological really and supposedly good for morale or so one officer once said. The five tabbed it which this time was a brisk walking pace and Jade made himself comfortable on the back seat now there was a bit of room. Jock had left the window partially open so he didn’t suffocate and while it let the fresh air in, it also let the smell out as Jade had a bit of a dickey tummy. The NEC had the security of a Wendy house as Nige used his flexible friend to gain entry. It wasn’t even alarmed or this door wasn’t and the rest of the security which tonight was Bill and Fred either dozed in a chair or watched the footy on the telly. They found the Murphy’s Irish Gifts stand easily enough and searched it thoroughly. There wasn’t a leprechaun in sight, well apart from the one on the next stand which had a member that glowed in the dark. “Is this what you’re looking for?” said a voice from the darkness. The voice got closer and there was one of the men from the stand holding one of the smaller leprechauns. Danny Boy reached for his pistol but before he was even close the man spoke again. “There are automatic weapons pointing at you and if you want to live, please put them down carefully on the floor” The five complied as dead heroes are fcuk all use to anybody. “Please get comfortable gentlemen, it may be a long night” he was a smug pr1ck but again they did as he said.
Chapter Ten
Flabby woke feeling refreshed. Checking his watch he discovered it was broken and checked the time on the clock radio. He banged his watch on the bedside cabinet and the back fell off. The innards fell on the carpet and he spent the next quarter of an hour trying to recover them. “Fcuk it, now I need another new watch” he said as what had come out of the watch was not going back in. Leaving the broken watch on the bedside locker, he left his room and knocked on Knocker’s door. There wasn’t a knocker on Knocker’s door so he knocked again. He kicked the door a few times thinking that perhaps Knocker was sleeping or in the shower or even both. There was no answer so in turn, he tried Ryan’s and Smudge’s doors and again there was no answer. Thinking that they were perhaps in the bar or having something to eat, he checked everywhere in the hotel but there was no sign of them. “They’re probably looking round the town” he said to himself and a rather dusty looking plant pot. The plant itself neither knew nor cared as it was slowly dying, as it hadn’t been watered since 1997. Flabby went out to the street and looked around. It was just a normal late afternoon and dissident republicans and normal human beings were just going about their business without an apparent care in the world. Flabby checked the car park and the car was still there. “Fcuking strange” he said to himself and a huge 4x4. He went back into the hotel and walked up to reception. The spotty youth looked nervous and he had every right to be. He was a trainee manager as were most of the other staff and short of murdering the manager and the deputy manager in cold blood, his career was going nowhere. It was similar to a large fast food chain where there were definitely more trainee managers than Indians or something along those lines.
“Have you seen any of my friends?” asked Flabby. “I didn’t know you had any” replied the spotty youth picking at a rather large spot that was just about due to burst. Flabby moved slightly to one side as if that spot went, he was right in the line of fire. “What do you mean?” asked Flabby impatiently finally standing still. “Well they went off without saying goodbye or kiss my arrse didn’t they” said the spotty youth nervously shuffling from foot to foot. “Did they?” asked a somewhat surprised Flabby. “They went off with some men in a van” The spotty youth was really dragging this out but Flabby persisted. “What sort of van?” he asked knowing he’d get there eventually. “A white one” replied the spotty youth unhelpfully. “For fcuk sake, just tell me all you know” Flabby was annoyed now and he grabbed the spotty youth by his lapels though still managed to stay well out of the line of fire of that spot. The spotty youth told all and how. Flabby learned that the spotty youth was Dundalk born and bred, he had been breastfed until he was eight, he had gone to school but not enjoyed it because of the bullying, the bullying had started the bed wetting, the bed wetting had prompted a visit to a trick cyclist, the trick cyclist had recommended he leave school and start college, the college had told him he was basically wasting his time and why didn’t he try the leisure industry, he had worked at a local sports centre but his nickname of ‘Mr Brittas’ hadn’t been entirely fair and that it hadn’t been arson, it had been an accident but his probation officer had got him the job in the hotel as a trainee manager. “The van, the fcuking van!” shouted Flabby his patience tried to the limit. “I’m getting there” stuttered the spotty youth now in dire need of a lie down. It seems that a white van from Murphy’s Irish Gifts had taken Knocker, Ryan and Smudge away and he hadn’t thought it unusual or that the three were under duress though he had wondered why somebody had been kicking the crap out of the van from the inside when it had driven off. “Anything else?” asked Flabby releasing his grip on the spotty youth. “Yes, the van was from Newry in the north” Flabby smoothed down the spotty youth’s lapels and gave him a playful slap on the cheek, not too hard but obviously it was too hard, as the spotty youth burst into tears and ran off for a very long lie down.
Flabby thinking on his feet, sat down on a chair in the lobby. Newry was only about 14 miles away but he didn’t want to go steaming in and perhaps even put the lives of the other three at risk. He also guessed that whoever came for the other three realized they were one light and they could quite possibly return for him. “What a quandary” he thought, not really knowing what it meant. Flabby ordered a coffee and a round of sandwiches as he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The sandwiches weren’t particularly appetizing but he definitely had to say that’s the first time ever, he’d eaten potato in a sandwich apart from chips of course. He sipped his coffee and patiently waited for the author to make up his mind. After the author had finished his ciggy and was back from a quick pish, Flabby finally knew what he was to do. “Bugger all?” said Flabby questioning the author’s judgement, his lack of expertise in the workings of the SAS and wondering why the author repeatedly talked to himself in the story. By ‘bugger all’ the author had actually meant that Flabby would wait for them to come to him but if they hadn’t shown up by a certain time then Flabby could go to them. Flabby agreed but asked what that certain time would be and also how the fcuk would he know as his watch was knackered. He couldn’t exactly strap the clock radio to his wrist and he’d need one hell of an extension cable. The author suggested by midnight that night and also suggested Flabby get his arrse in gear and go out and buy a watch. Flabby was happy enough and after finishing his coffee which was stone cold by now, he stepped out into the street and headed for the nearest shop that might sell a watch. The only one he could find was the Dissident Republican’s Jewellers and while loathe to put his hard earned cash into dissident republican coffers, he really had no alternative. He chose the Kevin O’Kline in a rather smart brushed pig iron. It was a multi function watch with built in timer and thirty-two different time zones, one for each county. It played the Irish national anthem and for those in the national footy squad, it even had the words. It also had a countdown function but that apparently wasn’t very popular now or not since the death of Richard Whitely. So now with a new watch, Flabby returned to the hotel but quickly dashed back to the Dissident Republican’s Jewellers, as the watch hadn’t come with a strap. The strap he chose was rather predictable with green, white and orange stripes but as Flabby said on his way back to the hotel. “Fcuk it, that will do”
Flabby waited and waited. Time seemed to drag so he ordered
another coffee. He drank that and this was his seventh one so far. In need of a
leak though not being Welsh he wasn’t in need of a leek, he headed towards the
gents just as two burly men walked into the hotel. By the way, Flabby didn’t
know they were burly or at not at first, so I told him a bit later as it seemed
only fair to warn him. After all he’s only SAS; he’s not a fcuking terminator.
Flabby shook it four times so it didn’t constitute a w@nk and washed his hands
as he’d just pished over them. He looked at himself in the mirror and wondered
when it was going to end. The author told him there were still plenty of
chapters to go and he groaned. The door opened and one of the burly men walked
into the toilet. Actually both wanted to get into the toilet but on a burly
scale of one to ten both of the men were at least an eight and possibly even a
nine. They weren’t fat, it was pure muscle and the first burly man cracked his
knuckles. This was mainly due to the fact they were dragging along the ground
as burly he might have been but he was as thick as pig shite or looked it. The
second burly man stood guard on the door and the spotty youth who had also been
in need of a pish, rushed off elsewhere. “You’re coming with us so you are”
said the first burly man in a
The trip to Newry was uneventful and they talked about many things. Flabby apologized for thinking the first burly man was thick, as thick he was not. He actually had a degree in Media Studies and even the other burly man was university educated and he had read Classics but as the final exams had clashed with a job, he sadly never got his degree. Flabby’s education or lack of paled into insignificance by comparison. The two burly men weren’t actually dissident republicans, they were just hired muscle and they had tried earning an honest crust but the pay for a dishonest one was far better and you seldom worked weekends. The first burly man liked his golf and the second burly man liked to cross stitch and painted some half decent watercolours or so he said and Flabby had no reason not to believe him. Flabby was escorted through a side door at the back of the large warehouse that was Murphy’s Irish Gifts. Inside it didn’t seem as big but near the end of the building was a door behind some racking and very well concealed. It was an Aladdin’s cave of weaponry and Flabby looked disbelievingly as he’d never seen to many leprechauns in his life. Rows of the little buggers were in racks up against the back. It was like a weird dream and if there was ever going to an Irish equivalent of the terra cotta warriors, then this was it. He was escorted through a side door and pushed gently but firmly into a room full of manky beds and a few chairs. In the room looking bored but perfectly healthy was Knocker, Ryan and Smudge. Smudge was not a happy teddy as for some unknown reason his ciggies and lighters had been taken away from him. “They said the fcuking leprechauns would go up” chuntered Smudge unhappily. “What do they think they are, fcuking exploding fcuking leprechauns?” he moaned not knowing how close to the truth he was. Knocker explained they had been treated ok by the burly men but the rest were a bunch of cnuts. There was a bad feeling about this, as it had been them that had sent Slob Murphy to meet his maker along with Little Slob Murphy, his son and Gripper Murphy, his sister. They probably weren’t flavour of the month as far as their captors went.
The first burly man entered with a tray of drinks, while the
second burly man watched the door. “Room service” joked the first burly man and
then getting the nod from the second burly man, slipped something into Flabby’s
hand. Flabby stuffed it immediately into his pocket still not knowing what it
was. “They’re going to kill you so they are” said the first burly man, handing
out the drinks. “I don’t mind drilling a few kneecaps but I draw the line at
violence of that scale so I do” he said which did seem a strange thing to say
but without the benefit of a university education myself; I couldn’t really say
if he was actually contradicting himself. “So do I, so I do” said the second
burly man, keeping an eye out at the door. “We hope we won’t be seeing you
again so we won’t, if you know that I mean” added the first burly man as
apparently they had a couple of day’s holiday due and were off on a golfing and
watercolour weekend at
Without hesitation and after a think about it, Flabby flicked the switch to ‘Armed’ and placed the leprechaun back on the shelf. He rushed back into the room shutting the door behind him. Quickly he explained what he’d done and after most calling him a ‘w@nker’ and some ‘a great cnut’ the rest helped him pile up the furniture against the door. They then crouched down behind it all and waited. They didn’t have very long to wait as an almighty explosion flattened the building and anything nearby. It didn’t help that a fresh load of leprechauns had just been delivered which was why their captors hadn’t yet bothered to settle the score about Slob. The extra leprechauns turned the explosion into monumental proportions and a nearby Aldi disappeared without trace. Fortunately it had been shut so there were no casualties but at Murphy’s Irish Gifts there were plenty. Not a living soul was about and even the birds had stopped singing. Actually they didn’t know whether they’d stopped singing or not as thanks to the explosion, most were now deaf. At the end of all the rubble and on the edge of a very large crater, a pile of old beds and what had previously been furniture seemed to move and a white faced ghostly apparition rose from under the pile. “You cnut Flabby!” shouted the ghostly figure, it was Knocker. More dusty figures appeared and they shouted in very loud voices mostly at each other and expletives were being thrown around like confetti. One ghostly figure was being hit by another with what had been part of a wardrobe while another seemed to be trying to kick the same figure. “I’ll fcuking kill you ya fcuker!” shouted Smudge aiming another kick at him but Smudge wasn’t worried about the explosion, he was more worried that his ciggies had gone up in the explosion and at this time in the evening, where the fcuk are you going to find a newsagent open? And so that marks the end of the head office of Murphy’s Irish Gifts. The two burly men, who of course missed the explosion, had an excellent weekend at Killyleagh and intend to do the same thing in a couple of months. They are both thinking of moving out of the hired muscle industry and the first is thinking of opening a golf related business while the second is considering going back to university to finally get that degree. Or else.
Chapter Eleven
Jade stretched out on the back seat enjoying the room and enjoying that fact he could fart to his heart’s content without being chastised. The window was open and a couple of Chavs had received the surprise of their lives when they’d tried to steal the car. Jade tried to free the piece of Burberry cloth from between his teeth with a paw but failed. He had hoped the large gold bracelet he’d just eaten would have dislodged it but again that had failed. The police had later been flagged down by the chavs and after asking to be arrested, they owned up to more crimes, successful ones this time and asked for roughly another hundred or so offences to be taken into consideration. The doctor had been called and would arrive soon to stitch up the first Chav who was still bleeding profusely on the floor. So thanks to Jade, the clear up rate in south Brum looked decidedly healthy for a while. This of course didn’t concern Jade though he had finally dislodged the piece of Burberry from his teeth. He spat it onto the slightly bloody floor next to one solitary expensive trainer. Of course Jade didn’t realise this but the Chav who was missing this would have to buy a new pair as trainers are rarely if ever sold singly. Jade dangled, half in the car and half out. That bracelet was doing strange things to his stomach and if he didn’t get out and quick, he’d be doing strange things on Rikshaw’s seats. Finally out, Jade squatted and let rip. The bracelet came out with various pieces of cloth and what looked like a partially digested Big Muc, a burger (of sorts) from a decidedly unhealthy fast food chain where absolutely everybody is a trainee manager.
Jade breathed a sigh of relief and felt a good stone lighter. Dogs or not even clever buggers like Jade didn’t use toilet paper but in cases where your ring itches like buggery, you just have to scratch it on something. The lamp post didn’t work; the holly bush was too painful so it had to be a park bench, much to the annoyance of a tramp who was sleeping there at the time. The tramp had protested but only briefly and setting his eyes on Jade, had ran off at a great rate of knots and quite an achievement considering his age. It had been a lucky escape but sadly while checking to see if Jade was behind him, he ran straight into a bollard. After bouncing off the bollard, he’d fallen straight in front of a Polish lorry carrying garden furniture and had been crushed to death. Fortunately the furniture was undamaged or most of it though due to a slight scratch on one of the armrests, one of the chairs had to be knocked down a bit. There is a moral to that story but I’m buggered if I know what it is. Jade meanwhile was feeling better. A good dump and the feel of ring on wood and he was just raring to go. Getting out of the car had been a bit of a squeeze but retracing his steps, he still headed back to the car. “Sod that for a game of soldiers” thought Jade showing just how intelligent he was. Jade sniffed the ground and a myriad of stories rushed into his head. A poodle had gone past just a couple of hours ago and she was up the duff. A mongrel or ‘dog of no official breed’ as mongrel was considered so un-PC these days had also been close to the car and Jade grinned. It had pished up every single one of Rikshaw’s hubcaps. “Now there’s a dog after my own heart” he thought to himself almost laughing.
“Heads I do, tails I don’t” thought Jade but realized he didn’t have a coin. There was nobody to ask, nobody to tell him what to do, so this was one important decision he’d just have to make on his own. Well actually his hand or should that be his paw was forced as a police car was patrolling the area on the lookout for a ‘devil dog’ as the Chavs had somewhat over exaggerated their stories. Jade ran off towards the NEC showing ‘ole bill’ a clean set of heels or that probably should be claws or even pads. Anyway he buggered off and quick following a very obvious scent as Jock had trodden in something nasty. The trail suddenly went cold as Jock had discovered what had been on his shoe and had given a reasonable impression of Wacko Jacko doing a moonwalk while trying to clean his shoe on a small lawn. Jade quickly found the trail again as Jock had luckily for him (Jade not Jock) trodden in something else. Jade had a quick pish up a lamp post and continued following the trail. Bill slept on in the NEC and as the footy was now well over, Fred also snored in a chair beside him. Jade peered through the glass at the sleeping pair but not seeing any food he could steal as he was bloody ravenous carried on following Jock’s trail.
“Get those fcuking shoes away from me” whispered Rikshaw
almost being sick with the smell. “And don’t put ‘em my way” said Taff.
“Gentlemen, if you don’t sit still I will have you shot” said the distinguished
gentleman who obviously wasn’t British as he spoke the language too well. He
had introduced himself but nobody remembered it as it was most definitely
foreign. He was actually Kyrgyzwazstani and like most foreign spies or master
criminals, worked in the Kyrgyzwazstan Embassy in
Now Jade as we know is not stupid. He was actually the Blue Peter dog for a short while but his tendency to get erections as soon as a camera was pointed at him plus eating the Blue Peter hamster had cut short his foray into show business. He had also appeared on Crufts and was a rosette winner in the ‘Dogs with a stiffy’ category. But it all fell apart, not his erection but his life and he had ended up in a dog’s home doing a stretch until one of the dissident republican scumbags had rescued him. Sorry but even doing that, the dissident republican scumbag is still a scumbag or was as he’s now pushing up the daisies and that’s probably the best place for him. Jade knew about guns, he’d been shot with one before and it fcuking hurt, so he wasn’t making that mistake again. He appreciated that his beloved master Jock was being held against his will as he could see that by looking through the window. It was not a meeting or an informal soirée as you don’t usually invite somebody and then stick a gun in their ribs though the dissident republicans had been known to do that at times. Fortunately, Jade was clever enough to tell the difference. Now if you’re expecting Jade to run off and somehow contact the police then you’re reading the wrong story. You’re probably already reading the wrong story, as in mine but it’s your choice but Jade is not Lassie. For one thing he’s a male dog and another thing he’s clever but not unbelievable. Anyway Flipper got lost in the canals and Skippy the bush kangaroo was arrested on entry to the UK for smuggling things in his pouch so Jade is very much on his own in this one.
The Kyrgyzwazstani attaché hadn’t said much, mainly as I’d have to think it all up but also because he was the strong silent type. The goons were all Kyrgyzwazstani as well and just muttered amongst themselves so not much to report on there. The five didn’t really feel threatened but they did know this was one man not to cross so just sat and waited, hoping that either somebody made a mistake or somebody sent the cavalry in. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing here?” asked Rikshaw. “Yes” replied the Kyrgyzwazstani and that was short and sweet. Rikshaw thought about continuing the questioning but decided against it. The goons were moving things backwards and forwards and it was pretty difficult to judge if they were bringing things in or taking things away. The Kyrgyzwazstani who I’ve decided to call Gregor as even copying and pasting, I’m getting pretty fed up calling him ‘the Kyrgyzwazstani’ was overseeing the whole thing and you had to admit that whatever he did, he did it with style and a bit of panache. “I could kill you” said Gregor addressing the five. “But I won’t” he added and Rikshaw found himself thanking him. “I’m going to leave you now but just to make sure you don’t get any ideas” explained Gregor and pulled a syringe from his pocket. From the other pocket he pulled an ampoule of a clear liquid and inserted the needle into the ampoule. He filled the syringe and squirted a bit off just for effect as everybody does that in the fillums. It was at that moment that all hell was let loose and a blood curdling cry rang out and echoed throughout the hall. Gregor ran one way, the goons ran the other and the five headed for the Dirty Leprechaun Company as that’s where their weapons had been dumped when they had been disarmed.
Reunited with their weapons again, Taff peered out nervously
from behind a leprechaun with the largest member he’d ever seen in his life,
not his own of course but the one belonging to the leprechaun. Shots rang out
and Taff dived behind the cover of the stand as the leprechaun and it’s member
disappeared in a million pieces. Another cry echoed throughout the hall and a
howl which Jock knew could only be Jade. “This is the police, come out with
your hands up” it seemed the police had arrived and somebody had actually
remembered the megaphone this time. “And tell that fcuking dog to stop biting
my officers” added the senior officer as only senior officers are trained on
megaphones. A line of mooning leprechauns, the entire stock of
“I thought you were fcuking dissident republicans as they don’t take any notice of ceasefires” joked Taff but the senior police officer did not possess a sense of humour. He had a megaphone and a pretty good one at that but he was basically a miserable barsteward. He was even more miserable when Taff handed him the ‘get out of jail free’ card and after radioing through the details was basically told to mind his own. Jock had Jade securely tied up and Jade was contenting himself by gnawing a leprechaun’s phallus. As it was a wooden one, it was lasting a bit longer than the plaster ones or even the fibreglass ones but you could get some pretty nasty splinters if you weren’t careful. Gregor was long gone and the police had seen him and the remaining goons roar off in a rather nifty Haribo GT with false plates. Jade had taken care of two of the goons and they weren’t a pretty sight. They hadn’t been before but now they were slightly the worse for wear. Taff dismissed the senior police officer and of course quite rightly refused to answer any questions but as I said the senior police officer is a right miserable barsteward so the five and Jade had to walk back to the car as nobody would give them a lift. The senior police officer went back to file his report and in line with the ‘get out of jail free’ card policy wrote that all damage had been down to an infestation of squirrels. At the NEC, Fred and Bill slept on until woken by Steve and Bert at shift change.
Back at the hotel, Jock returned Jade to his quarters in the old factory and they all met up in Rikshaw’s room. “So what the fcuk do we do now?” asked Jock. “Fcuked if I know” replied Taff and at that moment in time, he just wanted to get his head down. “Tomorrow’s another day” said Rikshaw philosophically. “Today’s another day” joked Jock and they knew that nothing was being decided until they’d had some sleep and the author had drunk a few glasses of wine. “He’s crap when he’s pished” said Jock. He’s crap when he’s sober so he is” said Danny Boy and they all headed off for some sleep.
Chapter Twelve
In Newry the dust was beginning to settle and finally the
explosion or should that be explosions had woken up the emergency services. The
PSNI or ‘peelers’ arrived along with ambulances, fire engines, Special Branch,
Irish Special Branch and Paddy’s mobile kebab shop as he’d heard the reports on
the police radio. Television crews arrived and reporters fought for any snippet
of news or pictures of the devastation. Smudge was happy as Paddy’s mobile
kebab shop sold cigarettes, so he bought a couple of hundred just to keep him
going. Smudge could have been even happier as Paddy’s mobile kebab shop also
sold various tablets and dubious powders but Smudge wasn’t really into drugs.
He leant against the van, lit up a couple of cigarettes and coughed his guts
up. That’s better” he said spitting on the van’s tyre. Of course the suits
arrived and took control which actually didn’t help but their intentions were
supposedly good. “We need you down in
Finally back at the hotel, Flabby and company headed for their respective rooms and showered or bathed off the dust from the explosion. Flabby soaped himself with his SAS shower gel and nonchalantly picked a piece of leprechaun from his hair. He had briefed the rest in the car so there was nothing to do until morning. He applied his SAS tactical shower gel, rubbed it round his face and picked up the SAS five bladed razor with built in compass. He dragged the razor across his face cutting himself in four places which meant that when the SAS Brute aftershave was applied it hurt like buggery. But Flabby was made of sterner stuff so he didn’t cry though he did do a bit of a strange dance. Feeling better or he would do if his face didn’t sting as if it was on fire; he pulled back the sheets off the bed and climbed in. He was asleep almost as his head touched the pillow and he slept peacefully until morning.
Morning broke with a crash as it was market day and market traders filled the town. Some were in the street outside the hotel but most were in the large town square. Traders shouted at each other for no apparent reason apart from the fact they were market traders and they always seem to shout. It was a bit of a rude awakening for Flabby and the rest but most had spent a peaceful night until then. Flabby washed and dressed and headed down for breakfast. There was no sign of the spotty youth but another slip of a girl was manning reception and she had an enormous chest. Not a chest you store blankets in but one that meant she would never be able to take up the trampoline on a serious basis. “I’ll have a decko later” he said to himself and felt a stirring in his loins. Actually it was just his mobile that was set to vibrate but he let it continue vibrating as he was starting to enjoy it. All were sat at a table tucking in except Smudge of course as he was still trying to catch up from yesterday and was outside smoking, coughing and spitting onto a large fern on the patio. I say patio as it was just four paving slabs and that fern but it looked good in the brochure and appealed to those who like a bit of the outdoor living. It was unfortunately officially the only place you could smoke, so was almost knee-deep in dog ends. Smudge of course never paid any attention to no smoking rules and had smoked to his heart’s content in his room much to the annoyance of the chambermaid as she tried to find the window through the fog. Flabby helped himself to a bowl of Guinness flavoured nutty hoops and if the name didn’t put him off, the taste certainly would. Ryan was playing with his food so Flabby told him not to. Knocker sat looking morose so he was fine this morning and Flabby explained again to them what the suit had told him the day before. Smudge graciously consented to join them so Flabby started again.
Five minutes into his brief Flabby stopped as a suit walked
in and sat at their table. “All change” said the suit and remembering his
manners added a “Good morning”. “Fcuking was when I got up” replied Knocker
annoyed at the suit. The suit explained that while Plan A, the plan he’d told
Flabby about the day before was a goer, there were subtle changes being made so
Plan A was more like Plan C with a hint of Plan B and Plan D undertones. “What
the fcuk are you talking about?” growled Knocker not understanding a word the
suit had said. “I’ll explain” said the suit and Knocker mumbled something but
the suit ignored it. So the suit explained the new plan, not that anybody knew
the old one and so any subtle differences went un-noticed. The plan according
to the suit was that anything that bore the name ‘Dissident Republican’ was to
be raided so that was pretty much the whole of
“Do you understand?” asked the suit as after explaining the plan or the gist of the plan, Flabby was told that they would be involved but in an observer capacity only. “Fcuk that” muttered Knocker and it did sum up the mood at the table. “You are not to be actively involved” added the suit making sure they understood. “But we’ve actively or pro-actively or any actively you fcuking like solved the fcuking case for you” argued Flabby but the suit was unimpressed or if he was impressed he certainly didn’t show it. “You’re lucky you’re being allowed to participate at all” argued the suit. “You’re lucky I don’t punch your fcuking teeth down your fcuking throat” argued Knocker and he meant it, he really did. The suit told them they would be picked up in a few minutes and made a hasty exit before Knocker carried out his threat. “Well, what do you make of that?” asked Ryan a bit peeved they wouldn’t be involved. “Fcuk ‘em” replied Knocker again summing up the mood at the table. “I’m going for a ciggy” said Smudge and headed out to the patio. As it was market day, the traders would help give the Irish Special Branch and the Garda cover and hopefully enable them to keep the element of surprise or at least for a while. To prove this point one of the stalls across from the hotel appeared to be selling ladies underwear but it was either a pervert’s annual general meeting or that was the Irish Special Branch and the Garda that were huddling round the stall trying to look like customers. All the secrecy and careful planning suddenly came under threat as an elderly lady on the hunt from some new knickers took exception to what she thought was a bunch of perverts and it took five of them to wrestle her away with her still trying to hit them with her umbrella. Order was finally restored and everybody went back to pretending to be somewhat unlikely customers.
The car arrived and Flabby grabbed Smudge from the patio and
they all piled into the car. They were whisked through the streets and after a
bit of an argument, as Knocker refused point blank to ‘go up somebody’s back
passage’ they ended up in the house opposite the Dissident Republican’s Social
Club. Knocker was still protesting but perhaps a bit too much so they just
ignored him. As it was market day, the Dissident Republican’s Social Club was
actually open, the first time they’d seen this. Around
Bertie Astern, the undercover Irish Special Branch officer moved through the Dissident Republican’s Social Club looking for Des O’Connor. He knew he was here somewhere and checked on the radio if he hadn’t already been arrested. The reply that so far forty-seven people arrested were called Gerry Adams suggested people weren’t using their real names but as far as the officer on the other end of the radio was concerned, none of the Gerry Adams’ looked like Des O’Connor. Bertie reached the back of the club and kicked the gent’s toilet door opened. It hadn’t been really necessary as you just pull down on the handle and it opens itself but perhaps he was thinking it would look far more dramatic if the book is ever made into a fillum. He did the same for the ladies and somebody screamed, a female type voice but something didn’t quite smell right. Well that was fairly obvious as he was in a toilet but even so, something aroused his suspicions. There were three cubicles or traps and the door to trap two was shut. Bertie looked under the door and a pair of rather masculine shoes stared back at him. If he’d bothered to look properly, he would have spotted that the shoes didn’t have any legs in them, masculine or otherwise and this was probably why he was more surprised than he should have been as he suddenly felt a gun jamming in his back. “Not the old pair of shoes in a cubicle trick?” asked Bertie feeling somewhat stupid. “Yep” replied the owner of the gun who had been hiding in the broom cupboard on the other side of the room. “Des O’Connor” said Bertie, he knew who it was but it seemed the best way to introduce him to the reader or on good days the handful of readers. Des pushed Bertie aside and grabbed his shoes. It was an awkward moment when he had to tie the laces but fortunately the shoes were slip-ons and he’d forgotten. So new complete with shoes Des escorted Bertie out of the toilet and into the club proper. With a dig in the back, Des pushed him outside and into a car which conveniently had the keys in the ignition. “Drive!” he shouted and Bertie started the engine and sped off. Those from the Garda or the Irish Special Branch were powerless to do anything so basically they just carried on with what they’d been doing before.
Flabby in his observer capacity had seen all of this and quickly shouted to the others. Flabby and Ryan rushed out first and seeing another car again conveniently with the keys in, jumped in started the engine, stalled it, started the engine again with a bit more choke and sped off at a great rate of knots. Knocker was close behind the two but waited at another parked car for Smudge to catch up. Knocker jumped in and pulled out the wiring from the steering column. He twisted the red wire with the blue wire and the rear wipers started working. He then tried the red wire with the green wire and the radio blasted out sodding Dana and her sodding ‘All kinds of everything’. By this time, Smudge had made it to the car and jumping in, he sat there and wheezed. Knocker tried the purple wire and the sort of shitey brown wire and the car burst into life. Smudge pulled down the sun visor and the ignition keys fell onto his lap. “Bollox” cursed Knocker and gunning the engine, screamed off after Flabby and Ryan who could have possibly even been in a different county by now. But they weren’t and Flabby was catching up on Des and Bertie fast. Because of the road blocks, there was no traffic on the road and they were able to really tank it on the roads or they would have done if the roads had better surfaces. Flabby’s head hit the roof again as they encountered yet another pothole but he stuck with it and thought to himself “It’s only pain”. Flabby was right up their arrse now and even tried overtaking but either Bertie was a shite driver or he was being told to run him off the road. The two cars were side by side at one point but Flabby braked just in time as Des let off a couple of rounds. The car skidded but Flabby steered into the skid and regained control.
Des was firing at Flabby’s car from out of the window and
wasn’t really watching his front. Up ahead, the one and only Guinness tanker
was parked on the side of the road with an obvious puncture as it leant to one
side. The driver who didn’t believe in mobile phones was regretting that
decision as he was halfway up a farm track trying to find somewhere he could
ring for assistance. Bertie had spotted the Guinness tanker and his little grey
cells were working hard. Keeping an eye on Des, he speeded up and as quietly as
possible opened his door. Des looked round to see Bertie roll out of the car
and roll down the road incidentally coming to a halt at a road sign that made
both eyes water but he was at least alive. Des looked to his front and was just
in time to see the tanker directly in front of him. The car hit the Guinness
Tanker at about eighty miles and hour and exploded just as you expected it would
do. The Guinness tanker caught fire and the tank ruptured sending litres and
litres or pints and pints of Guinness pouring out all over the road and over
the burning car. Flabby screeched to a halt. Why he did this I still don’t know
as the tyres hadn’t made a sound. He jumped out of the car and stepped into a
large
Chapter Thirteen
Danny Boy, Taff, Jock, Nige and Rikshaw all sat round a
table at the Chamberlain hotel eating breakfast. They were well rested and waited
patiently for what the author had decided for them. “I hope it’s some real
action” said Nige with a mouthful of bacon sarnie. “If he’s got anything to
fcuking do with it then it won’t be real” said Jock slipping a couple of
sausages into his pocket to give to Jade later. “Well I know” said Taff as I’d
briefed him before breakfast. “We’re going to be storming an embassy” he added
sipping at his tea and burning his mouth. “Too fcuking far fetched” said
Rikshaw flicking a baked bean at somebody sat at a nearby table. “It’s been
done before” said Taff remembering all too well that day way back in 1980. “Yer
but they were professionals and they knew what they were doing. Unlike the
author” that last quip is starting to annoy me but he is entitled to his opinion
I suppose. “You’ll just have to trust him” said Taff and almost definitely
ensuring he won’t get killed in any subsequent action. “Heaven fcuking help us”
said Jock mistakenly sliding a grilled tomato into his pocket. “We’ll have to
head back to
All packed and ready to go, they settled their bills at the
hotel and headed out to the car. Jock had already arranged that Jade was to
remain here and would be picked up on his return. Jade had been a great help
but having him take part in an embassy storming would have been taking the pish
a bit. Jock waved out the back window as they drove off and Jade looking
somewhat forlorn started licking his balls. It was always a great comfort at
times such as this. The five headed off and after a fairly uneventful drive,
arrived back in
“Jones!” shouted Rikshaw addressing the newest member of the
regiment. Kemp was a former hard nut, former footballer, former farmer, former
actor and was now the general dogsbody. “Here are the keys. Take all the gats
to the armoury and make sure you get a receipt” said Rikshaw throwing his keys
more at Jones than to him. They headed off into the offices while Jones managed
to trip himself up over a sling sending gats flying over the car park. “And
don’t fcuking drop anything!” shouted Rikshaw and walked into the offices.
“Morning Boss” said Taff as they breezed into Major Tom’s office. “Morning
guys” he replied finishing off his game of Spider Solitaire on his PC. “We need
a MoD Form E345/GH/67895 and quick” said Taff. “Permission to storm an
embassy?” replied Major Tom searching through his filing cabinet for the
correct form. “You going in normal, semi-retro or retro?” asked Major Tom and
maybe I’d better explain.
“Here’s your MoD Form E345/GH/67895” said the boss handing
it to Taff. “If there’s anything you need just shout” he added and started
another game of Spider Solitaire as he had basically bugger all else to do.
“They traipsed about looking for signatures for their form. If you ever been in
the military or such like then you’ll know all to well that the task of booking
in or booking out was seen almost as an initiative test and many a brave man or
woman come to that had failed as one person wasn’t in or he/she was on leave or
there was a nasty stain and you were most certainly going to get billed for it.
Feeling that they were wasting their time, the five just forged all the
necessary signatures and that hasn’t been done before now has it? They headed
off to the clothing department of the QM’s and hopefully if somebody had
cancelled they might get a fitting pretty quick. “There are fcuking holes in my
balaclava” joked Jock and of course this was the first time the bod in the
clothing department had heard that. They had been lucky and were receiving the
bod’s somewhat limited but nevertheless undivided attention. So now suitably
kitted out for inclement weather as the proposed date of storming was looking
likely to be slightly damp with just a few sunny intervals, the five headed off
for what was commonly known as the goodies shop. Weather is an important factor
in any operation and the Met Office provided up-to-date information about any
region worldwide though of course at a price and what a price. But it did mean
you could perhaps leave your thermal underwear behind meaning you might
actually have some room left in your
In the goodies shop, the five showed all their experience
and I showed my lack of experience but there’s always Google and if not, I’ll
just make it up. Danny Boy drooled over the stun grenades as these were the new
‘lite’ variety. In this case ‘lite’ meant not as heavy and I suppose if the
soft drinks industry can misspell light then why not munitions manufacturers.
He went for the tried and tested Heckler O’Koch Mp5 as he’d got bored with the
G36C (so he had) and he really felt it had the edge (so he did). A Glock pistol
and an SAS knife roughly the size of
But of course in their haste they had forgotten that they
weren’t storming the embassy until the following day as you generally have to
give twenty-four hours notice prior to storming. So all their kit was stashed
in a secure facility which in fact was an old shed at the back of the offices
and they went into the Wiseman Suite which was a smaller briefing room or
conference room just off the main offices. They were hired out and you could
even get married there but you apparently had to provide your own bride or
husband depending on which side your bread is buttered. They sat round an
impressively long table and studied the floor plan of the embassy. The
Kyrgyzwazstani Embassy was of course the target as according to an intercepted
message between the suits (somebody shot the pigeon), Gregor was there and he
was the brains and the mastermind behind most of the arms dealing of an illegal
variety in the world. The exploding leprechauns had been his baby or babies and
were a clever way of moving Semtex round the world without attracting
attention. Of course when they exploded you got people’s attention but
terrorists are generally not as politically motivated as they think they are
and are in fact really just attention seekers. ‘Proving a point with a bang’
has been said though that could have been that time in
They went through every floor pinpointing the locations of
all the toilets as Nige had a bit of a bladder infection. Of course what they
didn’t have and it would have been nice if somebody had mentioned it was the
floor plans of the surrounding buildings as unless they were considering an all
out frontal assault then the easiest way as is written in the SAS handbook, is
to go from balcony to balcony. They Googled ‘Kyrgyzwazstani Embassy surrounding
buildings’ and came up trumps as somebody had dedicated a website to that very
topic and it included pictures, floor plans and even the fact they had four
pints of milk every day except Friday as that’s when they had a yoghurt. The
building on the other side obviously had occupants who were fresh orange juice
fans but interestingly, there was still a connecting door between the
buildings, yes it had been boarded up but not bricked up, so it could be
another point of entry without having to dangle off a balcony. They went
through every detail, hopefully covering every eventuality but then realised
they hadn’t booked transport so nipped down to the flight clerk and booked five
returns. “Where do you want to go to?” asked the clerk. “Why here of course”
replied Jock proving the old ones the best in some cases but not in this one.
The flight clerk hadn’t heard that before (then) and asked again. “The
Kyrgyzwazstani Embassy,
“I thought there was going to be some action in this
chapter” commented Nige. “So did I but he (the author) has gone on far too long
again. He just doesn’t know when to stop” said Taff looking slightly bored.
“He’s had enough fcuking hints” said Jock still hinting. “We could go and look
at the Septembas so we could” said Danny Boy as I had just hinted that if he
helps me pad out this last paragraph, then he’d get a leading role in the
storming of the embassy with possibly even a decoration. They wandered down to
the hangar and there were the Septembas shiny and clean and neatly parked in
their own individual bays. “What the fcuk is that?” shouted Jock. On each and
every Septemba was a dayglo sticker and the sticker was in the shape of a frog.
“The fcuking barstewards” said Taff knowing full well who had done it. “Fcuking
652!” shouted Jock unnecessarily as they were all stood in a group. “Six five
who? asked Nige. “Fcuking right it is!” shouted Jock. It seems that the frogs
are the zap stickers of 652 Sqn AAC and they can be found pretty much anywhere
in the world. Wherever in the world an aircraft lands, it will take off with a
dayglo frog somewhere on its person, if in fact aircraft do have persons. Even
Peter de Billiere’s waste bin hadn’t been safe when he was Commander of the
Chapter Fourteen
Flabby was going to feature in this chapter but we’ve talked
it over and he’s quite happy to sit this one out as there has been a distinct
lack of action so far and he really hopes I’ll rectify that. So he’s sitting
tight in
They headed for the goodies shop and as it wasn’t open,
kicked the door in. Taff grabbed the sneaky box and they went round the back of
the offices to pick up the rest of their kit. They kicked the door in of a
nearby hut and piled inside. The door had actually been unlocked but this is
the prelude to an embassy storming so I’m trying (and failing miserably) to
drum up a bit of enthusiasm and just get everybody in the mood rather than a
mood. They dressed in their kit, putting on the new Poortex underwear which
keeps you wet inside and dry outside so really more like a set of incontinence
pants. Still if you have to go, you have to go and at least you could carry on
firing. “This fcuking box weighs a ton” moaned Jock and it was pretty heavy, so
they took out their inflatable bergens, inflated them which left them
breathless for a while and distributed the contents of the sneaky box amongst
them. The sneaky box they kicked under a nearby table and they made their way
to the departure lounge. The inflatable bergens seemed to be ok as there had
been a recall on them and a faulty valve had been fixed. It’s all well and good
trying to be covert or tactical but if your inflatable
“Where’s he fcuked off to?” asked Taff. The pilot had got
out of his seat and was pulling and poking at the helicopter. “Isn’t he
supposed to do that BEFORE?” asked Jock as he vaguely knew about these things.
“He forgot” said the co-pilot and twiddled a few knobs on the centre console.
“Oh fcuk” said Jock and if had been a religious man, he would have been praying
now. “The pilot jumped back in and pulled out the thickest pair of glasses
you’ve ever seen in your life. “Blind as a bat without them” remarked the pilot
and fumbled about on the centre console for the battery master switch. “Oh
fcuk” said Jock for the second time and pointed to the switch. “Ta, all ready
for the off?” said the pilot and the engines roared into life. “There was a bit
of a shaky moment as the pilot had thought there was a fire in engine number
three but as the co-pilot explained, they only had the two. The pilot pulled
out a rather grubby handkerchief, cleaned his glasses and releasing the rotor
brake, pushed forward the throttles. “Sounds a bit rough today” said the pilot
filling the five full of confidence. “Could do with a spark plug change”
remarked the co-pilot and the pilot nodded in agreement. “Oh fcuk” said Jock
for the third time. The pilot set the iPod to tactical and they lifted off,
knocking over the windsock. “Oh fcuk” said Jock for the fourth time, huddled in
the back. They headed due west until the co-pilot explained it wasn’t
They tabbed across gardens only being savaged the once but
Sheikh Ali Abdul Akmar’s prize poodle came off worse. At the front of the
embassy it was chaos. As all stormings have to be declared twenty-four hours in
advance, the police had closed the road off and the capital was slowly grinding
to a halt. Spectators or those who had managed to get tickets pressed against
the barriers trying to get a better view. Ticket touts were selling tickets and
even eBay weren’t being left out as you could still get a place with a view of
the balcony but at a price of course. Mobile catering units were selling
anything and everything and stands had sprung up selling teddy bears in
balaclava or the balcony construction kit, an extension pack for Lego. The
residents of the surrounding houses had been evacuated though as anybody who
lived here had money, they were evacuated to their place in the country or
their shooting lodge up in
They congregated in the room with the connecting door and dumped all the kit from their inflatable bergens onto the floor. Nige was the whiz kid with this sort of kit and the rest checked the house was secure and what they could nick. Nige pulled out a tiny hand drill and inserted a long but very thin drill bit. He drilled a hole carefully and very slowly and just as he felt the drill was all the way through, he pulled out. “Works for Catholics or so they say” he joked but everybody else was busy looting. He connected the light probe to its box and switched on. Nothing happened so he plugged it into the mains this time. He pushed the probe into the hole and wiggled it, the probe that is. He could see a room, tastefully furnished, elegant drapes, flock wallpaper, a lava lamp and a large picture of Gregor was hung over the fireplace. Now maybe you’re wondering why in fact there has to be a storming. Couldn’t the police just go in and arrest Gregor? Well normally they would have as shots had been fired and they had all tactically withdrawn. Actually the shots hadn’t been fired at them but they weren’t to know that. The shots had actually been fired at a traffic warden who was just about to put a ticket on Gregor’s car. As his machine had exploded in a thousand pieces, the traffic warden or now former traffic warden had decided to go back to mugging for a living. Ok, the hours weren’t so good but at least you could live with yourself at the end of the day. So the police weren’t going to get in the way and nor were Special Branch as it was their annual conference in Bognor Regis and the suits of MI5 and MI6 were just basically sitting back, hoping our five would fcuk up, then they could do what the security services do best and that’s say “I told you so”. Anyway there’s the ‘get out of jail free’ card which has been known to even change government policy but of course if you have an Mp5 pointing at you, you might change your mind as well. So a storming they have gone and at least this time it won’t interrupt the snooker on the telly.
Nige twiddled his probe which is allowed and even before the watershed. He was looking up somebody’s nostril and pulling back the probe slightly and refocusing, he could tell it was the left one. He moved to one side and it was fortunate he did, as rounds tore through the door and demolished a Louis XV commode and peppered a Vettriano on the wall. The other four came running down with pockets bulging and Jock appeared to be wearing a fur coat but they returned fire and the door or doors as it was actually two back to back turned into matchwood. The person who had fired was now looking decidedly unhealthy as he was prostrate on the ground and bleeding profusely on a rather expensive looking rug. The picture of Gregor had gone the same way the Vettriano had but they wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. After all he was a bit of a smug pr1ck. All five of them were in the embassy now and it was time to kick some arrse as Jock said but he watches far too many fillums in my opinion. Taff opened a door and shots whizzed down the corridor. He pulled out a stun grenade ‘lite” remarking how light it felt and setting it to ‘totally stun’, pulled the pin and chucked it into the corridor obviously opening the door first. I say obviously as it did happen but only the once and he never likes to talk about it. They all felt the shockwave as the grenade exploded and Taff again opened the door. No shots this time and Taff wished they’d brought some gas grenades but since they’d forgotten their respirators as well then there’s no use wishing. He walked down the corridor opening each door in turn and throwing in a grenade. Gregor’s elderly mother had been sat on the toilet for ages and as she was getting on a bit and your body slows down and she was having great difficulty going or had been lately. One stun grenade later and although she didn’t know it straightaway, all her constipation worries were now well and truly over.
Jock was tail end Charlie and he had been expecting it. Somebody appeared at the other end of the corridor and let off a round, it would have been more but Jock was just too quick and just too accurate. The round flew down the corridor, missing them all and embedded itself in some ornate panelling. Taff continued down the corridor while Danny Boy, Nige and Rikshaw checked the rooms. Apart from Gregor’s elderly mother they found nobody else. They made the stairs without further incident but that was where it got a bit heavy. Somebody who obviously had scant regard for the expensive décor of the embassy let an RPG go and that’s a rocket-propelled grenade not a role-playing game as that wouldn’t make any sense not that my stories do. If it hadn’t been for the obviously valuable table that thy hid behind then there would have been casualties. One stun grenade later and the firer of the RPG was a gibbering wreck and easy to put to sleep with a karate chop to the neck. Jock wanted to kill him and Taff wouldn’t let him but at least the next floor was now secure though Jock did sulk a bit after that. They were just about to clear the top floor of the house when they heard a voice. “Gentlemen, I would suggest you please put down your weapons” it was that smug pr1ck Gregor. Jock went to pull the pin on a stun grenade but Taff stopped him. “Best see what he wants” said Taff and lowered his weapon. “I said drop your weapons or else somebody’s lovely wife gets a new mouth cut” Gregor wasn’t quite so charming and Nige knew it had to be his wife. Nige dropped his weapons and grenades but kept hold of the Swiss army knife. The others did the same and climbed the stairs meeting Gregor on the landing. Gregor opened the door and sure enough, there was Nige’s wife with a goon either side of her. One was armed with an AK-47 and the other with a machete. “Gentlemen, I think it’s time to get comfortable again. It may be a very long day and night” said the smug pr1ck Gregor. “Oh fcuk” said Jock and not for the first time.
Chapter Fifteen
Flabby was in the lobby when the spotty youth called him.
“You’re wanted on the phone Mr McAndrew” Flabby headed for the lobby telephone
and picked it up. “Flabby, get your arrse back over here now” said Major Tom
still playing on the PC. “But what about the car boss?” he asked realizing it
would take them five to six hours to get back at the minimum. “Fcuk the car
Flabby, I’ll send a cab over” Flabby wondered firstly why he should have
intimate relations with the car and secondly why the boss was sending a taxi
across to pick him up. “And in case you’re wondering, by cab I mean one of the
Septembas. I’ll speak to you when I get back” said the Major and slammed the
phone down. Flabby asked the spotty youth to call the others and they all met
up in the lobby. Flabby explained the situation or what little situation there
was and they all headed up to their respective rooms to pack. At
Just less than two hours later, the Septemba landed in the
town square causing quite a stir. Those who didn’t attempt to give it bread
prodded and poked at it, which actually was quite dangerous as it was still
burning and turning. The local Garda were quickly on the scene as there was a
pub in the town square and order was soon restored though Paddy O’Mullaghan did
lose the tip of a finger trying to catch the tail rotor. He was treated in the
local hospital and made a full recovery though sadly he never played the fiddle
again which was strange as he’d never played it before the accident. Flabby
said goodbye to the spotty youth and the girl with the marvellous chest and he
and the others legged it out to the Septemba and piled in the back. The cab
lifted off and headed back to
Flabby looked shocked, as did the others. “Are we going in?”
asked Knocker itching for some real action. “Fcuking right you are Knocker and
it’s going to be a Lewis Collins approach” replied the Major and that last
statement left everybody speechless. The Lewis Collins approach had started in
the early eighties when Lewis Collins, an actor of some merit had filmed ‘Who
Dares Wins’, a true to life film of the exploits of the SAS. An epic scene in
the film had been of various SAS members dangling off Scout helicopters. Since
then it was part of the training and dangling was very much a part of the SAS
dictionary with dangling even working its way into salutary greetings. “How’s
it dangling?” was one of the most frequently used but there were many
variations. Sadly, the Ross Kemp approach never made it to the training manual,
as just shouting at people never really seemed to work, on TV yes but not in
the real world. In fact a lesser known fact about the SAS is that Lewis Collins
is their Honorary Colonel replacing the Chuckle Brothers as they were finally
deemed unsuitable for the role. “Better get kitted up boys, the cabs go in
thirty minutes” said the Major. “Better make that half an hour boss, I need to
sort out some kit” replied Flabby his mind wandering a bit. “As you wish Flabby
and we’re going in without permission” added the Major and they all looked at
him totally gobsmacked. When they had recovered their composure, they met up
outside and Flabby read out the orders the Major had printed out. There were
four teams going in altogether. A team would share Flabby’s Septemba but would
be setting up positions opposite the embassy. Using the latest sniper rifles
they would be trying to pick off anybody who came into their sights but hopefully
not anybody from
“You got a pound coin?” asked Knocker as he had no change
for the shopping trolley. “No fcuking time for that” said Flabby and cut the
chain using the bolt cropper attachment on his Swiss army knife. They had much
to sort out and the trolley did mean they didn’t have to schlep the stuff all
the way from the goodies shop. “Don’t forget the ropes” said Flabby more to
remind himself as ropes were an important piece of kit as far as dangling went.
“Will you be ok with the approach?” asked Flabby still worried about Smudge.
“Yer no problems, I’ll just take my Hippo” he replied which is a windproof
lighter similar to a Zippo but fatter. It also meant that Smudge could light up
while dangling as he didn’t like to go too long between fag breaks. They made
their way to the goodies shop and the place was utter chaos. The two sniper
teams had almost come to blows as one team claimed their sniper rifle was
bigger than the other’s. The gopher team were complaining as there was no Earl
Grey and the tea urn looked a bit grubby. Somebody (it was probably Jones) had
cut all the ropes up into metre lengths as they were easier to stack on the
shelves and the ‘pick n’ mix’ had run out long ago as had the offer of ‘50%
free’. Somebody somehow found four ropes that hadn’t been tidied and at least
Flabby’s team would be dangling. The ropes did look slightly elastic but they
must have been ropes as somebody had kindly written ‘ropes?’ on a label
attached to them but the handwriting was a bit familiar. “They’re not the
normal ropes” remarked Smudge. “They’ll have to do” replied Flabby as that was
all they had. So with all their kit sorted or as much as they could get they
headed out to the cabs. Sadly, with teams in
In the blink of an eye they were in
Inside the embassy, all hell had been let loose and goons were dispatched to the roof to try and take out whatever was disturbing the peace. Flabby let himself slide and found himself face to face with a goon. He grabbed the goon round the waist and the two were pulled back up in the air though with the extra weight, fortunately well away from the rotors. The goon struggled so Flabby let go. With a last desperate grab at Flabby’s leg, the goon fell from quite a height and landed on a gazebo in somebody’s garden. Flabby finally got onto the roof and jumped through the skylight. A few minor abrasions later he hit the floor, rolled and fired at the goon pointing an AK-47 at him. The goon dropped like a stone as did the other goon who was somewhat inadequately armed with just a machete. Flabby recognized the faces, it was Taff and company and Nige’s wife was also sat in a corner of the room. Danny Boy quick as a flash grabbed the AK-47 and Jock picked up the machete. All over the embassy but mostly from the top floors, the sound of gunfire was heard with the odd crack as a high powered rifle would take pot shots at anybody foolish enough to stand by a window and some with resounding success. Flabby finally teamed up with Knocker Smudge and Ryan and searched the embassy while Taff and company retrieved what weapons they could, leaving Jock on guard with Nige’s wife. Between them they dispatched half a dozen or so goons and finally the embassy was secure but worryingly there was still no sign of Gregor dead or alive. The embassy was searched again and Flabby was just going to call the other teams in when there was a shot from the upper floors.
Flabby ran up the stairs and there was a smug looking pr1ck holding a pistol over the prostrate body of Jock. Flabby instinctively raised his weapon but Gregor beat him to it and a Flabby felt the sting as the round grazed his hand and smashed a rather nice looking jug and bowl set. Flabby lowered his weapon and carefully put it on the ground. He pulled out two pistols and laid them also on the ground. He pulled out some stun grenades (lite), some gas grenades, some flares, some smoke bombs and also laid them on the ground. He reached carefully into his pocket and pulled out a Swiss army knife, a multi-tool, a bottle opener and a set of keys to a Fiat Panda and also laid them carefully on the ground. Gregor was impatient and started pacing. Flabby reached down to his boot and pulled out a small dagger and carefully put that on the ground. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out some spare clips, another small pistol and his SAS PDA and carefully laid them on the ground though he did unbeknown to Gregor press the red button on the SAS PDA. Gregor was extremely impatient and was swearing in Kyrgyzwazstani or so Flabby thought. He paced more and more and got more impatient and Flabby hoped he wouldn’t shoot him but it was all over in an instance as Gregor strayed just too close to the window and the already alerted sniper had been waiting for exactly that moment. The bullet had virtually blown the head off Gregor and Flabby was somewhat uncomfortable in being covered in brains but his main concern was Jock. Jock was still breathing and it looked like just a shoulder wound but picking up the SAS PDA he called for medical assistance and a towel. He wondered how Gregor had escaped the search and the author hasn’t a clue either but they later came to the conclusion he was probably just hiding under a bed. A change was instantly made to the training manual and all beds are now to be searched no matter how much crap there is underneath or how many spiders there are. Nige rushed into the room and there was a tearful reunion, he even thought of giving her one but everybody was looking. Flabby looked away with some respect though a bit jealous and wondered where his life (and that sodding author) was taking him.
THE END
Or is it?
Meanwhile in an expensive
They were sat outside a small café just off the Rue du Grand
Nez in
THE END