The Wind in the Willows (ish)
by
Mistersoft
Chapter One
It was a beautiful spring day, the sun was shining and the birds were singing Also, rabbits were humping but of course Mole didn’t know about that. Well, he did know about humping but just like the author, it was but a vague memory. He was stuck down the hole that served as his official first residence or that’s what he put on his tax form each year. Mole or ‘Moley’ to his friends, which did sort of show a distinct lack of imagination from some of his acquaintances, was in the middle of a spring clean. He was a happy soul or at least usually but today everything was going wrong. The Dyson was suffering from a lack of suction, all his wine and beer glasses had been corroded to buggery in the dishwasher and for some obscure reason, he was no longer able to tell Stork from butter. Yes, the television played a big part in Moley’s life and why not?
“Damnation and blast!” shouted Moley, as while cleaning a
mirror he had noticed his ring of confidence appeared to be missing. He also
hated swearing which was why he kept himself to himself. The other animals
swore like
visibly though I suppose you’d have to be there to see it, as he thought about the weasels. “Devious little shites” he said to nobody in particular and chastised himself for breaking his own rules. “Ah bollox, I’ve had enough of this!” he shouted still to nobody in particular as the arm of his sofa broke off. “I’m fcuking not shopping in DFS again!” he shouted hopefully loud enough for a consumer affairs program to pick up on. “Mislead people about the fcuking size then the fcuker breaks!” he shouted even louder and forgetting his non-swearing rule though in fairness the sofa was just a day out of guarantee. “Fcuking always happens” he said and very true in my own personal experience.
“Fcuk a stoat” said Mole as the sun blinded him though he did say it quietly as stoats have incredible hearing and are not too choosey about their sexual partners. His all singing and all dancing glasses took a while but as shown on TV, they eventually adjusted to the light. Too much in fact as this was why he walked into a tree. Fcuk it!” he shouted and several buck rabbits did. Mole was dressed in a glorious waistcoat which shimmered in the spring sun. Underneath he wore a shirt of the finest silk and one of those naff neckerchief things round his fat neck. Ok, it was Burberry (the neckerchief not his neck) but he looked a bit of a tw@t really. The other reason for looking a tw@t was that he wore no trousers. It was a good job sex was but a vague memory as there was nothing to hide his modesty if anything ever came up, if you see what I mean. Actually as he had such hairy legs, I suppose he didn’t really need trousers and as he didn’t wear underpants, there was never the problem of skid marks.
Mole never ventured outside much. He was a solitary creature though unlike the ones you might find in your garden, he was almost the size of a human so if he ever came up on your lawn, you’d need a sodding JCB to get rid of the molehill. Creatures in this story are big buggers, look and act remarkably like humans and I bet the sceptics and the cynics would just think that the animals are actually humans in some daft animal costume. It just shows how wrong you can be. So back to Mole who had just walked into another tree “Should have gone to Specsavers!” shouted Mole rubbing his now bloodied nose. He had actually had his eyes tested online by one of the latest online opticians and while you don’t have to leave your house, the end product isn’t quite perhaps what it could or should be. His house or hole had quite a decent ADSL connection and Mole spent a lot of his time online. He’d even become a member of Moles Reunited or thought he had, as due to his crap glasses he had actually subscribed to an Aberdeen-Angus Appreciation Society. He’d wondered why there hadn’t been many responses and in most of the photos, he hadn’t seen anyone he’d even vaguely fancied.
Mole was feeling adventurous. Well actually he was falling over a tree root as his glasses were playing silly buggers again but he just felt like a change. His few excursions away from home were quite infrequent and the last time was almost three months ago. He’d been pulled up in front of the magistrate for indecent exposure as he’d taken a leak in what he’d thought was a gents (and moles) toilet but it had actually been one of the changing rooms at the local branch of Matalan. The magistrate had understood but had still given him community service and you must be able to tell this is a story and totally fictitious (and a bit crappy), as there was still some sort of sense of community. There had been no real harm done though if you ever need to try anything on in Matalan, I’d give the changing room on the far left a complete body swerve. “Fcuk it” said Mole narrowly missing a tree but heading off in a completely new direction. Actually, north isn’t that new but it was to Mole as Matalan lay due south as did the local hostelry that Mole did frequent on special occasions. “I’ll have me a decko at that there fcuking river” he said determinedly and fell into the ditch.
Mole finally pulled himself free of the brambles and had he been wearing trousers they would have been ruined. As it was, his legs looked a bit messy and he sat on a convenient stump and gave them a comb. Mole always kept TWO combs in his jacket inside pocket, one for his head and the other for his legs. He tried not to mix them up but unfortunately the dandruff had spread from his head to his legs and Head and Shoulders was obviously out of its depth on legs. Mole combed his legs free of any twigs or leaves and decided on a side parting for today. His legs suitably sorted, he could now hear the sound of running water and quite close by. He negotiated another bramble thicket and tripping over a tree root, he could finally see the river. The river was quite swollen due to the heavy rain further upstream and plastic milk cartons, shopping trolleys and a severed arm floated quickly past just in the few seconds Mole could make something out. The arm had come from somebody who had upset the weasels and despite being dismembered and then weighed down with stones, the river was giving up its ghastly secret as a foot still wearing a Nike trainer floated past appearing to chase an Asda shopping trolley.
“Who the fcuk are you?” said somebody behind a tree and close to the riverbank. “And who or what the fcuk are you?” replied Mole spotting a tail obviously originating from whatever or whoever was behind the tree. “I’m Ratty” replied the voice. “Well, I’m not feeling too happy myself” replied Mole innocently. “No you dork, my name is Ratty!” shouted Ratty appearing from behind the tree and what a dipstick he looked. He had a Sherlock Holmes type deerstalker hat but on his head so that wasn’t too strange but he was wearing plus fours, with the compulsory hairy socks and shoes that couldn’t get more sensible if they tried. He was actually wearing trousers (not sure about underpants) and there was a split on the arrse for his tail. “But aren’t you a water vole?” asked Mole as unlike the rest of the world, he knew his biology and if Ratty was a rat then he was a gnu. “Yes and no” replied Ratty and there was a twinkle in his eye. “You’re taking the pish” said Mole and he knew all too well when somebody was taking the pish. “Of course I am” added Ratty smiling from ear to ear which is quite difficult to gauge as the deerstalker actually covered his ears. Ratty went on to explain that he was a water vole and that ‘Ratty’ was just a nickname. So what do they call you then?” asked Ratty once the mystery over his name had been cleared up. “Moley” replied Mole and ratty laughed until he cried. “By fcuk that took some thinking up” he said still laughing and Mole did have to agree with him.
They talked and the time just seemed to fly buy. During that time a head floated by horribly wearing a plastic carton like a single solitary earring but neither of them noticed it. Ratty was obviously keen on picnics as every second sentence (or so it seemed) he asked Mole if he liked picnics and if so was he ‘game on’ for one. Actually Ratty did have a problem and while his therapist does maintain he’s no danger to anybody, your best bet is to ignore him and never (ever) mention picnics. Ratty was at that time attending a support group called Picnickers Anonymous but he had such an impact on the group that their Wednesday evening meeting has been cancelled so they can all go on a picnic. Ratty was an expert on the river and here or should I say there, he was truly in his element. Mole was warming to Ratty despite overdosing on picnic related conversation and Ratty wasn’t a bad chap once you shut the fcuker up. “Do you want to see my punt?” asked Ratty adding that punts were ideal craft for picnics. “Boat?” said Mole not knowing what a punt was. “Punt, punt!” shouted Ratty determined to call a spade a spade. “I was only asking” sulked Mole not liking being called a cnut. “I said punt” added Ratty realising the confusion and he laughed heartily. Mole joined in thankful he wasn’t being called a cnut and actually getting enthusiastic about the idea of a picnic.
They walked and talked along the riverbank heading towards Ratty’s house and his punt. Mole had never been so happy. The birds were singing, the sun shone through trees and twinkled on the surface of the river as a dead sheep floated past, its upturned belly swollen with gas. Yes, it was truly a magical setting and Mole didn’t want it to end. Finally they reached what looked like a shed on stilts. Now this was no coincidence as Ratty actually lived in a shed on stilts. “It’s plenty big enough for me” he said to Mole as the two of them tried to squeeze in. “There’s my punt” shouted Ratty as they had forgotten about it so they just had to squeeze back out again. Mole was no expert on boats but it looked fine to him. It didn’t leak and it was painted in a quite striking heliotrope and orange colour scheme. Of course water voles whether called Ratty or not are colour blind so as far as Ratty was concerned; the punt was two contrasting shades of grey. “Shall we?” asked Ratty already with picnic basket in hand. “Go on then” replied Mole and he settled himself down at the front of the punt which as Ratty explained, is normally called ‘the pointy bit’.
Ratty sat himself down in ‘the blunt bit’ and untied the
punt from the jetty. The punt floated free and picked up speed in the fast
flowing river. “Don’t worry!” shouted Ratty as a rather nervous Mole threw up over
the side in between popping Boots seasickness tablets like they were Smarties.
Mole had never been on a boat before let alone a punt and had he been more
knowledgeable, when Ratty raised the sail, Mole should have instantly realised
that this was a
“Can we do that again?” asked Mole dripping wet and still in shock. “Here drink this” Ratty passed him a bottle of elderberry cognac as the picnic basket had been most definitely rescued and told him to take a swig. “By fcuk!” shouted Mole after a bout of coughing and spluttering as elderberry cognac reaches different parts and reaches them in double quick time. “I forgot to say” said Ratty looking at Mole. “I like your trousers” and he laughed as did Mole. “They’re my fcuking legs” And the pair of them rolled about on the bank in helpless laughter. “Silly punt” Mole could hardly speak but he couldn’t resist that one. Finally they regained their composure though Ratty did ask (more than once) if they could have a picnic but they made their way back to Ratty’s house or shed on stilts to be more accurate. “What about the punt?” asked Mole drying his legs with a towel. “If there’s anything left in the morning, I’ll salvage it but I do also have a rowing boat” replied Ratty and not mentioning picnics once. The pair of them sat outside on a couple of rough looking chairs and watched the sun slowly sinking over the water treatment works. It made a lovely picture, especially with the steam rising up from the raw sewage in the plant nearby. Mole sipped on a glass of elderberry cognac and Ratty showed all his happy snappies of picnic baskets past and present. It was a picture of beauty and tranquillity as the sun glistened on the detergent foam on the river and as the torso of the weasel’s victim wrapped in a black bin liner floated by. Mole hoped it would never end though revised that somewhat when Ratty started off about picnics again. All in all a good day had been had by all.
Chapter Two
Spring turned into summer and to mark that progression, Mole had to endure not just Springwatch and Mid-Springwatch on TV but Late-Springwatch, Early-Summerwatch, Mid-Summerwatch and plain and simple Summerwatch. He didn’t mind Bill Oddie but that Kate Humble really got on his t1ts. Mole had thoroughly enjoyed himself and he and Ratty had spent much time on the river but with Ratty’s boating skills, it seemed to be spent mostly in the river. The rowing boat had lasted a day and was found floating (eventually) off the French coast. They had sailed in (on)/driven in (on)/floated in (on) (delete as necessary) rowing boats, punts (Norfolk or otherwise), skiffs, schooners, motor cruisers, launches, inflatables, yachts, catamarans, trimarans, hovercrafts, large inflatable crocodiles and a shed load of lilos. Ratty might be in his element in the water but give him some sort of craft and he was next to useless. Mole wondered where he got his money from but of course living in a shed on stilts, Ratty was not eligible for council tax. He also claimed DLA (Disability Living Allowance) as after a serious (ish) boating accident, he had been signed off by an obliging doctor. He also (doing the double) worked as an Insurance Assessor (Marine Division) for a large multi-national insurance company. It did seem strange as he actually caused more accidents than he assessed but it paid the rent, not that he had any as he claimed Housing Benefit as well.
So it was summer and it was during a reinactment of the film Deliverance, as Ratty and Mole were members of the film’s Appreciation Society that they became separated from the rest. “Where the fcuk are we?” asked Mole peering through his glasses. “Fcuked if I know old chap” replied Ratty sounding more like Leslie Phillips every day. You might have noticed that Mole is now swearing like everybody else but in his defence, after all the crashes and bumps and scrapes and being nearly half-drowned on numerous occasions, he’s fcuking allowed to fcuking swear. “What’s that big place?” asked Mole spotting a huge sprawling building through the trees. “That’s Toad Hall” replied Ratty finally spotting it and if you can’t see a building that size then it’s not just Mole that should be wearing glasses. “Who lives there?” asked Mole quite genuinely. “Err, Toad!” replied Ratty laughing at his friend’s ignorance but more laughing at the fact that Mole had just walked into a large gate. “Ya fcuker!” shouted Mole as the lock mechanism had caught him right in the undercarriage. He sat on the ground massaging himself as Ratty looked on in horror. “I say, don’t do that old chap” muttered Ratty looking the other way.
To Ratty’s relief, Mole finished massaging himself but as Mole said “It was fun while it lasted”. “We’ll go and see Toad” said Ratty striding up the long drive of Toad Hall. Mole scurried behind him trying to keep up and only trod on his tail twice. As they neared the hall, they could see a large horse-drawn caravan on the drive. “Fcuking Dutch” remarked Ratty as he knew about the Dutch obsession with caravans. “Fcuking me!” shouted Toad as he jumped out the back of the caravan. Mole had never met Toad and he shook his hand vigorously. Well, he thought he did but it was actually Toad’s riding crop. “Thought he seemed a bit thin” said Mole slightly embarrassed. Now Toad lived alone apart from his seventy-three servants in the vast building that was Toad Hall. He had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth as the hall had been in the Toad family for generations. The place was a bit run down as Toad was to things new that Ratty was to picnics. Yes, he had a compulsive disorder as well. Toad’s idea of paradise was to sit down with a glass of port and watch the Gadget Show on TV and he could put up with the ugly bird, the tall smug barsteward and the whiney bald sod as all the latest gadgets were on show. Now, with the miracles of phone and internet, those very same gadgets were there the next day or at least within a week if a courier was used for delivery.
“What do you think?” asked Toad, showing off his new caravan and sounding remarkably like Terry Jones. “It’s great Toad and what is it?” asked Mole totally ignorant about caravans and he’s definitely gone up in my esteem. “’It’s a fcuking caravan” replied Toad. “Yes but what do you do with it?” asked Mole failing to see why you would cram yourself in a box on wheels when you have a perfectly good house to live in. “The open road, the freedom” Toad was off on one and Mole still couldn’t see the fascination especially as Toad had openly admitted, there were still rooms at Toad Hall that he’d never been in. “Leave him be, he’s off his trolley” Ratty whispered in Mole’s ear but his ears pricked up when Toad mentioned he had a job lot of surplus to requirement punts and houseboats. Toad had many obsessions and they changed like the weather. The houseboats had been fine but you can’t really go anywhere in them and punting was too much like hard work for somebody like Toad. “I’ll take ‘em off your hands Toad” said Ratty. “They’ll be great for picnics” he added so he was off on one too. “Fcuking fruitcakes, the pair of them” remarked Mole to the horse and the horse totally agreed.
“Got fcuk all better to do” replied Ratty when Toad asked them to join him on a caravanning trip. The punts and houseboats weren’t due for delivery until the following week so he did have the time. Mole had finally finished the spring cleaning and he had bugger all to do either as like most of the people in the story, he didn’t seem to work either. He actually did work and was CEO (Chief Executive Officer) of a large firm that supplied topsoil and the like to the surrounding area. As CEO, his responsibilities were really just to make sure the manager wasn’t on the fiddle and to show his face at the annual general meeting as the company had shareholders and they needed buttering up from time to time. So that explains Mole’s plentiful spare time, his financial situation and since we’ve already mentioned his love life or lack of, then there’s not that much else to say about him. “I’m game” said Mole and tripped over the horse. “Fcuking glasses” he muttered as he banged his head on the caravan. Toad loaded up the rest of the gear or rather a large proportion of his staff did as Toad was an idle sod. The staff didn’t mind as they’d be getting a few days peace and one of the grooms had already posted on Faceparty that there would be a rave in one of the stable buildings. He just hoped they wouldn’t need the riot police like last time. So with the caravan stuffed as no caravan has been stuffed before, they set off as fast as the horse thought a decent pace.
“Fcuking boring this” said Toad and they were only halfway down the drive. The horse stopped again and nibbled at a privet hedge. It had taken them a couple of hours to get this far and to say the pace was leisurely was somewhat of an understatement. Mole played with his iPod and Ratty snoozed in the back as the horse set off again farting noisily. The privet obviously hadn’t agreed with him and he dropped some ample piles of manure. “Why’s it called manure when it still smells of shite?” asked Mole philosophically and probably rhetorically as Ratty was asleep and the question (unlike the smell) went way over Toad’s head. “Phew!” replied Toad addressing the smell rather than Mole’s question. The now half a stone lighter horse picked up the pace and now Toad was enjoying himself. He could feel the wind in his face though some of that was again down to the horse that was possibly privet intolerant. Ratty joined them in the front and Mole slipped his iPod into the special pocket for iPods in his waistcoat and watched the scenery go by. Ok, it still went past quite slowly but at least something was going by. Even the horse seemed to be enjoying its surroundings; so much so, it stopped and nibbled at a bush. It had learned its lesson with privet it seems.
All nine of them sat round the campfire and each was sipping at a piping hot mug of tea. The reason there were nine was that Toad had lit the campfire and set a nearby barn alight. The fire brigade had been there pretty quick and very quick considering none of them did the job fulltime. Two had been at home, one had been at somebody else’s home but the least said about that the better. One had been ice skating, one at a cinema and the other had been down the pub. You could tell the one that had been ice skating as still wearing the skates; he had punctured two hoses already. The one who had been done the pub was slightly wobbly on his feet but he had insisted it was an inner ear infection. Of course nobody had believed him as he wasn’t just pished, he looked pished as well. The farmer and owner of the barn joined them and Toad and he exchanged insurance details. Ratty looked on and made sure everything was done by the book. After all, he was in the trade or he was if there weren’t any benefit snoops about. The farmer didn’t seem too bothered as he was selling up fairly soon as he was fed up of paying the supermarkets for producing milk. Toad passed him a mug and poured in some tea from the pot. The farmer added the sugar but declined the milk as after thirty years in the dairy industry, he was somewhat lactose intolerant.
The farmer headed off home to change the advert for the farm and the firemen roared off in their appliance mainly as the one who had been down the pub wanted to get a few in before closing time. The three sat feeling suddenly alone but not for long as they were sat on an ant’s nest and the residents of the nest suddenly made themselves felt. “Time for bed” said Toad scratching himself furiously.” Fcuking right” said Mole combing ants out of his legs. “It’s another day tomorrow” said Ratty and the two looked at him incredulously for stating the bleeding obvious. “Bags I’m on top” said Toad showing off his boarding school upbringing and slightly worrying the other two. But the caravan had a bunk bed either side and Toad had just decided that on top was always safer. “Slept with too many swamp rats” he added climbing onto the top bunk knowing that it would take a concerted effort for somebody to pish on him. Ratty and Mole took the other bed and Mole took the bottom bunk as he hadn’t quite finished combing his legs. So one nice centre parting later, he pulled his legs onto the bed and zipped up the sleeping bag. They talked long into the night or at least Mole did as the other two were fast asleep. Mole eventually dozed off as he had finally realised the other two were asleep. It doesn’t take forty minutes to answer a ‘knock knock’ joke so it had eventually dawned on him. Mole dreamt of top quality topsoil, Ratty dreamt of boats and ships and Toad twitched in his sleep and fcuk knows what he was dreaming about as in the middle of the night he sat up bolt upright and shouted at the top of his voice: “Give it to me one more time big boy!”.
They woke early the following morning or rather the birds woke them. It wasn’t the dawn chorus but one of the firemen had thrown his half eaten pizza on top of the caravan and now hundreds of pairs of tiny feet and some bigger ones as well, marched up and down on the roof as they all fought over the handy and accessible food supply. Venturing outside, Toad poked at the fire, trying to bring it back to life but cried in pain as he really should have used something like a stick. Shaking his still smarting hand, he rushed back into the caravan and after a quick rummage in a cupboard, pulled out a small gas stove. Within a couple of minutes, a kettle boiled on the stove and as Ratty made his way outside, Mole was making the tea. Toad was behind the hedge taking a dump as even Toads have bodily functions though no mention ever seems to be made about them in other stories. It’s also extremely strange that they insisted on making a fire outside setting light to all and sundry, as apart from the gas stove, the caravan had a fully fitted kitchen with an induction hob, a microwave, a dishwasher and even a washer/dryer.
They continued on their journey and actually made good progress especially after Mole mentioned it might be a good idea to feed and water the horse. The horse was grateful not that you can instantly detect gratitude in a horse but it certainly helped in upping the distance they travelled each day. The countryside was beautiful, the weather was beautiful, they got eaten alive by insects and some of those were quite beautiful. Toad was still thoroughly obsessed with the caravan though you could detect that he wasn’t quite as thoroughly obsessed as he first was. Mole played on the iPod as he could get a good Wi-Fi signal and Ratty lounged in the back either sleeping or drinking though he did get through a couple of books, namely War and Peace and The Lord of the Rings. Life was good, it was slow but good. And then it happened, the three of them were sat on the front as Ratty had just finished the complete Encyclopaedia Britannica as the caravan had quite an extensive library, when in the distance they all spotted a large cloud of dust and it was heading towards them.
“What the fcuk?” said Mole not really asking a question so not really expecting an answer. It was a good job really as Toad and Ratty didn’t have a clue as to what the cloud of dust could be. It was getting very close now and was emitting a loud hooting noise. The horse didn’t like it one bit. I mean nobody likes competition but this was competition that was noisy and that was heading their way at a great rate of knots. Toad was having difficulty controlling the horse and the poor thing farted nervously. Horse tend to fart when they’re nervous but then they also fart when they’re happy or when they’re sad or when they’re feeling a bit randy and of course if they’re privet intolerant but this was a definite nervous fart and not the sort you’d try to set light to. At this moment in time and rather than saying ‘the horse’ all the time, I’ll divulge the horse’s name. It’s not important to the story (such that it is) and it’s not that important to me but I’d hate to be accused of a lack of attention to detail. The horse stood at almost fifteen hands which is quite large and was a sort of grey (ish) with those bloody great huge feet and feathers but not the sort that birds have. It (see I’m doing it again) came from a long line of draught horses and way back in history, a distant relative was the horse that carried the drummer at the execution of Anne Boleyn. Now there’s a claim to fame or what? Of course this didn’t bother our horse here. As long as he was watered and fed and nobody tried to light his farts then he was as happy as a pig in shite. By the way, I haven’t forgotten his name, his name was (and probably still is) Dandy Bumpkin of Tweedsmuir but most people just called him Fred.
Fred reared up as the cloud of dust or what was causing the cloud of dust became apparent. It was a motor car and a motor car from the days before safety cameras, credit crunches and satellite navigation. It was a mean brute of a motor car that did about ten to the gallon and had a top speed down a steep hill with a following hurricane of about forty miles an hour. The tw@t that was driving it was kitted out in costume of the period and so was the bimbo sat next to him. It could have been his wife but of course it was his secretary. They’d just had a light lunch at the Squirrel and Truncheon and now half cut, our aging motorist was showing off to his piece of totty. She screamed in delight as they roared past but she wouldn’t be screaming later as while their relationship had blossomed, in the woods it had taken the aging motorist half an hour to get it up and thirty seconds before it was back down again. Even with the help of several blue pills and a lolly stick as a splint, it would be the following day before he was hard again and that was only pish proud. So Fred, still in mid-rear swung to the side of the road trying to avoid the car. Unfortunately he was still connected to the caravan and said caravan rolled first onto its side and then onto its back. Fred was lucky as his harness snapped releasing him from the caravan just before the first roll. Toad ended up sat on the road, Ratty was thrown over a dry stone wall and that’s where the luck runs out, as Mole ended up on the opposite side of the road, over a hedge and face first into a cowpat in a field. An HF (Holstein Friesian) eyed him suspiciously and if cows could talk, you’d bet it was saying “I don’t remember eating that”. Fred totally unscathed apart from his nerves, grazed on the side of the road as Toad stared after the motor car. “I’m going to get me one of those” he said and you just knew that it would spell trouble.
Chapter Three
“No fcuking way!” shouted Mole at the TV, as a new nature series was announced. “Fcuking Winter fcuking Watch!!” he screamed and threw the remote at one of Kate’s t1ts. Fortunately as it was on TV, the t1t was unharmed and also fortunately as Mole’s throwing was crap, no harm came to the TV either. Mole missed Ratty as the winter had brought to an end their gallivanting about on the river and while he didn’t mind not getting half drowned on an almost daily basis; he did miss the company and even the picnics. Toad was into motor cars and in a big way so there wasn’t much chance of catching him at home. The weather was cold; all birds with any sense had long since buggered off to warmer climes and Mole almost wished he could go with them. His house or hole as it did need another clean (and how) was warm and dry but you couldn’t watch TV all day. His business ran itself, the manager was doing a fine job and at this time of year, things tended to quieten down so there wasn’t much demand for his services. The AGM wasn’t for another couple of months and his suit was already cleaned and hanging still in the plastic bag in the wardrobe. All that was needed was to get his legs permed and he was ready but you don’t want to have the perm too early as the curls dropped out quite quick. Mole had decided to go for curls this year, as last year he had plumbed for an afro and his legs had looked like a couple of pipe cleaners or so the graffiti in the toilet had said.
The last time Ratty and he had met up had been at their
local hostelry, The Squirrel and Truncheon and they had talked long and hard,
not to each other but mostly to themselves as they had been well bladdered that
day. Ratty had talked about Badger and how wise and knowledgeable he was but
also that he was a right miserable barsteward. Mole wanted to meet him but Ratty
had impressed on him how much Badger hated visits and more importantly
visitors. There was also the fact that Badger lived in the Wild Wood and that
was a place that lived up to its name. Weasels, stoats and foxes lived in the
Wild Wood and scared the crap out of Mole. He’d never met any of them and had
no immediate plans to change that. Ratty described them as "all right in a
way ... but ... well, you can't really trust them" and as far as the rest
of the inhabitants had said “squirrels, and rabbits, which are generally good
but occasionally dim-witted”. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking
eggs (whatever that means) so if Mole was going to meet Badger, he would have
to take his chances in the Wild Wood. He’d once been to
It was one episode of WinterWatch too many. “Bollox, I’m off to the Wild Wood first thing in the morning” said Mole after watching long shots of the Mountain Hare in the Highlands of Scotland. The white Mountain Hare was barely visible on the (white) snow fields as fortunately (depending on your point of view) no skiers had been through and the snow was not yellow or slush coloured and its more normal shade of white. “You could hide a fcuking army of the sods” he said trying to find the hare that Bill Oddie was wittering on about. He disappeared into the kitchen and brought back some earthworm flavoured crisps proving that it’s not just Lofty Wiseman and to a lesser extent Ray Mears that eat earthworms. On the TV, Bill Oddie had stopped wittering and it was now Simon King waxing lyrical about how little wildlife there was in the winter months. “Why do you bother making the fcuking program then?” asked Mole but Simon had found a bud and the camera zoomed in closer and closer. “Fcuk this!” shouted Mole and switched the TV off. He prepared himself mentally for the morning. Whether to take his sat-nav, what to say to Badger, what to say if he met a weasel etc, all these things and more ran through Mole’s head. Mole shoved another log on the fire and rushed to the toilet to make another one. He put his feet up on the leather pouffe and crunched noisily at his crisps. To wash them down, he took a swig of his root beer, made with real roots from a traditional recipe handed down from generation to generation. He loved saying that but actually got it from Tesco’s Online as they delivered for free. He sipped his beer and picked at his feet and hoped that Badger would welcome him. Ok he could manage without the open arms bit but a friendly welcome would be nice. He finished his beer, switched off all the lights and headed towards the bedroom. He picked himself up as some bugger must have moved the leather pouffe and foregoing his usual toilet, climbed straight into bed and drifted off into a troubled sleep.
The following morning, Mole was up with the lark. Well I say the lark but this particular lark tended to sleep in, so it was way past ten before Mole got his fat arrse out of his pit. He cooked breakfast, made the tea and sat down with the morning paper. The headlines didn’t cheer him up much. The price of topsoil had fallen on the commodities market and there was to be a new wildlife series called Deep Mid-WinterWatch. On the local pages the inquiry for the new motorway was to open and looking at the provisional plans, it looked as though his house wouldn’t be affected but it was pretty close. He would have read more but nature was calling so he retired to the smallest room for some serious paperwork. So relieved and remembering (for once) to wash his hands, he grabbed his scarf, his gloves, his coat, his body-warmer, his stout walking boots and completely forgot the sat-nav. He stepped outside and the cold winter wind cut through him like a knife. It was blowing in from the east and he was pretty sure there would be snow later. Animals generally have a feeling for the weather which is why there are currently several working for the BBC Met Office. There are even moles there but none in front of camera as the BBC has a strict trousers must be worn policy. Of course this goes out the window come the Christmas Party which is why so many genitals get photocopied.
Within a few minutes, Mole was on the outskirts of the Wild Wood. A sign proclaiming “You are now on the outskirts of the Wild Wood’ gave Mole a clue and he carried on into the wood proper. It wasn’t that bad really. “It’s not that bad really” said Mole emphasizing the point. Mole explored and even passed the time of day with a squirrel. “You’re on my nuts” the squirrel had said and Mole finally realising exactly what the squirrel had meant had moved his foot and then engaged in quite an interesting conversation. Mole had also forgotten his watch and had no idea what the time was but the sun when he could still see it was high, so it obviously wasn’t too late. He pulled a muesli bar from his pocket and started to eat it. It tasted vile and of course it would, so he took off the wrapping and that made some difference though not that much. He drank from a babbling brook and the water while slightly salty tasted fine. Just slightly upstream, a family of wild boar relieved themselves close to or actually in the babbling brook and the saltiness is explained. Of course Mole was none the wiser of this and all his exploring had left him with a funny feeling he didn’t know where he was. “I’m fcuking lost!” he shouted but only the squirrel heard him. The squirrel was also lost and had actually arrived on a daytrip many years ago and not finding a way out had set up home there. “Makes fcuking two of us then” said the squirrel to himself and continued looking for his nuts.
Mole was tired and hungry and even the muesli bar wrapper hadn’t helped. He was also very thirsty thanks to the wild boar pish and worst of all, he was totally lost. He wandered for what seemed an age but there was nothing that he recognized. He thought he saw the squirrel but this was a different one. Squirrels generally look alike but at least the last one hadn’t told him to “Fcuk off” like this one had. Totally exhausted, Mole huddled up against a tree, trying to get out of the wind and curled up amongst the tree roots. “I wished I’d stayed at home” he said trying to comfort himself but it just wasn’t working. His mind was playing tricks on him as he thought he saw shapes and even the trees seemed to be trying to get him. Of course the trees were just moving in the wind and a few flakes of snow added to Mole’s misery. It wasn’t that late but it was dark as clouds rolled in and he knew that there was snow on the way. “He tried to think what Ratty would do in such a situation but that didn’t cheer him up or help. He remembered all too well, Ratty’s wise words that “You’d have to be off your fcuking trolley going out on a day such as this old chap” and that had been earlier in the year when a summer storm had been on the way. Mole backcombed his legs for added warmth and tried to cover himself with leaves. It was a sad and sorry Mole that awaited help but where would the help come from?
Ratty was snug in his shed on stilts and there was no way he was going out on a day such as this. “I’m not fcuking gaga old chap” he said to himself doing rather a good Leslie Phillips impersonation. But he had a feeling and not that sort of feeling though he got those as well but a niggling feeling that something wasn’t right. Ok, he could put up with (just) the lame story, the poor dialogue and the slaughtering of the original classic but there was something else that just wasn’t right. He grabbed some warm clothes and headed outside. The bitter wind went straight through him and using the trees as shelter from the wind, he made his way towards Mole’s place. Mole’s place was all locked up and on ringing the doorbell and having to endure the national anthems from thirty-two different countries, he came to the conclusion Mole was not at home. “He fcuking wouldn’t” he muttered to himself and if he’d listened a robin in a nearby tree answered him. “He fcuking would” said the robin and went back to its business. Ratty rearranged his clothing as there are laws against that and set off for the Wild Wood. There was no trail, there were no footprints and even had there been, the snow was now falling quite heavily and any footprints would have been soon covered. “Mole!” he cried but there was no answer. “Mole!” he cried again and from nearby came an answer. “Fcuk off” It was that squirrel again and Ratty knew all about him so did the best thing and just ignored him. “Mole!” shouted Ratty and he shouted as he stumbled in the now driving snow. He didn’t know where he was and he didn’t know where he was going and as the snow covered his tracks, he didn’t even know where he’d been.
“Ratty!” shouted Mole and staggered to his feet. There was no mistaking Ratty’s dulcet tones and he knew it couldn’t be Leslie Philips as he was doing pantomime at Bognor Regis. They bumped into each other and fell to the ground in a heap. “Steady on old chap, I’m pleased to see you as well but don’t forget that stiff upper lip” said Ratty struggling to speak as Mole’s foot was sticking in his mouth. Mole knew all about stiff upper lips and his lower lip was stiff as well thanks to the cold. He could hardly feel his extremities which wasn’t a good sign. Ratty rubbed Mole in all the places that wouldn’t get him talked about as that rude squirrel was watching and he had a real mouth on him. “Be round the Wild Wood like a dose of the clap” muttered Ratty more to himself as Mole was in a world of his own. “Right old chap, time to go” ordered Ratty and Mole reluctantly dragged himself to his feet. He enjoyed having his extremities rubbed and this was opening up all sorts of possibilities when (or if) he ever got back to the comfort (and the privacy) of his own home. “Where are we going Ratty?” asked Mole as Ratty helped him along. “Fcuked if I know old chap” said Ratty not letting the seriousness of the situation rattle him. They wandered for what seemed hours but it was just a quarter of an hour and as if by magic a light shone in their faces. Mole could see, only just mind as it was blowing a blizzard and his glasses had frozen up but he could just make out a sign with the words ‘Dunroamin – No hawkers, no tinkers, no visitors’. It was a welcome sight for sore (they were frozen as well) eyes.
Ratty knocked on the door knocker which seemed the sensible thing to do. He was supporting Mole who kept dropping to the ground. “I want to sleep” muttered Mole and Ratty knew he couldn’t let him sleep or else it would be curtains. “Can’t you fcuking read?” said a gruff voice from behind the door. “Badger, let us in. There’s a good chap” said Ratty his teeth chattering. “Have you an appointment?” said the gruff voice behind the door. “No I fcuking haven’t!” shouted Ratty as Mole slid to the ground for the umpteenth time. “I want to sleep” muttered Mole now only semi-conscious. “You can sleep when you’re fcuking dead1” shouted Ratty and tried to wake Mole. “I can fit you in next Thursday” said the gruff voice from behind the door. “Badger let us in you tosspot!” screamed Ratty as the wind howled round the entrance to Badger’s house. “Have you an appointment?” repeated the gruff voice from behind the door. Ratty kicked the door with all the strength he could muster and if the truth be known he did use Mole’s head as a makeshift battering ram. “I want to sleep and my head hurts” muttered Mole and slipped back into unconsciousness. Finally the door opened after the clattering of many locks and there stood Badger and a fine figure of a badger he was. On his head he wore a cap, not the sort associated with black pudding and whippets but one of finest embroidered silk. It matched the neckerchief he had round his neck as neckerchiefs seem to be all the rage in the Wild Wood and surrounding area. Ratty butted in “Can we do the description a bit later, I’m freezing my nabs off here” The author apologized and Ratty dragged Mole in and towards the roaring fire in the lounge. Badger looked annoyed as he hadn’t been consulted but as the door was still open and he was freezing his t1ts off, he didn’t push the point so shut the door, locked the (many) locks and joined the others in the lounge. “Welcome to my humble home and this is the lounge” said Badger still a bit annoyed with the author but sounding a bit like an estate agent. “Badger help me warm him up!” shouted Ratty as Mole didn’t look too good. The pair of them got Mole’s wet clothes off and wrapped him in a blanket. They did waste a few minutes trying to get his trousers off but eventually Ratty remembered that Mole didn’t wear trousers and that was his legs.
“Feeling better?” asked Badger. Mole was now sat up, still wrapped up in the blanket but as he sipped a pint of warmed crème de menthe from a large glass, he could feel the warmth creeping back to his body. “That was a close shave old chap” remarked Ratty, also wrapped in a blanket and also sipping a large glass of crème de menthe. “You must be fcuking mad going out on a night such as this” said Badger and gave them a stern look. “I did say that old chap” Ratty had in fact said that so the pair of them gave Mole a stern look. Mole didn’t care, he was feeling warm again, his extremities had all their feeling and thanks to the crème de menthe he was now half pished. “You can carry on with the description now” added Ratty as I’d completely forgotten about it. Right, we’ve done the hat and the what now seems compulsory neckerchief. So continuing with the description, Badger was wearing a smoking jacket also of the finest silk and thanks to the light of the fire, it glowed and shimmered and made him look like a Christmas tree on legs. Badger was another that didn’t wear trousers but if you think Mole had hairy legs, you should see his. You’d need more than a poxy comb to get through that fur. Badger was big and thickset but unlike John Prescott who was roughly the same build, Badger had some class. When he spoke there was authority in his voice and he had principles and integrity and I bet if he ever employed a secretary, there’s no way he would hump her. “We need to talk about Toad” said Badger now they were all warm and compos mentis (ish). “Been up to his old tricks has he old chap?” asked Ratty sipping on his second glass of crème de menthe. “Fcuking right he has and can you please stop with all the Leslie Phillips shite” replied Badger somewhat gruffly and told them all about Toad.
Chapter Four
“According to the synopsis of the original that the author seems to be working to” said Mole full of Dutch courage though actually it was crème de menthe. “Yes?’ replied Badger knowing what was coming but quite happy to string Mole along. “You’re supposed to give us dry clothes” added Mole and smiled smugly. “Do you want to hear about Toad?” asked Badger and both Mole and Ratty nodded. “Do you want the story to get bogged down over trivial details?” asked Badger and the two thought about it and finally shook their heads. “And do you want to wear clothes dry or not that are forty-fcuking-six sizes too big? asked Badger, going in for the kill. Mole and Ratty looked at each other, looked at Badger, looked at their nice warm and dry blankets and in unison shook their heads. “So I can get on with it now?” asked Badger sarcastically. The two nodded and Badger began.
The two sat sipping crème de menthe listening intently as Badger told all about Toad and his exploits. They knew Toad was silly, they knew he had a silly voice a bit like Terry Jones and they knew about his compulsive disorder but this time he’d really taken the biscuit. He’d crashed no fewer than six cars and if he crashed any more cars, he’d probably be snapped up by a Formula One racing team. “We have to save him from himself” remarked Badger. “And Eddie Jordan” added Ratty and they all nodded in agreement. Toad had also been in hospital three times and each time had come out worse than when he went in. If it was doing the rounds then Toad had caught it and more. It wasn’t a bad hospital and ok maybe you shouldn’t read too much into the fact that when visiting, people no longer brought in bottles of Lucozade for their friends/loved ones etc but brought instead things like Dettol, Harpic and Cif. Cif was of course the new name of Jif as the manufacturers had wanted their product to sound more like a particularly horrible type of venereal disease. “I’ll never understand those marketing w@nkers” remarked Badger and the two nodding dogs or Mole and Ratty sat in front of the fire agreed.
Toad had also ran up a huge debt in speeding fines or as they were now called, safety fines as it had been safety cameras that had clocked him not speeding cameras. And clock him they had along with the operators of the local CCTV who had made his latest obsession rather an expensive hobby. One day that Toad would really like to forget, he had left the open road and headed for the town but getting stuck in traffic, he had been ticketed for no less than sixty-three offences of illegal parking, hindering the highway, entering a box with no exit free and wearing a jacket that might impair the driving of other road users. He had contested the illegal parking fines and they were promptly doubled such is the appeal system in that particular town. He hadn’t bothered with the others and really had to agree that his fashion sense was pretty crap so it was a fair cop about the jacket.
Badger went on (and on) and suddenly there was a knock at the door. Badger mumbled something and made his way to the door chuntering away like nobody’s business. “Who the fcuk’s that?” was the only thing I caught but he was generally not a happy teddy. Whoever it was knocked again but this time it was a double tap. Badger’s mood changed as if by magic and he strode purposely towards the door. He opened the door just a crack and peered round the door. Mole and Ratty were intrigued and Mole jumped to his feet, tripped over the blanket and fell across the coffee table sending glasses of crème de menthe tumbling onto the floor. “Watch it you tosser!” shouted Badger and carried on talking with whoever was behind the door. Ratty made it to the door without mishap and tried to open the door to see who it was but Badger’s iron grip prevented him. He tried to peer round the door but Badger closed it more and Ratty pulled back his nose to prevent it being squashed any further. “Dat sucking hud” he said to Badger holding his slightly squashed and now very sore nose. “Teach you to be fcuking nosey” remarked Badger and carried on with his conversation.
Badger stopped talking and still holding the door addressed the two. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked and Ratty nodded. Mole hadn’t heard this as he had only just returned from the kitchen with a mop to try and soak up some of the crème de menthe on the floor. “Do what?” asked Mole mopping a large puddle. “Can you keep a fcuking secret?” asked Badger again. “Yes, yes of course” replied Mole still in mid-mop. Badger pulled open the door and both Ratty’s and Mole’s jaws dropped. There stood in the door was a squirrel but not just any old squirrel. The squirrel was dressed in a sort of army clothing, the sort you buy in a surplus shop or the sort people wear when they want to pretend they’re in or have been in the army. A light coloured beret was perched on its head and to top it off, the squirrel wore boots though these were no ordinary boots, these were flying boots as squirrels while hard barstewards do have delicate feet. Ratty and Mole fell about the floor laughing as they’d never seen anything so funny since the day Tony Blair had been appointed Middle East Peace Envoy. “Fcuk off” said the squirrel and Mole just knew he recognized the voice. This had been the rude squirrel in the woods. “I’ve been fcuking watching you” said the squirrel glaring at Mole.
“Yer right” said Mole sitting on the floor. He and the squirrel had tried to sit on the chair at the same time and squirrels are obviously better at musical chairs. Actually musical chairs is one of the party games played in the all ranks mess so the squirrel was quite an expert. Mole pulled up a pouffe and sat on still rather annoyed but wise enough not to push it with the squirrel. Ratty sat on the far side of the room stroking his whiskers that he imagined were a (Leslie Phillips style) moustache and Badger started to explain. “You’ve head about the SAS?” asked Badger and they all nodded including the squirrel as he was a great Ross Kemp fan. “You’ve heard of the SBS?” Ratty and Mole shook their heads as they truthfully hadn’t heard of them. The squirrel of course had. “You’ve heard of SCS?” The squirrel shook his head but Ratty and Mole had both at one time or another bought furniture from them. “You’ve head of the SSS?” asked Badger and the squirrel nodded smiling from hard barsteward ear to hard barsteward ear. Ratty and Mole had not. They had heard of the SS and especially Ratty as he’d had many an argument about his benefits. “The SSS is the Special Squirrel Squadron and you’re looking at one of them” explained Badger and Ratty and Mole looked about as if looking for somebody else. “I’ll kick your cnut in if you’re taking the pish” said the squirrel and gave them both a look. The sort of look that made their blood run cold but then they realised the squirrel hadn’t shut Badger’s door properly and it was just a draught.
Badger explained further while the squirrel went through his tail fur with a rather large knife. Ratty and Mole watched mesmerised but still managed to take in what Badger was saying. The SSS had been brought in as they usually were when there is a direct threat to an animal or animals and it lies outside the jurisdiction of the normal police. The local police force did cover a lot of ground usually by bike but short of getting through plenty of tyres, they didn’t achieve much. They also seemed reluctant to get involved in animal versus animal problems and their answer to solving such a problem was to ride away as fast as possible ringing their bells. This is why the local police force was affectionately called a ‘load of bells’. Of course this had been adapted and it was now not quite so affectionate but probably closer to the truth. It was all Toads’ fault as apparently his house sat close enough to the new proposed motorway and because of that, land prices had rocketed. His previous obsessions hadn’t been too bad but this one left him open to the possibility of either going bankrupt or even going to prison. This would leave interested parties such as weasels with an opportunity to cash in especially as most car dealerships were weasel owned.
“Is there much more of this?” asked Mole dozing off thanks
to being too close to the fire and of course, the crème de menthe. “Fcuking
loads so shut the fcuk up” retorted Badger impatiently and continued. Now
weasels aren’t to be trusted and are quite vicious sometimes but generally it
was all petty stuff and more of an inconvenience than a crime wave. But since
the expansion of
“So what’s your part in all this old chap?” asked Ratty interrupting Badger and still doing the Leslie Phillips impersonations. “I was getting to that” replied Badger cutting Ratty short and continuing. “I am the Head of Intelligence” remarked Badger and both Ratty’s and Mole’s jaws dropped and not for the first time this evening. The hermit like existence and the miserable barsteward attitude was just a ploy to help him gather all the information he could without being noticed. Toad was even at that very minute being watched and information gatherers were doing what they knew best which was probably gathering information but nobody would suspect an innocent looking field mouse or a hare that appearing to look totally barking as mad March hares generally did. All this information was gathered, sifted and passed on to the appropriate animal organisation where it was dealt with. This could just be a sticky on a monitor screen or it could even be passing it on to the SSS for them to kick somebody’s cnut in. “Badger!” shouted Mole trying to get his attention. “Yes you can go now” replied Badger suddenly feeling sorry for him. “Badger, it doesn’t matter now” said Mole rather guiltily and headed back to the kitchen for the mop. “You dirty little fcuker!” shouted Badger throwing a horse brass at Mole and catching him neatly on the back of the neck. Mole had dried the pouffe, wiped the floor and was now wrapped up in his second blanket. Badger had not quite forgiven him but at least he was talking to him. Ratty was making funny noises. It was apparently exactly how Leslie Phillips laughed, while the squirrel and Badger talked in lowered voices. Ratty and Mole were to stay the night and head back in the morning. They relaxed in the warmth of the room and listened whenever possible to Badger. “Stop ear wigging you little fcukers!” shouted Badger and lowered his voice even further.
“But why were you following me?” asked Mole, it suddenly dawning on him. “The squirrel looked up and looked at Mole. “I wasn’t following you, I was following the weasels that were following you” he said in a sinister tone. Mole gulped and he suddenly looked very frightened. “And me old chap?” asked Ratty realising the significance. The squirrel nodded and it was Ratty’s turn to be afraid. They sat there thinking of what might have been and they both made a promise to themselves to pay more attention to squirrels even if the squirrels told them to fcuk off. At that moment the squirrel stood up, stretched and knocked over a vase with its tail. Badger’s reactions were amazing catching it before it had hit the ground. With a knowing smile, he placed it back on the mantelpiece along with all the other vases and delicate ceramics. If you looked very closely, you’d see that the vase was probably the only thing that hadn’t been broken and super-glued together. Well the vase was actually new but no doubt its time will come. The squirrel headed for the door and saluted Badger smartly. “Longest way up, shortest way down” said the squirrel and the others looked on slightly confused. We never asked you your name” said Mole as if he was going to thank somebody he’d at least like to know their name. “Trooper Nutkin at your service” replied the squirrel. Ratty looked at Mole and Mole looked at Ratty and they exploded into laughter. As the squirrel fought to get back into Badger’s house, Badger held fast at the door while Ratty and Mole rolled about the floor in laughter. “Nutkin!” shouted Mole and there were tears in his eyes. “There’ll be fcuking tears in your eyes if I get hold of you” shouted the squirrel and Badger finally got the door shut. The squirrel banged at the door for all he was worth as Badger joined in with the laughter. “Nutkin” and that started them off all over again.
It took a while but they did recover enough composure to discuss what to do about Toad. “We’ll just have to go and see him old chap” said Ratty and Badger gave him a sort of I’m fed up with Leslie Phillips look. “Of course he will be constantly watched” explained Badger not daring to even think of the word ‘Nutkin’. “By Nutkin?” asked Mole just managing to get the words out before rolling round the floor in laughter. It took yet another long while before they’d restored their composure but they decided that Toad needed a good talking and this was of the utmost urgency. “But it is winter” said Mole and they had to agree with that. “And its fcuking snowing and fcuking freezing” added Mole and again they just had to agree with that. “And it’s a long was to Toad Hall old chap” said Ratty adding his two cents worth. “And he’ll no doubt be out in one of his motor cars” said Badger and this was also probably true. Badger pulled a calendar from his roll top desk and they perused over it. After much discussion, they provisionally pencilled in a date to see Toad when it wasn’t snowing, it wasn’t cold, it wasn’t raining, he would definitely be in and there was nothing good on the telly. Since it was of the utmost urgency, Badger decided that sometime within the next four months would be perfect and drew a ring round a Thursday just under four months from then.
Chapter Five
“Nutkin” said Mole for the three hundred and eighty-fifth time. It still brought a smile but Mole was really pushing his Pulheems a bit. It was the day they had decided to visit Toad and the three of them walked side by side along the road as it a) annoyed other people and b) they were pig ignorant. The weather had vastly improved which was why they were going, as Toad wasn’t worth a visit if it’s pishing down. The birds sang in the trees, mostly cover versions of Jennifer Rush’s ‘The Power of Love’ as love was most definitely in the air. The trees were heavy with blossom and/or fruit and fields of succulent crops waved in the light breeze. It was a good day to be alive which is a strange thing to say as when is it ever a good day to be dead? It was quite a hike to Toad’s gaff and they had not come unprepared. Mole had brought along provisions and spreading a table cloth on the grass, they settled down for a hearty meal of slug in aspic sandwiches washed down by some Crème de menthe shandy that Badger had brought. Ratty hadn’t managed to bring anything as he hadn’t yet received his Giro and was totally skint. Badger pulled out his pipe and tapped it on a rock. “Get off!” shouted Mole as that ‘rock’ had been his head. “Sorry Mole, I was miles away” said Badger apologetically and reaching into his pocket, pulled out his tobacco pouch. He opened it, grabbed a plug of tobacco and stuffed it into the pipe. He lit the pipe with his ZZ Top Zippo lighter and inhaled deeply. Fortunately as they were not sat next to or close to a field where food was prepared (or grown) he was allowed to smoke but it was getting more awkward by the day.
They finally made Toad Hall and paid the gatekeeper, as Toad
Hall was actually open to the public on certain days. The three of them did
receive a discount but that was probably why Toad never got too many visitors.
They walked up the long drive and were happy snapped by a coach load of
Japanese tourists no less than sixty times. Whatever claim to fame the three
had, they would be big in
“Morning all!” shouted Toad rushing into the drawing room dressed in a fireproof suit. He now looked just like Terry Jones, as well as sounding like him. “Why the suit Toad?” asked Mole, the first to speak. “Come and see my beauty!” shouted Toad totally excited and with a definite hard on. They followed him as he led them to the stable block and heading round the back of the block, he opened one of the many doors. There inside was a McLaren F1, one of the most expensive production cars ever built. “I bet that set you back a bit old chap” remarked Leslie Phillips, sorry said Ratty. “Not a problem” said Toad. “I got it on approval” he added and grabbed some gloves and a helmet from a shelf. “I got it from that new place that’s just opened on the edge of the Wild Wood, Mustela Nivalis Motors” he finished as the gloves and helmet were now on. He jumped into the car and seemed undecided whether to sit on the left or the right but as the driver’s seat in the F1 is in the middle, ok it did take a while but he got there in the end. “I have a nasty suspicion about this” said Badger who had studied Latin as a cub and knew that Mustela Nivalis was the Latin name for weasel. He was going to say more but Toad started the engine and all thoughts of conversation went out the window. Ratty just managed to jump out the way as the car sped out the building like a bat out of hell, it span on the gravel and somehow Toad corrected it or perhaps even the car corrected it but it roared off heading for the back of the hall. The three ran out of the block and just managed to see the car with Toad still in it disappearing round the side of the building. They chased after it which was pretty futile and actually bloody stupid really. As if the three of them could keep up with a car that could do 240mph but I suppose you have to go through the motions. They made the side of the hall just as Toad hit the coach full of Japanese tourists. The car flew into the air and after a few pirouettes, landed on its roof. The coach burst into flames and those that made it out first, took pictures like there was no tomorrow.
“You’ve done it now Toad!” shouted Badger at Toad who was lying on the grass next to the car. Ratty and Mole struggled to pull the remaining tourists out of the bus and fortunately (depending on your own individual point of view) all were pulled out alive. The car was a wreck and while it hadn’t burst into flames it didn’t have much going for it with virtually every panel dented to buggery. The engine and gearbox had separated from the rest of the car and the gardener was eying it up as a possible replacement for his sit-on lawnmower. “Should get the job done in half the time” said the gardener as he chugged past on the mower at 2.5mph. Badger pulled off Toad’s helmet and gloves and tried to get him out of the fireproof suit. But it seems they were too close to the burning coach as the suit’s zip had melted. “That’s the last time I buy anything off QVC” muttered Toad still struggling with the zip. “Get it off!” he screamed as the plastic burned his ample body. Fortunately Badger had a Swiss army knife with him and using the special attachment for removing Toads from fireproof suits, he had him out in a thrice. (however long that is). Toad blushed as a) he still had a hard on and b) he had northing on under the suit. Badger grabbed the car’s travel rug and Toad’s blushes were spared. Unbeknown to him and unfortunately for him as well, the Japanese had forgotten about their ordeal and within seconds, pictures of a naked (and aroused) Toad were circulating on various (dubious) internet sites.
“You said on approval” said Badger referring to how Toad had managed to acquire an F1. “Show me any paperwork to do with this” ordered Badger and frogmarched or should that be ‘toadmarched’ Toad back to the hall. Ratty and Mole tried as best they could but this was one very determined Badger and he was in a hurry to learn what fate would become of Toad. Toad opened the safe (thirteen to the right, seven to the left and bang the handle) and pulled out a folder full of paperwork. “Badger read it all through and then so he could understand it pulled his glasses from his pocket and read it again including the (very) small print. He mumbled to himself as he read. “Third party, not withstanding, null and void, one million pounds”. He stopped at the ‘one million pounds’ bit and looked at Toad. “You’re up shite creek without a paddle Toad” he said as it appeared that if there was even a tiny scratch on the car then the full insurance value would have to be paid. Toad looked out of the window and as it overlooked the drive, he could see the still burning coach and what was left of the car. The Japanese tourists had disappeared and had in fact popped into the restaurant and were currently eating and photographing a light lunch. “I know a man who might be able to help” said Toad trying to look on the bright side. “Does he perform miracles because you’re going to fcuking need one” said Badger not an expert with motor cars but realistic enough to realise the F1 was a dead ‘un. There was some good news for Toad as the driver of the coach had managed to get out and was wandering the grounds in total shock and it would be many days before he would even realise the coach was no more.
“It’s for your own good Toad!” shouted Badger locking the door. They had placed Toad under house arrest and had locked him in the billiard room. It would take a miracle to fix the F1 but what they needed right now was time. Time to think of a plan and as long as the weasels didn’t find out about the F1, then at least they didn’t have them on their backs. The gardener was annoyed as he hadn’t quite finished the west lawn but with the help of a couple of volunteers that he’d detailed, the F1 was being loaded onto a flatbed trailer to disappear out of sight and especially out of sight of any passing weasel. The Japanese tourists had been quick enough to realise the coach was going nowhere and had bulk ordered taxis to get them back to their hotels. They’d had an interesting day and the coach going up had really been the icing on the cake. All was now quiet at Toad Hall as it was now closed to visitors but in the billiard room, Toad was trying to escape. The billiard room was on the first floor and using curtains knotted together as a rope, Toad was just about to launch himself out the window when Badger had caught him. Badger, Ratty and Mole removed anything that could be made into a rope or a ladder and had relocked the door. Toad sat on the billiard table and played with his balls especially the one with the black spot. Three cannons later he was bored and finally settled down to his fate. Or did he?
Mole was on duty and he sat on a chair just outside the billiard room. “What the fcuk?” he uttered as he could hear moaning. “Do you think I’m some sort of soft cnut?” he shouted in the general direction of the billiard room. More moaning came from the billiard room and Mole who was gentle simple soul (soft cnut) was starting to waver. He tapped on the door but the moaning seemed to get worse. Mole placed the key in the lock and gently turned it. He opened the door just a fraction but it was wrenched from his grasp as Toad steamrollered his way out of the door and onto the landing. Toad headed for the stairs and took them three at a time. He was out of the front door before Mole could drag himself to his feet. Toad sped down the drive and making the gatekeepers lodge in what would have been a world record breaking time, managed to get a lift into town in a VW camper full of part-time Druids. Mole sounded the alarm or would have done if there had been one so instead just shouted at the top of his voice. Ratty came running from one of the bedrooms where he’d been having a snooze and Badger finally appeared as he’d been taking a dump. “You idiot Mole!” shouted Badger and Mole’s top lip quivered. “You tosser!” shouted Ratty and Mole burst into tears. “You’re a fcuking soft cnut aren’t you Mole?” said Badger more of a statement than a question and picking at his arrse as he hadn’t quite had time to wipe it properly, he sat Mole down and tried to comfort him. Mole felt slightly better though he would have felt even better if Badger would refrain from picking his arrse. He wouldn’t mind so much but Badger kept sniffing his fingers after each pick. “Dirty Badger” thought Mole to himself.
Toad, just in the short distance to town learned all about Druids and learned enough to be grateful town wasn’t that far. “Boring barstewards or what” he said to himself as he waved the camper goodbye. He didn’t really know what to do. He knew he had to avoid any weasels at all cost and he also knew it was probably best to avoid Badger, Ratty and Mole as he’d be back in the billiard room but there was a passion burning in his breast and that passion was motor cars. He nipped into The Pig and Firkin and ordered a crème de menthe. The Pig and Firkin had been The Royal Oak until the one oak tree had been chopped down, The Lion until the battery farm had gone bust, O’Toole’s Irish Theme Pub until the one local Irishman had moved away and was now a seventies theme pub with more horse brasses than were practical or tasteful. Peering over a horse brass and peering round a horse brass, Toad kept a good eye on outside just in case Badger and company showed up. Sipping his crème de menthe and listening to Mungo Jerry on the jukebox, Toad wondered what the hell he was to do next.
“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Toad mimicking a well known
nineties sitcom catchphrase. Outside parked right outside the pub was the new
Vauxhall Insignia. Toad didn’t usually go for Vauxhalls, for one thing they
were built in
Toad roared off burning rubber as somebody had discarded one
in the street the previous evening. He came to a t-junction and tried to steer
right, the car turned left. Because he hadn’t set the
Chapter Six
As the court isn’t yet in session and Toad is nervously pacing up and down the cell in the basement, there are a few spare minutes to clear up what might have been misconstrued as factual errors. Mrs Alice Beezon has asked me to pass on the news that she’s feeling fine and apart from a laddered stocking and a slight nick to the wrist, she came out of the accident quite well. The same of course could not be said of her Daf 66. Of course we all know that the Daf 66 was produced between 1972 and 1975 so hers could not have been twenty years old. Mrs Alice Beezon or Miss Alice Del Monte as she had been then had married a Mr Eric Beezon after a whirlwind romance. They had actually been sheltering under a flyover as there had been a whirlwind and Mr Eric Beezon’s BSA Bantam had been blown away and never seen again. Miss Alice Del Monte had been at a bus stop and as the bus shelter first twisted then blew away, so did she but fortunately in the direction of the flyover and the waiting arms of Mr Eric Beezon. Their relationship had blossomed (he got her up the duff) and they had married at Slough Registry Office a matter of weeks before she had popped.
Early married life had been hard. They had a young son and
while Mr Beezon could strip and rebuild his Bantam with his eyes shut; this
didn’t help with the work situation in
Mr Beezon worked his way up, he couldn’t actually go down as
he had started at the bottom (engineering-wise) but within a matter of years,
he was Deputy Engineering Manager (Cloth Caps) and raking in the spondoolies.
Their son was growing up fast and Mrs Alice Beezon was quite distressed how
often young
Mr Beezon was sat at his desk reading the papers as he
usually did. Due to the downturn in work, there really wasn’t much else to do
but to read the papers. He flicked through the Pigeon Fanciers Weekly, The
Entwhistleackerthwaite Herald and then on to the Daily Telegraph. An advert
caught his eye and reading on he saw there were opportunities for those in the
textile industry in
Life was good for the Beezons and as the firm prospered, so
did they. Accrington was by now at university and was studying Politics which
usually meant whipping a dark-skinned dummy with a length of rubber hose as
It had been like a breath of fresh air for Mrs Beezon as they toured the country. They saw and noted with interest, the place where the most blacks had been killed in one day, the suburbs where the most tear gas canisters had been used in one day, the place where the most blacks had been horse whipped in one day and of course there was the wildlife. They were sat on a vast expanse of decking high up in the treetops and below them all sorts of animals roamed freely just going about their business as they had done for millions of years. A pride of lions had ambushed a zebra and were now tucking in to their early morning meal. Mrs Beezon felt slightly queasy but nature is after all nature. The highlight of the trip was to be the following day when they were going on safari. This was of course totally different to the ‘going on safari’ the author remembers as that involved going down town to Stanley on the Falklands and consuming enough Carlsberg elephant beer until you fell over. And so the day arrived and what a beautiful morning it was. The sun shone as if on cue and the guides prepared the vehicles for the trip away from the camp. As is the world over most of the preparation or actually all of the preparation involved walking round the vehicle and kicking all four tyres. So, the vehicles suitably prepared and all tyres suitably kicked, they set off.
Mr and Mrs Beezon had the time of their life and if they’d actually owned a camera, I don’t know how many rolls of film they would have gone through by now. The guides had stopped in a clearing and were in the process of lighting a fire and fortunately had brought the matches so there was no need for any boy scouts or the need to rub two kaffirs together. Everybody had been warned not to stray and they took good notice of that as the guides with great relish told of the party of Japanese tourists who had ignored that very advice. The tourists had managed to take plenty of photos but one of the prerequisites of nipping down to get them developed was to be alive. A pride of lions had soon made mincemeat of the tourists but at least they had stopped stealing the cattle from local farmers for a day or so. But then it happened. Far away a bull elephant had injured its leg and now being somewhat unsteady on its feet; it had bumped a tree and knocked a leopard from its place high up in the branches. The leopard had scared the crap out of a group of Thomson’s gazelle and they had taken off at a great rate of knots disturbing a warthog renovating its bolt hole. It had squealed so loud, a young male cheetah had rushed off at the legal limit (70mph) in sheer surprise and straight through the territory of a large social group of meerkats. The look out for the meerkats had seen the cheetah coming but it was between them and their burrows. Not being the brightest of meerkats it had suggested to the group using that special signal meerkats have to “Run the other way” which they did and straight through the encampment where Mr Beezon was trying to take a dump. A spitting cobra sensing the arrival of prey had lunged at various meerkats but missed every time. What it had not missed was Mr Beezons arrse and after receiving a good dose of venom, he had died in agony within the hour. Mrs Beezon was totally upset about this as Mr Beezon hadn’t wiped before the cobra had got him and now she had to do it. It did rather spoil what was turning out to be a wonderful day.
The holiday cut short, Mrs Beezon returned home and Mr
Beezon was buried a few days later with full textile industry honours.
Mrs Beezon imported the Daf and after paying duty, got things ready for an MOT inspection. After replacing the tyres with ones that had tread and a few other minor things, the car passed. It was already right hand drive so no need to move the steering wheel and after taxing and insuring the thing, she was totally street legal unlike a great chunk of the population. She settled in a quiet suburb with a garage for the Daf and as it was used to far warmer climes, she heated the garage with a paraffin heater. And now we know why it appeared that the Daf was twenty years old. It was imported almost twenty years ago to the day but sadly it’s now never going to see it’s twenty-first. Of course the age of it meant nothing to Toad and there is also the anomaly that he was driving a Vauxhall Insignia when they aren’t officially out until today (10-01-09). Not wishing this to be factually untrue, this can also be explained but fortunately not by writing an extra chapter. Vauxhall released a handful of Vauxhall Insignias early. They were released early for beta testing.
So, back to Toad if you can still remember him. I’ve had to go back to the end of Chapter Five just to refresh my memory. Maybe you should all do the same or you could just bin it and take the dog for a walk, it’s up to you. Toad paced up and down the cell waiting for his trial. He was to be tried by Judge Jeffreys who was not related to the (in)famous hanging judge but came from a long line of bisexuals who managed to keep the family name intact despite loitering around Hampstead Heath looking for members of the same sex. As far as sex went, the unofficial family motto seemed to be ‘suck it and see’. Toad was being represented by the finest legal brain that his dwindling funds could afford, though some might say he had ended up with second best as the Prosecuting Counsel was no less than Ginpole of the Bailey.
The door to the cell opened and in walked the security guard, resplendent in his bri-nylon uniform. It crackled and rustled and on touching the door, a spark lit up the room. “Ya fcuker!” shouted the guard being suitably zapped by the static electricity. Recovering some dignity though still shaking his hand, the guard beckoned that Toad should accompany him. Another guard waited outside and with a guard either side they walked to the stairs leading to the court. The corridor was already well lit but flashes of static jumped between the two guards occasionally zapping Toad who would let out a cry. The stairs presented problems as they were far to narrow for them to negotiate side by side but after a while, in fact a long while, the guards worked it out that single file might be the way to go. I suppose if you pay peanuts then you get monkeys but the average monkey has an IQ far higher than either of the guards. Toad stood in the dock with a guard either side and let out another cry as one of the guards had just earthed himself on the metal rail of the dock.
“All rise!” shouted the clerk of the court or if it isn’t the clerk of the court then it’s the bloke that shouts ‘all rise’. They all rose except Toad who was already arose, arisen, already standing up. Judge Peregrine Quentin St John Jeffreys squeezed his ample frame into the chair and coughed trying to hide the fact he’d farted. He was wearing his wig, a coat of finest red plush and trimmed with ermine or Chinese ermine which is actually cat fur. He was also wearing the little Anne Summers number as he liked the feel of it next to his skin but of course nobody in the court knew about that or at least they didn’t until now. The Defending Counsel asked to speak to the judge and as he’d said many a time on Hampstead Heath, Judge Jeffreys told him to ‘approach the bench’. Darryl Wayne Perry O’Flanagan might have come from humble beginnings but he was perhaps second only to Ginpole as a QC. O’Flanagan spoke quietly to the judge but as the judge was slightly deaf, spoke slightly louder. Most of the court and half of the county could now hear but what O’Flanagan was after, was an adjournment. The fact that so much of the case relied on forensic evidence did not enable defending counsel to put forward a proper defence as the detailed and comprehensive information regarding the Vauxhall Insignia was not yet available. They knew how quick it would hit 60mph, how economical or not it was and what the turning circle was but other than that bugger all really. Defending counsel didn’t quite put it like that but Ginpole who of course had heard every word was not going to object. Beckoning him to the bench with rather a camp gesture the judge asked him if he had any objections. “None my lord” replied Ginpole who would rather be playing golf than in court. “Case adjourned until…………” shouted the judge and banged his gavel with an equally limp action. The case was to be heard a fortnight from then and Toad wondered if, unlike this chapter, he might be featured a bit more.
Chapter Seven
Toad paced up and down his cell which is where we left him until I went on (and on) about Mrs Alice Beezon and her sodding Daf. Toad had spoken to his brief, not a bad move considering the number of charges he was now facing. There had been a few on his initial arrest but news about the F1 and news about the demise of the coach had also come to light and the charge sheet was getting ever longer. Toad had been formally charged and after a one night lie in had faced the magistrates the following morning. Three sour faced looking individuals of sex still undetermined or the magistrates had gone through the motions as one had a golf lesson, one had a swimming lesson and one had a French lesson or so it had said on the card when he had picked it up in the phone box. The only thing that needed to be sorted was whether Toad would be remanded or bailed. “My client feels that while he is facing various charges, he poses no threat to society and has sworn not to drive should he be given bail” said Toad’s brief O’Flanagan and it was a clever move which did seem to impress the magistrates. Ginpole, the prosecuting counsel had no objections though did insist that bail was set at a level that took into account Toad’s ability to throw money about like it grew on trees. The magistrates retired (so that makes twice as they were already retired) and after much deliberation and a cup of tea with some dead fly biscuits returned to the court to give their verdict. Of course the verdict only applied to whether bail would be granted and if so, how much Toad would have to cough up. The chairperson spoke, a military looking gentleman with a twinkle in his eye. Wiping out the twinkle with an immaculately manicured hand, he gave Toad the news. It wasn’t quite perhaps what he had been looking for but at least he wasn’t going inside to become somebody’s bitch. “Bail is granted and at the sum of fifty thousand pounds” said the chairperson and also insisted Toad hand in his passport and driving licence.
Now normally Toad wouldn’t have blinked twice at such a sum but his latest obsession had depleted the coffers and while he wasn’t totally skint, he was as most businesses call it, suffering a temporary cash flow problem. Toad couldn’t be released until the money had been paid and using his one phone call and seventeen more, he had finally obtained the funds. This had come at a price as the lender, the Mustela Erminea Finance Company had obviously insisted on some form of security on top of the astronomical interest they would be charging. Toad’s only asset was Toad Hall and of course it was a mere formality and once the silly charges were sorted out, he would be in a position to repay the money along with the interest. Or so he thought as with Badger not there he had no idea that the Mustela Erminea Finance Company was just a front for the stoat’s and of the weasel’s criminal activities. The security was paid and Toad was a free toad until the day before his trial when he would again have to endure, a one night lie in.
“All rise!” shouted the clerk of the court and Judge Peregrine Quentin St John Jeffreys waddled into court and with a rip roaring fart, sat himself down. He rearranged his underwear as most of the g-string was now halfway up his arrse but with a quick scratch and the campest bang of a gavel you’ve ever seen, he announced to all and sundry that the court was in session (a bit American I know but he was a bit of a showman). Toad didn’t mind at first, the questions all seemed quite easy and his thoughts wandered to Mastermind as this might be the specialist subject he had been looking for. There was a tricky moment when he was asked his name but he thought that he had dealt with it quite well by passing. Obviously the fact that in Mastermind, if the scores are tied, the one with the least number of passes is declared the winner had passed Toad totally by. Toad stood and smiled at everybody which did make him many friends in the packed courtroom but it did annoy Judge Jeffreys who duly informed him that if he didn’t watch out, he’d give him something to smile about. The long list of charges was read out and Toad started to worry. The charge of TWOCing (taking without consent) was fine but he was totally amazed to hear he was being charged with the attempted murder of fifty-two Japanese tourists, the attempted murder of the coach driver, the attempted murder of Mrs Alice Beezon, resisting arrest, assault on several policemen, dangerous driving, driving without due care and attention, criminal damage and failure to produce a specimen. He thought about the conversation he’d had with his brief and the brief’s advice of ‘learn not to drop your soap’ was really starting to scare Toad.
The trial continued and experts from the car industry gave
totally contradictory evidence for either the defence or the prosecution. An
Inspector from the Police’s Traffic Division gave evidence and it was really
quite damning evidence with not much chance of Toad’s brief turning this one
around. Even Nick Freeman would have struggled though not financially of
course. Toad could start to see the writing on the wall and he wasn’t smiling
any longer. The jury were staring at him with what seemed a loathing and even
his brief was giving him some funny looks. Days passed and Toad’s misery was
compounded as expert after expert testified against him. In a moment of perhaps
madness but it was more like sheer panic, he dismissed his brief and decided to
conduct his own defence. His entire knowledge of the legal system had been
learned while watching the film My Cousin Vinny so while he would have been
great in the
Toad paced up and down his cell. He wondered how long it would take the jury to decide his fate. “I’m in a proper pickle” he said to the wall and it was a bit of an understatement. He didn’t have long to wait as the jury had already made their minds up and with the accompanying sparks and flashes courtesy of the guards, he made his way back to court. There was one terrifying moment when the judge had appeared to don a black cap but it was just his hankie and he was trying to wipe bird crap from his wig. He had popped out for a smoke and a pigeon had done the business on his head. I’m not quite sure how it would be served, I mean the warrant not the pigeon but said pigeon is now a fugitive of the law, not that it knew and even if it had done, it probably wouldn’t have cared. Judge Jeffreys read through the list of offences and to each one, the foreperson of the jury answered ‘guilty’. “This isn’t looking good” thought Toad to himself again an understatement. Judge Jeffreys spoke. “You have been found guilty of the offences. Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?” Toad thought about saying something but he was in a big enough mess already so just shook his head. Again the judge spoke. “Personally I’d give you twenty years but as there does seem to be some doubt about your mental state at the time, I won’t pass sentence until I’ve read the psychiatric reports and they should make interesting reading” Toad was taken down, on remand for a fortnight. He sat in his cell his buttocks clenched in practice and wondered where he was off to.
Toad’s fortnight in Wormwood Scrubs hadn’t been too bad. He was kept apart from the other prisoners as several plots had been discovered to implicate him in some sort of blackmail scam. So Toad spent his time with the nonces (Nonce = Not on Normal Courtyard Exercise) and had been spared some of the more normal prison life. That’s not to say that that he enjoyed sharing life with kiddy fiddlers and the like. Toad was egotistical and selfish and those were his good points but he thought his present company the dregs of humanity and while people wanted to bring back the death penalty for murder, his idea of punishment for kiddy fiddlers and the like, was castration involving two bricks. Toad was interviewed by various psychiatrists and while he didn’t quite understand why he was repeatedly asked if he was breast fed as a child, he thoroughly enjoyed the Rorschach inkblot tests. Of course anybody who knows anything about toads would realise that young toads are not breastfed and Toad’s childhood had only memories of toast and Marmite and Ovaltine rusks. The psychiatrists wrote their reports and they all seemed to agree in their assessment of Toad that while the lift didn’t quite go to the top, at least there was a lift. The fortnight was up and Toad said a fond “fcuk off’ to the nonces and he was on his way back to court.
Toad paced nervously up and down his cell, then varied it a bit and paced from side to side. This change of pacing routine might have changed the assessments of the psychiatrists but it was too late, Toad’s fate was already sealed. Judge Jeffreys made two entrances as the clerk of the court had nodded off and failed to shout “All rise!” He managed it the second time and the judge lowered himself windily and carefully onto his chair as his piles were playing up. Judge Jeffreys whatever he was, was a by the book judge but due to government meddling, the book was always changing. He had read Toad’s assessments, he had read the latest Home Office guidelines, he had read the latest edition of Private Eye and had reread the Observer Pocket Book of the Law and had made his decision. Traffic offences featured quite prominently in the Home Office guidelines as the government were trying to cut the death toll on the roads. This was not helped when a certain Home Office minister had crashed his Jaguar and had fallen out of the car in a drunken stupor. The Former Home Office Minister was now seeking alternative employment as he had also been deselected as an MP. It sadly didn’t change his drinking habits but it did mean he would have to drink at his own expense rather than at the expense of the taxpayer. I’m sure there’s a moral in there somewhere but I’m not that interested and neither at the moment is Toad. Toad gasped and his knees went week. The guards held him upright with sparks flying as the judge finished the sentencing. Toad tried to speak but the judge shut him up. Apparently he didn’t like being interrupted in mid-sentence but I suppose I can understand that to a certain extent. “Take him down” said Judge Jeffreys scratching at his piles with the handle of the gavel. Not wishing to stop, he slammed his hand on the bench and knocked over the water jug. You could just make out the flashes in the corridor as Toad was led by the two guards back to his cell.
In the original Wind in the Willows, Toad is helped by a
washer woman. Now in today’s penal system there is sadly no place anymore for
washer women. The large proportion of females currently on the dole are actually
trained washer women and while some have retrained and one actually went as far
as blowing up an automatic washing machine, the future is not bright for washer
women. Anyway, the wing of the Scrubs that Toad was now resident in had its
very own automatic washing machine. It was used by kind permission of the wing
boss who was a three times convicted bullion robber. For three cigarettes or
snout you could use the machine but of course electric and water were extra.
There was never any washing powder as thanks to a dodgy prison supplier, the
large box of Daz (now with 10% free) contained 5.5kg of finest Colombian
cocaine. This was cut using prison issue foot powder and distributed throughout
the prison. Toad had been allowed back in with the normal prison low life as
word had got round very quick that he was now potless and not worth bothering
about. He was also pig ugly and even if he’d wanted to be somebody’s bitch only
the partially sighted bloke near the landing might have though about it but he was
already in a relationship with a forger from
Prisons nowadays might not have their washer women but what they did have was their iPod repair persons. In line with the governments wish that everybody in the country should be connected to the internet in some shape or form, all prisoners received an iPod. Many a bank job or bullion heist had been run from the inside of a prison. As the last time somebody’s iPod had broken, there had been a full-scale riot lasting a week, people came into the prison on a daily basis to repair when necessary and also to smuggle in illicit goods. One of those people and one of the best in the business was an otter called Tarka. Tarka’s upbringing had been troubled having been chased up and down Devonian rivers for as long as he could remember but he had grabbed the bull by the horns though not literally and after a spell at technical college, he had qualified as an iPod repair person or as they are more affectionately known an iPerson. There was also the fact and Toad would take full advantage of this, that Tarka had been abused by weasels when he was young.
Toad or prisoner T123321 was in a solitary cell which meant a better connection or should have done as his iPod had given up the ghost. Fair enough, it had been used continuously for almost a week now but somehow Toad thought it should have lasted much longer than that. In the absence of pretty much everything else, this was Toad’s latest obsession and as usual he didn’t do things by halves. The iPerson had been booked and tomorrow it would be Tarka on duty along with all the other associated prison hangers on. Prison visitors would come and visit those who didn’t receive any visits and the only help it was, was to confirm that the bloke sat across the table from them was ‘Billy No Mates’. The Padre would be doing the rounds as usual but God knows why people would turn to religion. Though some did which is why the other religions were represented as well except of course the Christian Scientists as that’s just a cult no matter what Tom Cruise says. Toad sat in his cell and really missed the iPod. He did have the wing backup computer but a Dell XPS 630i with a 21” flat screen monitor was nothing like his iPod. He jumped back as he’d never seen breasts that big before but recovering his composure; he was really looking forward to the following day. He ticked another day off his chuff chart and was pleased to see that excluding remission or parole, he only had 7280 days to do. “Days to do are getting few” he said to himself smiling though fcuk knows why.
“Morning Toad” said Tarka picking at his teeth. “Morning Tarka” replied Toad not shaking Tarka’s hand as he’d been scratching his arrse with that particular hand. Tarka levered off the front of the iPod and a million pieces fell out all over the table, spilling onto the floor and flying in all directions. “You’ll never get that back together” remarked Toad pulling a resistor from his ear. “Don’t have to” replied Tarka and collecting as many of the pieces as he could, he put them into a padded envelope and sealed it. From his pocket he pulled a brand new updated iPod and handed it to Toad. “There you go. I hear you’ve been having weasel trouble. You need all the help you can get” said Tarka as there weren’t many secrets in prison especially as Tarka was a bit of a mouth. “I’d do more if I could get out” reflected Toad as whatever was going on outside was really beyond his control. It appeared that during his trial he had signed a ‘power of attorney’ type form and had inadvertently given the weasels control of all his finances and worst of all handed them Toad Hall on a plate. “I might be able to help” said Tarka mysteriously. “Well stop being mysterious and fcuking tell me then!” shouted Toad impatiently.
“How do I look?” asked Toad or rather an otter that slightly vaguely resembled Toad. “Fine and what about me?” asked Tarka now greener and he’d put on a few pounds and I don’t suppose Toad would like me saying that. The switch had been easy as it was the Inter-Wing Football match and while nobody had any interest in the football, there were bets flying about all over the place and the prison staff were just as guilty as the inmates. Tarka was young, hip and trendy (or so he thought) which meant most of his clothes were six sizes too big and that was just the perfect size for Toad. The prison uniform such that it was, was a sort of tracksuit with more draw cords than you could shake a stick at. It also helped keep the prison numbers down as joined together the draw cords had been responsible for many deaths as disgruntled prisoners had taken the easy way out and hanged themselves. Toad now looked like Tarka and Tarka sort of looked like Toad as long as you didn’t look carefully from a distance of about half a mile. It wouldn’t matter too much as the interest in the football or the interest in the latest odds of the football match had almost everybody’s attention. Toad left Tarka in the iPod repair room and headed towards the exit to the prison. There were at least three locked doors to get through and they were either manned or opened automatically from a control room. Toad made it through the first door without any problems. The controller was watching the footy using the cameras by the sports pitch and barely glanced at the screen. The second door was just as easy and there was now a hundred metres or so before the manned main gate and the way out. Fortunately and at first you wouldn’t think so but two members of staff were on duty at the gate and they were deep in conversation about how the odds had been slashed before they’d got a good bundle on. “Laters Tarka” said one of them and opened the small door after much turning of keys in locks. “Laters” said Toad and he was free.
Chapter Eight
While Mole blended into the crowded
“Look there’s Toad!” shouted Mole as Toad’s picture appeared on the telly. The landlord had finished watching Bargain Hunt and had just that minute switched over to BBC News 24. The fact that Toad had been reported as being armed and dangerous surprised the two but then it was the BBC and you can’t believe everything they report. “Bugger me sideways” said Mole sipping at his crème de menthe. “I didn’t think he had it in him old chap” remarked Ratty grabbing a handful of crisps. “Bring back hanging” said somebody but that was his answer to everything. “Bring back National Service” said another but that was his answer to everything and even when the salt and vinegar crisps ran out. “You know I have to go and see Otter old chap” said Ratty and a promise is a promise. He’d much rather sit in the pub all day and get smashed but sometimes duty calls. “He’s been a bit down lately old chap” added Ratty trying to justify it (to himself) and trying to psyche himself up. “He bores the t1ts off me” said Mole. He had met Otter and Otter’s wife and they truly were the most boring people alive. “You don’t have to come old chap” said Ratty but he secretly hoped Mole would join him. “Fcuking right I don’t and I’m not” replied Mole and Ratty knew he’d be going on his own. “We’ll just have the one more” said Ratty resigned to the fact he’d be going on his own. He walked up to the bar and while ordering another round, winked at the barmaid as she had the most humungous t1ts and most of them were hanging out of her blouse.
Ratty walked in silence, he was on his own and talking to yourself attracts the weirdest of comments. Mole had been true to his word and was still at the Squirrel & Truncheon. He too was eying up the barmaid but as his glasses were playing up again, the objects of his desire were not the ample breasts of the barmaid but two ice buckets placed together on the bar. Ratty finally reached Otter’s cottage and the name Holt Cottage was hanging on the gate. There were bicycles everywhere and Ratty wondered what was up. Bicycles usually meant Police and Ratty couldn’t fathom why somebody as boring as the Otters would attract the attention of the police. Ratty knocked on the door and a constable answered. Otter on seeing Ratty told the constable to let him in and Ratty joined the several constables in the lounge. There was also a female constable and she was holding Otter’s wife’s hand. Now Ratty had never had her down as a lesbian so there must be something up. “Young Otter’s gone missing” said Otter all became clear to Ratty. “Have you a recent photograph? asked the female constable, now stroking Otter’s hand. Otter’s wife grabbed a photo from the sideboard and handed it to her. “Ugly bugger ain’t he” remarked one of the constables and everybody looked at him. “Well he’s got a nice smile” added the unsympathetic constable trying to wriggle out of it. The female constable seemed to be stroking everybody’s hand now but she was obviously just being sympathetic unlike the other constable who piped up with. “If he doesn’t come back, think what you could do with the extra room” He was banished outside to check all the tyres on the bikes while the female constable continued to question the Otters. Some minutes later it appeared to be over and while the police promised they would search they couldn’t promise anything. The force helicopter would be used as from tomorrow as it had a thermal imaging camera. “It’s great with dead bodies!” shouted the unsympathetic constable from outside. The police left the cottage and with as much reassurance as they could muster promised the Otters they would do what they could. “Don’t forget to only set two places for tea” said the unsympathetic constable and they all left with bells ringing.
“Mole and I will look old chap” promised Ratty also taking his leave. He didn’t want to intrude and anyway he was bored shiteless already. But he owed it to the Otters to look as they had once helped him out in his hour of need. Ratty waved them goodbye and tripped over a tree stump as he hadn’t been looking where had been going. “Fcuk it!” he shouted wiping the dirt from his trousers. The Otters were back inside now so had not heard his outburst. Otter was carrying his wife upstairs for some hanky-panky as it was the first time they’d been on their own for years. “It’ll help us keep our minds off things” said Otter as his wife spread ‘em on the bed. “Come to mummy big boy” she said seductively. Afterwards when it was all over and the stains had been wiped she did admit they should do this again as it was the best ninety seconds of her life. Ratty continued back to the pub and got back just in time to see Mole standing on the bar singing at the top of his voice. ‘Pished again” remarked Ratty and Mole certainly was. The barmaid was not too discreetly trying to pop a puppy back in as Mole had grabbed her and she had subsequently suffered horrific bra failure. The landlord didn’t know whether to bar Mole or book him for Saturday night as it was the best laugh they’d had in years. “Come down there’s a good chap” said Ratty as Mole did his version of the dance of the seven veils using tea towels. “I’ll buy you another drink” he promised and also promised the landlord that Mole would now behave. Mole came down to much cheering and apart from some tea towels that needed a good wash and the barmaid with a sore nipple (and a wrecked bra), no harm had been done. The landlord decided not to book Mole and also not to bar him now he was under control. Anyway, Saturday night was Karaoke Night and that got the punters rolling in.
“Fcuk ‘em” said Mole, the drink was most definitely talking.
“Fcuk what?” asked Ratty rather too loudly as the landlord gave him a glance.
The barmaid also gave him a wink so he’s well in there. Ratty explained (twice)
about Otter and the disappearance of young Otter. Mole stood up, sat down,
stood up, tripped over the chair, bumped into the table and stared at Ratty.
“What the fcuk we waiting for then?” he slurred, just a bit wobbly on his feet.
“Where was young Otter last seen?” asked Mole as Ratty had neglected to tell
him. “Down on the edge of the Wild Wood, close to Crowshite Corner and just
past Polecat Lodge” explained Ratty and Mole knew the area quite well or his
sat-nav did. He had actually remembered it although he was all fingers and
thumbs he tapped in their intended destination. “You have not reached your
destination” said the sat-nav. Ratty sat Mole back down and they first finished
their drinks before setting off. This made Mole even worse and whatever he’d
done to the sat-nav hadn’t helped as due to following the directions, they had
left via the window of the ladies toilet which had upset the landlord and a
nice girl from
Mole could hear something. His head hurt but despite the pain and alcoholic mist, he could definitely make out a voice. “Mr Mole!” shouted somebody. It was very faint but strangely seemed very near. Mole tried to stand up and regretted it instantly. His head was extremely sore and he was gagging for a drink but this time maybe not crème de menthe. “Mr Mole!” shouted the voice and it seemed to be nearer. He rummaged in the undergrowth and his hand touched something metal. It was a storm drain and the voice seemed to be coming from it. “Mr Mole!” shouted the voice confirming it. Mole struggled with the drain cover and finally it gave. He fell backwards with the lid on top of him which didn’t help his head or his hangover. “Fcuk it!” he shouted annoyed with himself and also feeling slightly sorry for himself. “Mr Mole” said the voice though somewhat disapprovingly. Mole had already realised the voice must belong to young Otter and he peered down inside the drain looking for him. He jumped out of his skin as a small hand grabbed his leg. Young Otter pulled himself out of the drain and fell onto the floor. “Bloody hell that was close” said the young Otter wiping the dirt from himself. “Thanks Mr Mole” he added and explained that the river had flooded sending him into the drain. He couldn’t go back because of the current, he could go up because of the cover and even his progress further was blocked with a very fine grill that filtered all the crap out of the system. “I thought I was just about buggered there” said the young Otter and smiled gratefully at Mole. Mole suddenly jumped again. “What have we here?” said somebody or something from right behind him. He turned slowly round and there was the strangest creature he had ever seen.
“Are you a paedophile?” asked the creature. “Am I fcuk as like!” replied Mole indignantly. “This doesn’t look normal to me” boomed the creature. ‘Look who’s fcuking talking” replied Mole standing his ground. “And who or what the fcuk are you?” asked Mole taking a few paces back as the creature towered over him. “I’m Pan” replied the creature and what a strange creature it was. It had the legs of goats or what looked like goats yet it stood and apparently walked upright. “Ok Pete” replied Mole not knowing that the Pan he was addressing was the God of fields, groves and wooded glens. He was also the God of shepherds and flocks, of mountain wilds, hunting and rustic music so as Gods went, he was one of the busier ones. “Not Peter Pan you imbecile!” boomed Pan looking a bit annoyed. “I was looking after this child” added Pan pointing at young Otter who was cowering behind Mole. “Were you fcuk!” retorted an indignant Mole. “I found him goat legs” added Mole now resorting to insults. The two argued for what seemed ages. Mole gave as good as he got and the young Otter even joined in goading the creature from behind Mole’s back. “Now I will make you forget me” said the creature and Mole gave it one of his looks. “Just as long as you remember who found young Otter” shouted Mole but the creature was gone. But Mole didn’t forget and asked the young Otter if he had been scared of Pan. The young Otter looked rather uncomfortable and was really very glad when he heard Ratty’s voice in the distance. “Hurry up Mr Ratty, Mr Mole is off his trolley” shouted the young Otter and rushed in the direction of Ratty’s voice. It was Mole’s turn to look perplexed as he’d really truthfully seen the creature and if anybody was off their trolley it was a bloke walking around with goats legs.
Ratty and the young Otter stood next to Mole. “You banged your head Mole” said Ratty kindly unlike the young Otter who was now skipping about singing “Mole’s off his trolley’ over and over again. “But it was real” insisted Mole starting to doubt his own sanity. The young Otter skipped past and another eighteen renditions of “Mole’s off his trolley” did nothing to brighten his mood. “But it was real Ratty” said Mole for the umpteenth time but he was starting to realise that the young Otter’s memory must have been erased and his not. It was the only explanation. Yes, he had bumped his head but he hadn’t been out long and it still didn’t explain the creature. Mole chuntered as they walked. They were heading back to Holt Cottage to reunite the young Otter with his parents. Otter’s parents were otherwise engaged but should be finished anytime…………………………….. now. Ratty knocked on the door and it was Otter himself that answered it. “Mummy’s still got a wet one waiting” drifted down the stairs and Otter disappeared quickly back upstairs. Mole and Ratty let themselves in and the young Otter sat down in front of the telly and played a bit of Tomb Raider. Ratty and Mole talked loudly at first to drown the noise of the headboard banging against the wall but sure enough right on cue after ninety seconds or so it was all quiet again. The Otter parents tried to hug their child but he was having none of it, as this was a really hard bit and didn’t want to be disturbed. “I am hungry though” said young Otter and his mother headed off into the kitchen to make him something. Otter finally sat down for that after sex cigarette and watched his son playing his game. “He was real” whispered Mole. “I know Mole old chap” replied Ratty and told him of a story Badger had once told. “You and only a few have seen him old chap” added Ratty and suddenly Mole felt very proud and also very hot as Otter had dropped the end off his cigarette and it was burning his leg. Mole danced about the room and the others laughed. Deep in the woods, the creature sat on a tree stump and laughed as well.
Chapter Nine
Mole pulled up one of his many hoods and tried to look
inconspicuous. He was still wearing Tarka’s clothes and just tried to blend in
with the rest of the population. He had walked for ages as the bus conductor
had refused to take an IOU and had unceremoniously chucked him off the back of
the still moving Routemaster. He had what he was wearing and nothing else
except for his watch which the prison authorities had allowed him to keep. It
was a real Rolex but with so many copies around on the market, the world and
its dog were wearing a Rollex or a Rolllex. He had some loose change in his
pocket as he had tried a bit of busking. He’d been so bad, the gipsies had
given him money and he would always treasure that totally free lucky sprig of
heather. But some people are tone deaf and why else would they watch shows like
Pop Idol but some had actually given him money for his ‘a capella’ rendition of
Beethoven’s fifth symphony. It had stopped people in their tracks and while
most had legged it quick, some had dug deep in their pockets. He needed to get
out of
“No hoodies allowed!” shouted the man behind the large barred counter. Toad pulled down as many hoods as he could find and tried to explain. “I said no hoodies!” shouted the man again and his finger hovered over the panic button which had a direct link to upstairs and if she was awake and had taken her medication, there was the possible chance that his elderly and slightly deaf mother would ring the police. That is, if she could remember the number, as she was also going through the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. Toad slapped it on the counter. It being the Rolex as he had nothing else he would feel totally comfortable slapping on the counter. “That’s a nice one” said the man and examined the watch using an eyeglass. “And I know who you are” said the man and reaching underneath the counter, pulled out a copy of the newspaper report about Toad’s trial. “Let you out early on good behaviour?” asked the man with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Something like that” replied Toad and the man smiled. “You’ve come to the right place” said the man still examining the watch and switched off the video surveillance but not before rewinding it a bit and then deleting the last couple of minutes. “Don’t want any records do we” he said with a wink and opened the large grill. He opened the flap on the counter and beckoned toad through. Toad was shown into the back room which was a virtual Aladdin’s cave with fine paintings hanging on the wall and antique furniture littering the room. “Take a seat” said the man and pointed to a rather nice Georgian chair. Toad did think of picking it up and running out the shop but that gag’s been done to death so he didn’t bother. The man disappeared for a minute and with the video surveillance now back on and everything locked up again, he sat himself down opposite Toad.
The pair of them talked and the man, who happened to be
called Moshe Baumstein, explained that he too had fallen foul of the weasels
but not in the
Toad had been going through his railway obsession at the
time and while three days at
It was roughly an hour or so later when the door opened at Moshe’s
shop. Moshe was sorting his tiepins into alphabetical order and got quite a
shock when he looked up. It was none less than Inspector Gripper of Scotland
Yard and they knew each other all too well. “Bought anything dodgy Moshe?”
asked Gripper. “Only from policemen” joked Moshe and his hand moved across to
the Rolex in a vain attempt to cover it up. “Now what do we have here?” asked
Gripper grabbing Moshe’s hand. “Eyeglass!” barked Gripper and Moshe handed him
his eyeglass. Gripper did have a few problems with the eyeglass but finally
realising you have keep at least one eye open and preferably the one with the
eyeglass in, he was able to read the tiny inscription on the watch. “To Toad
from Toad” Gripper spoke the words out loud. “Now where did you get this?”
asked Gripper and Moshe’s hand reached for the phone to call his solicitor.
“Not so fast Moshe” said Gripper smiling insipidly. “I’m not after you or the
watch, I’m after that Toad” added Gripper and spotted the video surveillance.
“Now what do we have here?” asked Gripper a man of many words but unfortunately
most of them the same. Gripper rewound the tape and there were a couple of gaps
according to the timestamp but what was more interesting was footage of Toad
dressed somewhat differently leaving the shop just an hour or so ago. “Bugger!”
shouted Moshe realising he had forgotten to switch the machine off as Toad had
been leaving. “I recognize that Toad” Gripper was still smiling or it was his
version of a smile as if anybody else looked like that, you would say they were
just about to throw up. “And that looks like railway buff gear to me” added
Gripper who really wasn’t as dumb as he looked. “We’ll talk later Moshe” said
Gripper and rushed out of the shop. “To the station!” he shouted to the driver
of the unmarked police car. “Which one sir?” asked the driver as there are a
few. “The train station” replied Gripper. “Yes but which one sir?” asked the
spotty constable of a driver. “How the fcuk would I know” replied Gripper
getting more and more annoyed. “One with railway buffs” said Gripper as it was
all he could think of. “Could be any of them sir” replied the driver still
waiting for an idea where to go. “Flasks of soup!” shouted Gripper remembering
what he had seen on the video surveillance. “That’ll be the Wild Wood Flier
sir” replied the driver and the car sped off with its lights flashing. On the
way to the station, the driver explained that no self respecting railway buff
would be seen dead in the restaurant car which was why they brought their own
food and invariably a flask of soup. “It’s usually cream of mushroom sir”
explained the driver knocking over a bag lady on the pavement. “Don’t worry, Traffic
will deal with her!” shouted Gripper, as they tore round
Toad had caused quite a stir at the station. He had attracted some unwanted attention from the criminal fraternity as he had insisted on flashing the large wad of notes about to all and sundry. Toad was nervous as there were police everywhere but ironically the police had only been called as somebody had spotted large groups of unsavoury people following what looked like a railway buff around. Toad bought his ticket for the Wild Wood Flier as a pickpocket and a grade two mugger fought over the right to Toad’s wad. He had bought a newspaper at the newsagent and a grade one mugger and an arsonist who was down on his accelerants and his luck, had also fought with each other for the right to rob Toad. The police had taken seventeen away after Toad’s visit to the toilets as while they had all faithfully paid their 20p, it had descended into a full-scale riot as at first they had fought each other and then on realising the toilets had a fulltime willy watcher, they had all turned on him. Toad as always had been completely oblivious to it all and walked to the end of a platform to join some fellow railway buffs. Peace and quiet finally returned to the station though there was a distinct whiff of cream of mushroom soup in the air. Toad found a quiet seat though the people on the other seats weren’t quiet and kept a watchful eye out for police as the conversation moved on to ‘double bogies’. He sat there picking his nose and thinking if they can do it then so can I. In the restaurant car, the chef checked the microwave and prepared for the day’s cooking. The driver of the locomotive and the fireman were ready and waiting to go and as the whistle blew, they knocked it into first and let out the clutch. One railway buff got more cream of mushroom soup than he had bargained for but they were off. What Toad didn’t see was a car screeching not that you can see anything screeching but a car drew up close to the train and a slightly portly man ran for all he was worth and just managed to grab a handrail on a door of the last carriage. ‘Gripper of the Yard’ was on the train and Toad had better watch out.
Toad was watching out. He was watching out the window as
there was nothing else to do. The soup was long gone and a feeling of acute
boredom had spread over him like a rash. The other railway buffs went on (and
on) about things that were totally passing Toad by. They seemed in a world of
their own and also seemed to speak a language of their own as he couldn’t
understand what they were talking about. Toad was no novice but he was a mere
novice compared to the others. The gourmands were pigging out in fine style
though one ignoramus sent the sushi back as it wasn’t cooked. A leading animal
welfare spokesman tucked into his Pâté de foie gras and a lesser government
minister had brought his secretary along on a fact-finding trip. They weren’t
returning by train that day and would be spending a night in a hotel close to
the Wild Wood. No doubt they would be finding out much about each other over
the coming hours. Inspector Gripper had regained some composure and most of his
breath and was making his way along the train. He was to be joined by some
uniformed plods at the first stop but had decided that he may as well search
the train while he was waiting. Another occupant of a toilet was disturbed as
he left no stone (or toilet lid) unturned (un-lifted). Toad saw him making his
way up the carriage but of course didn’t know he was a policeman. The staff on
the train wore really over the top uniforms but he did concede that somebody
might have (intentionally) forgotten to put the thing on and/or chosen an
alternative. And then Toad felt the hand on his shoulder. “Now what have we got
here?” said Inspector Gripper with all the originality of a writer for
Chapter Ten
“Ok ladies and gentlemen, he’s back!” shouted the director. They had been stood ready like coiled springs, as due to illness, the author had buggered off and left them somewhat in the lurch. “About fcuking time” muttered Toad or the actor playing Toad having the green on his rouge on the green touched up by a makeup artist. It wasn’t just the makeup artist who was doing the touching up, as Inspector Gripper was fumbling with one of the extras in the baggage car. This time the extra was a female one but either the inspector suffered from bad eyesight or he generally wasn’t too fussy where he planted his truncheon. “Places please!” shouted the director and the female extra rushed through the carriage to take her place. It was a shame she’d tucked her skirt into her underwear and on realising it made a vain attempt at covering up the fact. It didn’t fool anybody and nor did it when the inspector took his seat with gaping flies. “Right and action!” shouted the director. “Not much fcuking chance of that” murmured one of the actors and the story continued exactly where it had left off.
“I don’t think we need bother with handcuffs” said Inspector Gripper which was a good job as he’d left them in the car. At this very moment they were lying in the foot well of the car, as the driver had his elevens at Sid’s Burger Bar just off the dual carriageway. “No, I don’t think I’m going anywhere” lied Toad, his mind (such that it is) going through a multitude of escape plans. Gripper leered at the female extra and she winked back or so he thought but makeup had failed miserably when they’d stuck on the false eyelashes. It gave her a certain something or if looking as if a caterpillar was crawling across your face gave you that something special, then she was quids in. Toad’s mind raced through all the great film escapes and one by one, they were dismissed as being either too athletic for a slightly overweight toad or downright bloody stupid and way too far-fetched. From the other end of the carriage, a trolley selling overpriced drinks and snacks made its way towards their seats. A pimply youth in a psychedelic waistcoat pushed the trolley and in between picking his nose and squeezing the odd spot that was due to burst, he handed out cans of drink and beautifully curled up sandwiches. This was fodder for the great unwashed and those that couldn’t afford the restaurant car.
Toad finally had a plan and even told Gripper. He didn’t actually mention any of the details but Gripper appreciated being let know. “Pays to have a plan” he said to Toad and decided he’d try the corned dog sandwiches. He stood up and standing in the aisle, picked out the sandwich with the best curls. It was at this moment that Toad pulled the communication cord and Gripper, closely followed by a now out of control trolley shot down the carriage. The pimply youth wasn’t far behind as the trolley smashed through the connecting door and pinned Gripper against the toilet door. Toad saw his chance and headed the other way and made straight for the door. Passengers lay or sat on the floor in sheer surprise and in the restaurant car it was absolute carnage. The chef had been making pancakes but as it was posh nosh, he called them ‘craps’ although he did actually mean to say ‘crêpes’. He was originally from Droitwich and his grasp of the French language (and perhaps cooking as well) was minimal. Dining passengers or those still left seated had been well and truly battered and were now wearing the contents of a large bowl or Sainsbury Crêpes Mixture. The mixed grill was now even more mixed and most of it was being kicked around the carpet. They say wine doesn’t travel that well and even the brief journey from one end of the restaurant car to the other had proved that beyond doubt.
Toad opened the door and jumped out onto the gravel. He headed towards the front of the train, not for any reason in particular but it was the direction away from Gripper who was still pinned against the toilet door. He wasn’t too badly hurt and the elderly woman now trapped in the toilet would never suffer from constipation again. Toad reached the tender of the loco and heard a familiar voice. “Toad you old bugger, get your arrse up here!” shouted the voice and Toad recognized him as the one who had allowed him that drive of a steam engine. Toad jumped up onto the footplate and embraced the driver in a manly way. The fireman looked on slightly jealous as he’d fancied the driver for years. “I heard about your problems Toad” remarked the driver while hanging out of the locomotive. At the far end of the train, the guard after a quick change of trousers as his flask of oxtail soup had got him, had checked the train and it was now ok to proceed. He waved a green (and slightly oxtail soup stained) flag and blew his whistle. “Giver ‘er a go Toad” said the driver and stepped back to let Toad drive. Toad only partially remembered how to drive a train but he gave it his best shot. The driver and the fireman had braced themselves but the passengers unfortunately had not. Those that had just returned to their seats were thrown all over the train and the clean up operation in the restaurant car now entered phase two. It wasn’t helped as Toad forgetting his levers applied the brakes and then realising his mistake, opened the throttle wider. The clean up operation in the restaurant car reached and passed phase three as the soup of the day became the soup of yesterday. The railway buffs had not fared much better and empty flasks littered the carriages. One poor individual was later taken to hospital to have a telescope removed from his nose and the doctor who had already been on duty for the last twenty hours, had the accident and emergency department in stitches when he said he’d look into it.
The train was now back in safe hands so not Toad’s then. The driver was in full control and the fireman was now slightly less jealous. Gripper had finally been prised free off the trolley though the elderly woman in the toilet decided to remain as she now needed a pish. “I’ll get the bugger at the station” remarked Gripper to nobody in particular but it was true he would be joined by a few more bodies to help at the next stop. Toad of course was perfectly aware of this and while Gripper did notice the train slowing a bit, what he didn’t see was Toad jumping off just before a bridge that crossed a small river and a canal. Toad rolled down the embankment and landed on the towpath of the canal. The canal was littered with boats and seeing the state of some of them, ‘littered’ is just about right. Toad walked along the towpath as there really wasn’t anywhere else to go. There was just the railway and the nearest road was miles away. Actually I’ve just checked and the nearest road is 3.56 miles away but that’s probably not important right now. Toad walked past a couple of wrecks and he wondered what ever happened to that narrow boat rental firm ‘Hiseasons’. The logo was just about visible on the boats and it just showed that while people do like to get away from it all, after the hundred and eighth lock, a narrow boat does sort of lose its appeal even though it’s got a microwave and a colour telly. “You won’t see no trains round here” said a voice and Toad jumped. He forgot he had gone from ‘iPerson’ to railway buff and now probably looked slightly out of place on the side of a canal. “You can live in hope” replied Toad peering through his binoculars that had survived the roll down the embankment. “Now if you could repair an iPod, I’d have all your babies” said the voice and Toad saw a slightly dishevelled, totally bald man sporting a huge beard. Toad didn’t care if his head was upside down, he just needed to get back to Toad Hall and by any means possible.
Now Toad didn’t know much about iPods but he was willing to give it a go. He had seen Tarka at work so he did have a vague idea of some of the tricks. He checked the battery and it seemed to be there. He checked the mains adapter and after sucking the small connecting plug and receiving a belt, decided that was ok as well. He pressed various buttons and took the back off and dropped it and picked up again and with all the experience of a fully trained iPerson, banged the iPod firmly on the table. The thing sprang to life in an instant and the man who was incidentally called Desmond, was chuffed to naafi breaks with the outcome. Desmond it appears was a decker who unlike his namesake, didn’t like reggae music. Thanks to the demise of Hiseasons, deckers were not in high demand. In fact they weren’t in any demand hence the large number of bills on Desmond’s table coincidentally and perhaps ironically marked ‘Final Demand’. “I’ll give you a lift no probs” said Desmond and fired up the engine. Toad wasn’t sure where exactly he was going but as long as it was well away from the railway, then he was fine. Desmond had needed his iPod to phone the boatyard as with the mounting debts, selling the boat seemed to be the only available option. This was where they were now heading and Toad sat back and enjoyed the ride. Despite the wholesale slaughter of a family of moorhens who just happened to get in the way, it was a picture of peace and tranquillity albeit at 4mph.
Desmond was upstairs on the flat bit by the blunt end, while
Toad languished downstairs in the kitchen. He usually had people make tea for
him but he was perfectly capable of reading the instructions on the box of tea
bags and after a quarter of an hour or so, two perfect cups of tea were being
carried up top. The tea was unfortunately by now stone cold but I suppose it’s
the thought that counts. Desmond threw his tea at the nearest swan and handed
Toad back the empty cup. “Another?” asked Desmond though it did seem more like
an order to Toad. Toad decided that he’d let the kettle actually boil this time
and while waiting, twiddled with things that probably should have been left
well alone. There was nothing on the telly and why would there be? It was
daytime and there’s never anything worth watching on the telly. Toad switched
on the radio and the news came on. Details of Toad’s escape were still being
broadcast and they still maintained he was armed and dangerous. Bring the radio
up with the tea!” ordered Desmond and Toad thought that a please might have
been in order. Still, the tea was this time perfect and there were no
complaints from Desmond this time. The news finished and the Archers came on.
Not the one that’s a tale of simple country folk but the one about a disgraced
lord who went to prison. Toad changed the station and loud music blared out,
frightening a couple of swans who unfortunately flew into some nearby power
lines and were killed instantly. Their offspring, the cygnets were left to
their own devices but fortunately weren’t on their own for long, as an obliging
fox found them and after a killing frenzy, ate most of them and took the rest
back for the cubs. Toad loved happy endings and so do
Desmond bobbed up and down on the water as he did have his
inflatable underwear on. “Stop the boat!” he shouted inflating his life
preserver baseball cap. He had to wear some form of cap as his baldy bit got
burned to buggery and there’s no harm in being safety conscious. “How?”
enquired Toad as the boat reached the breakneck speed of 5mph. Toad pulled and
pushed at levers but all he managed to do was to jettison the contents of the
toilet tank and switch off the radio. “I’ll get you on the way back!” shouted
Toad and the reply from Desmond was not for the faint hearted especially as he
was bobbing up and down with the contents of the toilet tank. There was much bobbing
up and down done that day. “That turd looks like a Toffee Crisp” remarked Toad
and again Desmond let rip with a string of expletives. Toad was getting the
hang of the boat and he had intended to go back and pick up Desmond but there
would be much explaining to do and no doubt, he would get a rollicking so
thought better of it. Anyway, he was having fun and showing off his boating
skills, he crushed a lone Mallard against the bank. Fortunately on this
stretch, there were no locks as Toad have had no idea what to do. The
surroundings were becoming less countryside and more industrial, with large
buildings just ready to be pulled down when the price is right to turn them
into flats. The canal bent at this point and broadened and on the far side,
Toad could see what looked like a boatyard. Fletcher’s Boatyard as the sign
said, was no doubt the place that Desmond had been heading for. Seeing no
berths available, Toad used the one reserved for disabled people and after
bumping the dock and a few other boats, managed to get the boat switched off.
Remembering to tie the boat up, he was just about to take his leave when a
seedy looking gentleman approached him. “I’m glad you decided to take me up on
my offer” said the seedy gentleman who was Mr Fletcher of Fletcher’s Boatyard.
Now what Toad didn’t know was that Mr Fletcher and Desmond had actually never
met which was why Toad was rather surprised to receive a large wad of money in
return for the keys to the boat. Mr Fletcher took him into the office while Mr
Fletcher’s assistant, a Mr Christian rummaged through the drawers in the boat
for the logbook. “One day I’ll become a partner” he thought to himself. Though
one might perhaps question whether a Fletcher Christian Boatyard would have a
future, except perhaps on the
While Mr Fletcher congratulated himself on his business prowess, Mr Christian moaned about his lowly status and Desmond bobbed up and down amongst the turds, Toad headed for the road and hopefully on towards Toad Hall. Now I know it seems unlikely but coincidences do happen and perhaps even more in this story than the national average. But it’s my story and if I want to up the coincidence quota then fine. If you don’t like it, sue me! Toad reached the road and just off the road on a plot of land just ripe for development was Derek’s Diner or a manky old caravan that served lukewarm partially cooked food to intrepid travellers who didn’t know where their next meal was coming from. After a meal at Derek’s Diner at least you know where it was going as if you didn’t get to a toilet quick then your upholstery was going to get soiled. But Derek had cleaned up his act a bit, he had taken twelve years of grease off the cooking range and even offered a free POI (Points of Interest) for the nearest toilet in TomTom and other formats. You couldn’t say he wasn’t trying. Toad made his way to Derek’s Diner and the car parked just to the side of it seemed vaguely familiar. As Toad got nearer and ignoring the smell as Derek was boiling a fish head for his cat, he could see the car was the still relatively new Vauxhall Insignia. “It can’t be!” muttered Toad to himself and it brought back all the memories, some happy and some not. It was the very same Insignia that had landed Toad in prison. The owner of the Insignia was sipping a cup of a hot (ish) brown liquid that could have been anything and there was a large greasy bap full of as yet undetermined meat on the counter. Toad ordered something inedible to be washed down with something undrinkable and tried to enter into conversation with the car owner. The owner had not attended court and obviously didn’t recognize Toad as he didn’t once try to strangle him. The Insignia had been close to a write off but had been rebuilt and the results of the beta testing had been implemented, so the onboard computer now ran on Linux and Stinger proof tyres were now available on export models only.
“Can I give you a lift?” asked the Insignia owner and Toad was in the car like a flash. Also in the car like a flash was Derek as neither had paid for their food. Toad settled the debt and left a very generous (though thoroughly undeserved) tip. “Where are you heading for?” asked the car owner and Toad explained that anywhere in the general direction of the Wild Wood would be fine. Whoever had rebuilt the car had made a fine job of it as the wheel wobble didn’t start until you were on the legal limit and the owner actually thought it was a safety device. Had he read further in the instruction manual he might have found out that there was already a safety device built in but that’s his loss I suppose. “She drives well” remarked Toad above the noise of the wheel bearings. “Certainly does” replied the owner opening the boot with the left-hand indicator. The owner had already punched in the free POI and by the looks of him, he was ready to take up the offer. Toad was genuinely worried as he’d never seen somebody grit or clench things in an attempt to hold in what was the inevitable. Finally they reached the toilet block and parking outside with the engine still running, the owner sprinted into the block and just managed to hit the pan in time. The huge sigh of relief echoed round the toilet block and Toad even heard it over the rattling of the camshafts. It was tempting, it was very tempting. Toad fought back his natural impulse to be a tw@t and contented himself with punching in ‘Wild Wood’ on the sat-nav. “One little rev of the engine won’t hurt” said Toad not convincing anybody and he jumped across to the driver’s seat. The owner was only about halfway through quite a heavy paperwork exercise so none the wiser.
“Not again!” shouted the owner after his toilet stop. He’d even left his mobile in the car so cursing to himself, set off on the hunt for something close to or equivalent to rocking horse shite or as they used to be called, a phone box. “I’ll just take it easy” said Toad taking it quite easy. He was having the time of his life though it wasn’t quite the drive of his life. “They don’t quite make them like they used to” remarked Toad as the car refused to go into reverse at 80mph. Using more traditional methods, he braked and just made it round quite a dangerous curve. The miles to the Wild Wood were being eaten up or so the sat-nav kept telling him in that annoying nasal voice. All was fine until he hit a set of traffic lights as an old Vauxhall Corsa drew up next to him. Inside the Corsa were two baseball caps and both were chewing gum. Sorry they appeared to be chewing gum and were actually sucking their top lips. Loud music blasted from the car and the sun strip proclaimed them to be Darryl and Tracey. Now, Tracey has really let herself go in the last few months (years) as she’s now sporting a moustache. Obviously Tracey was busy, doing the double or picking up her Giro, as this was actually Darren the brother of Tracey. They had been such sweet children but a lifetime of hanging around street corners had changed them and not for the better. Darryl revved the Corsa and the coke tin holding the exhaust together fell off with a huge puff of black smoke. Toad revved the Insignia and it died on him. He restarted it and revved it but he’d already lost the first battle. The lights changed to green and Toad could just about make out the Corsa in the rearview LCD screen. The Corsa had been tuned but a sound system that would be fine in Wembley Stadium did weigh a bit and added on a couple of seconds (days?) to the nought to sixty time. Toad was thrashing them and he could even see the treetops of the Wild Wood in the distance. Perhaps he should have been keeping his eyes on the road as Mrs Alice Beezon’s brand new Honda Saga (previously the Civic) was just pulling out of a side road. The Insignia and the Honda hit and were locked together in twisted crumpled metal. Both drivers were unharmed though they did suffer friction burns from the numerous airbags that popped out of the strangest places. The Corsa had been far behind and although there should have been ample time to stop, the weight of the sound system was too much for the brakes and it piled into the back of the Insignia. The Corsa didn’t have airbags but fortunately Darryl and Darren had reinforced peaks on their baseball caps. That’s probably what saved the pair.
This was too much for Toad and he just ran and ran. Yes, he was leaving the scene of an accident but he was too stressed and in too much of a panic to care. The surroundings seemed vaguely familiar and all of a sudden there in front of him was what looked like a shed on stilts. It was Ratty’s home and bugger me sideways, what a coincidence. Toad banged on the door (completely ignoring the doorbell) and Ratty finally answered. “Ratty, you have to help me. I’m fcuked!” said Toad and barged his way in. As the door shut you could just make out the sound of sirens as the fire brigade, police and ambulances attended the scene of the accident. “Bugger” said Mrs Alice Beezon as she was taken away for checks. “Bugger!” said Darryl and Darren as they were arrested for various traffic offences and for handling stolen cheques.
Chapter Eleven
“You’ll be even more fcuked if you don’t get off my fcuking tail old chap!” shouted Ratty in some pain. “Sorry” said Toad somewhat absent minded and sat himself down in an armchair by the drainpipe stove. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” asked Ratty and Toad slumped in the chair fearing the worst. “The good news is that while you’ve been gone, Badger and Mole have been protecting Toad Hall” explained Ratty. “And the bad news?” asked Toad almost daring not to ask. “There was nothing they could do. It was all legal and above board and if they hadn’t handed over Toad Hall to the weasels, they too would have been arrested” continued Ratty and Toad slumped further into the armchair, a perfect picture of misery (Toad not the armchair). It seems that the weasels had found out about the McLaren F1 and had called in the debt by going through the courts. The case had been judged in Toad’s absence as it had been deemed too much of a risk to allow such a dangerous criminal to defend himself. A video link had been considered to allow Toad to defend himself from inside prison but this was discounted as it would have taken up too much bandwidth and if the other prisoners didn’t get their daily dose of porn, the authorities would have yet another riot on their hands. Badger knew a man who knew a man who knew no less than Ginpole of the Bailey and while it might take some time, things were underway. Of course if it took too long then the house would already be demolished as if you remember and I almost didn’t, the house although not on the provisional plans for the new motorway, was very close and the land was the ideal spot for one of the service stations that were to service the new motorway and the gullible motorists. It seems that each and every motorist is legally entitled to overpriced fuel, overpriced and usually inedible food, a cash point and somewhere you change a nappy or if you have a baby, a baby’s nappy.
There was a knock at the door and Ratty tripped over the hearth rug on the way to open it. The door creaked open. “Must fix that fcuking door” remarked Ratty as he was nowhere near it and it had opened on its own. There stood Badger and Mole and Ratty beckoned them in. Ratty’s place was suddenly very crowded as it was only a shed on stilts though he did have planning permission to knock out a couple of walls and had got the idea watching a TV programme fronted by somebody called Kirsty. He wasn’t sure what the woman was called but it had given him a few good ideas. “You should be safe enough Toad” said Badger tapping his pipe on Mole’s head. “Fcuk off!” shouted Mole rubbing the ash from his fur. Badger went on to explain that the local police had enough problems dealing with the ‘tree huggers’. Apparently the motorway was going to cut through just a small part of the Wild Wood and this part had great historical significance. Where is it that many of those who died of the plague are buried? Where was fly-tipping first documented? Where was the oldest dumped shopping trolley ever found? All this and more had stirred up some protest and the local police and those from other counties were trying to police it as best they knew. Toad was a wanted man but as long as he lay low then he should be ok. “You’ll be safe here old chap” said Ratty and shoved another log in the stove. “And I have a plan” said Badger determinedly. “A cunning one?” asked Mole who was quite a Blackadder fan. “No, just a plan” replied Badger as he was miserable barsteward with no sense of humour whatsoever. The four of them talked late into the night and they only stopped because Mole got pished on the crème de menthe and fell asleep. Ratty covered him with the hearth rug while the others talked about other things, such as why did Bill Oddie have such a fascination with Kate’s t1ts?
It was a few days later, late afternoon and the sun was slowly sinking in the sky. It had been a beautiful day and the night was to be dry with the odd mist patch here and there. Of course the weatherman hadn’t said exactly where but here and there was as close as he could get. They were all assembled at Badger’s house just inside the Wild Wood. Even Toad was there and he had been disguised as a Mole. If anybody asked he was to say he was Mole’s cousin but somehow they all doubted if anybody would dare to ask. He was a frightening sight and looked pretty much like the last mental patient who had escaped from the local psychiatric hospital just before it had closed. “If the going gets tough, the tough get going” Badger had said and as the local police were otherwise occupied, it had been decided that the animals would sort this out themselves. Badger’s place was a hive of activity with a map of Toad Hall and surrounding grounds spread across the table. Mole was goading a squirrel and it was the very same Trooper Nutkin of the SSS (Special Squirrel Squadron). The two had to be separated on numerous occasions and it didn’t help that Trooper Nutkin had brought three of his mates. They constituted an elite SSS hit team and they were a vital part of Badger’s master plan. Badger had rung around and while they seemed somewhat elderly, former members of the SBS, the Special Badger Squadron were also there to help, if you could keep them awake that is. Outside, the mounted rabbits practiced their complicated movements as they were due to perform at the Edinburgh Tattoo again just like last year. They had taken the audience by storm and ok, they had speared a couple who’d got too close but it wasn’t that important as they were Americans.
Badger slid representations of his troops across the map of Toad Hall and if you looked very closely you would see similarities between his plan of attack and that of the Duke of Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo. “It’s looking good Toad” said Badger recovering his composure as Toad’s disguise had startled him. “I don’t know why we don’t just use the secret tunnel” remarked Toad and the room was suddenly silent. “What tunnel?” enquired Badger. “Yeh, what fcuking tunnel?” enquired Mole who still had a hangover after all that crème de menthe. “The secret tunnel that goes from the statue by the wall to the wine cellar in Toad Hall” explained Toad and he was sure he’d mentioned it previously. “I did mention it” said Toad but he was starting to doubt his recollection of the events. “Oh no you fcuking didn’t!” boomed Badger in best panto form. “Oh yes I fcuking did” replied Toad though he still wasn’t totally sure. Still, at least it brightened the story up a bit. “Oh no it doesn’t” said somebody and everybody looked round. While they did agree to an extent, they did wonder how whoever answered would be privy to such information. “Good afternoon gents” said an immaculately dressed mole and he handed a card to Badger. “Tesco Clubcard” read Badger and the mole snatched the card back and handed him another. “Mole Intelligence, Agent Orange” read Badger and he suddenly looked very impressed. Mole Intelligence, the two departments MI5 and MI6 were the stuff of legends and even a programme on the telly had been loosely based on the exploits of Mole Intelligence. Spooks had opened a few eyes and many a young mole at university had decided to join. Unfortunately those that didn’t join or had failed selection became Russian spies or sleepers in very high places but you can’t win ‘em all. “I think we need to have a little talk” said Agent Orange and this sounded ominous.
Agent Orange, Toad, Ratty and Badger talked while the SSS practiced abseiling and the mounted rabbits tried to perfect their figure of eight. They looked wonderful in their shining helmets astride the roe deer that were especially bred for the role. It had actually been the mounted rabbits who had been instrumental in the victory at the Battle of Watership Down but for some unknown reason, Richard Adams had failed to mention it. Agent Orange explained the government’s position and rather tactfully suggested that he might at least have a hand in the expulsion of the weasels from Toad Hall. Weasels were a known problem and the influx of weasels from the newer member countries of the European Union had just aggravated matters. “Weasels aren’t generally bad, they just lack guidance” explained Agent Orange. “And if guidance means sending them back to their country of origin, then so be it” he added. There was of course still the matter of whether the attack should be a full frontal attack or through the tunnel. Even a combination of both was suggested, as Toad Hall was now protected by an elaborate security system that meant that if the lady liked Milk Tray then it would have to come in by post or delivery van. There was no way some bloke would be creeping around the grounds and then dumping them on her pillow. He’d need more than a naff sweater, a crap hairstyle and a smug expression to get through the dozens of sensors. This was where Agent Orange might come in useful as after a quick call on his mobile, another mole with the thickest glasses you’ve ever seen arrived at Badger’s house as if by magic. Actually he’d been sitting in an MI5 van (marked Suggett’s Laundry) not that far away and had just been waiting for the call. He found Badger’s house with no problems as he’d used a tracking device that homed in on Agent Orange’s mobile.
So the plan changed yet again and update six of version four
was as follows: The mole with the thick glasses or
Intelligence had also reported that the weasels were not lovers of firearms but the chief weasel was the proud owner of an ancient Smith & Wesson. In fact, most the weasels and also the stoats and ferrets were only armed with knives, machetes, coshes and if cornered would usually resort to sarcasm. So as it stands at this point in time, I would say the odds were definitely on the side of the good guys but you never can tell. Unless Ginpole could work wonders and pretty damn quick then the weasels also had something else on their side and that was the law. Fortunately for our heroes, all the police were occupied in protecting the tree huggers from some thugs. An independent security firm had been called in to remove the tree huggers using any (or all) means possible and they weren’t too choosy who they employed to do it. For this very reason, there wasn’t a policeman available in ten miles and that was quite a few minutes of frantic peddling. Slowly and very carefully, all the units were in place and there wasn’t a weasel to be seen anywhere. The time was drawing near and the lights of Toad Hall shone across the vast grounds leaving very little advantage of using cover of darkness. It was fortunate that the statue by the wall was now actually outside the grounds and had been erected by one of Toad’s ancestors to show off just how rich he was. It had originally stood nearer the house but generation after generation had moved it further away as it was really quite bad as far as statues went. They all dashed for the side of the road as a vehicle approached but it soon disappeared and seemed perfectly innocent. It was actually a UPS driver who was hopelessly lost and the recipient of the parcel (it contained a box of Milk Tray) would probably have to wait until the morning to receive it. Toad pressed the left nipple of a huge Amazonian type woman and pulled on her spear. A flap opened at the foot of the statue and there were some stone steps. “Anybody bring a torch?” asked Badger as he hadn’t but fortunately somebody had. One by one they made their way into the tunnel and Mole, who didn’t really need a torch, wondered just how many would be returning.
Chapter Twelve
As Dudley and the SSS made their way slowly through the grounds, those in the tunnel were making extremely slow progress. The tunnel had been neglected for years and they all stood though some only just in front of a large pile of stones and other associated rubble where the tunnel had partially collapsed. “Bollox!” cursed Badger and tried to see if there was some way through. They all formed a chain and stone by stone was passed along the line of the (mostly) willing volunteers. Some of the stones were extremely heavy and it took two to lift them but some progress was being made. Fortunately the roof of the tunnel seemed intact apart from a few stones and they appeared to be just decorative. Outside Dudley and the SSS had made slow progress as squirrels being squirrels, they went whenever possible from tree to tree and Dudley being a creature who liked his feet planted firmly on (or under) the ground, stuck to terra firma where most of the security seemed to be. The large gate had been easy to open after of course disabling the cameras that watched the entrance. There had been no guards and using his active infrared beam detector, he had been able to locate the extra gate security. Using a clever device, he had deflected the beam, enabling him to reach the junction box on the side of the gatehouse wall and after removing a couple of screws, he switched off the gate security. He did wonder why the weasels hadn’t manned the gatehouse but a large cry followed by the sound of somebody puking came from close to the main building and he realised why. “They’re celebrating a bit tonight” he said to himself though one of the SSS did catch it. “Should make things a bit easier” he said again to himself and continued carefully towards the main building.
Down in the tunnel, the obstruction was almost clear and after a couple more large stones, they proceeded further down the tunnel. Eventually they reached the end and Badger signalled them to be quiet. He could hear voices and they were weasel voices. “Make mine a large one” said the first voice and Badger could hear the sound of what he thought was running water. Of course the weasels were in the wine cellar and obviously helping themselves to Toad’s finest wines. “I’m not saying when until it’s full” said the first voice and the sound of running water finally stopped. “I’ll just have a Rioja shandy” said another voice and the sound of running water started again. “But I’ll make some room first” said the second voice and the sound of water was heard again. It seemed to go on a bit long and most doubted if what they heard was running water after all. “That’s better” said the second voice and after a couple of dripping noises, all was silent again. Badger made a mental note to himself to watch where he walked and pressed his ear to the wall. “It’s my bloody turn in the control room” moaned the second voice and at least Badger knew that such a room existed. It was no doubt in this room that the security could be switched off. Badger went back down the tunnel and beckoned for Toad to follow him. They talked for a few minutes and while you couldn’t hear what was being said, you had a pretty good idea that Badger was trying to find out where the control room was located. “That’s simple” whispered Toad. “It’ll probably be in the control room” he added and Badger kicked himself for asking what now looked like a pretty dumb question. In one of Toad’s moments of madness and he had quite a few, he had answered an advert for a home security system free estimate and fair enough, the estimate had been free but the system that had been installed had cost thousands. The salesman had promised that the system could be upgraded and that was probably the only true thing he had said all day. The weasels had just bolted a few extra modules on as after all it wasn’t really their money they were spending. “Don’t want no crooks breaking in” the Chief Weasel had said. “Or breaking out” added a stoat and they’d all fallen about the floor with laughter.
All finally went quiet on the other side of the wall and Toad pressed a small rock in the wall and a door opened. They were at the very back of the wine cellar and thanks to it being pretty well lit; they could see they were completely alone. “That’s a fine collection Toad” whispered Badger picking up a fine example of a 2007 Army Air Corps white. “Probably a far better year for the Corps than the wine old chap” whispered Ratty as he knew a little about a lot. It wasn’t the normal thing to do, if anything in this story is ever normal but what you generally don’t do at the finale of the story, the bit where it might (finally) get exciting, is to stand around and talk about the Army Air Corps and fine (or not) wine. This is exactly what they did and to prove his point, Ratty uncorked a bottle of the wine and passed it round. “I do agree” whispered Badger though why he was whispering is beyond me, as everybody else was virtually shouting. The weasels in the control room were also enjoying something other than staring at wine bottles, as the hidden cameras had spotted everybody long ago. Weasels, stoats and ferrets had been sent to various locations and on the word of command, had captured the field mice complete with their blank ammunition and the volunteers from the pub just as they had been entering the tunnel. The one and only hint of success had been the poodle, as it had managed to bite two weasels and a stoat before being restrained. Still talking about whether the RAF should lose the heavy lift capability, Badger and all had been surprised and relieved of their weapons. “Follow me innit” ordered a weasel and they were marched off to a holding cell. The holding cell was actually just part of the cellar but somebody had written ‘Holding Cell’ on the door in chalk. So, in an instant, one prong of a two pronged attack had been neutralized and all that remained for any hope of success, were the SSS (and Dudley) and the mounted rabbits.
It was a scary time for
The SSS opened fire and the weasels, ferrets and stoats were
getting a bit of a hammering or the ones at the front of Toad Hall were. But
the odds were overwhelming and the brave four from the SSS were slowly running
out of ammunition. Worse still was that attempts were being made by the weasels
to get onto the roof and there were several ways to get on there. The four
defended desperately but the tide was turning. The four were virtually back to
back with only a few rounds left between them when the sky was lit up by a huge
explosion from the general direction of the gatekeeper’s lodge. Across the
grounds the SSS could see the mounted rabbits, their Kevlar breastplates dull
as ever in the moonlight and something else caught Nutkin’s attention. On the
ground almost directly beneath him, a stoat was skewered by a whirling dervish
in green. You don’t often see them, everybody knows about them and in this neck
of the woods they are even more famous than 49 Para (if you can believe that).
It was no less than the Bayonet Frogs! The grounds were alive with spearing
rabbits or skewering frogs and the weasels, stoats and ferrets didn’t know what
had hit them. A vehicle tried to escape; it was a Ferret scout car but green
bodies swarmed over it like locusts and the driver complete with hangers on was
dealt with in double quick time. The SSS started making their way down from the
roof and met with only token resistance. Toad Hall seemed to be virtually empty
as they checked it room by room though they did fail to spot
“I want a helicopter” said the Chief Weasel as he listed his
demands. “And a million pounds” he added. He’d almost forgotten about the money
but at least he’d have something out of the whole escapade. The Smith and
Wesson was still pointing at Badger and Badger did try to move but felt the
barrel jabbed into the side of his head so decided to keep still. Mole was
taking notes and was to contact Agent Orange with the list of demands as the
Chief Weasel knew all about him. There was a long discussion about what sort of
helicopter and whether it should be single engine or twin engine as well as a
long list of technical details that some might think important but frankly they
bored the t1ts off me (perhaps just like this story). The conversation switched
to the million pounds and what denominations and whether it should be used or
new notes and whether the numbers should be sequential or not. Then it switched
to whether the bags containing the money should be soft or hard and whether a
shoulder strap was important or if in fact a suitcase might be better as Mole
had seen an elephant tread on one with no apparent harm to the suitcase (or the
elephant). The Chief Weasel was starting to lose his patience especially when
deciding on simply a blue helicopter; Mole had asked him if that should be a
dark blue or a light blue. “Shish” said the Chief Weasel almost at the end of
his tether. “Shish Kebab!” shouted a Bayonet Frog and launched the rifle
complete with bayonet straight at the Chief Weasel. The Chief Weasel didn’t
have time to duck as the full eighteen inch bayonet impaled him, sending him
flying backwards and pinning him to an old wardrobe in the corner of the room.
He hung there quite dead and Badger urinated on the floor, a mixture of relief
and an incontinence problem he hadn’t let on about. Everybody celebrated
fortunately not like Badger as the room was starting to hum a bit.
Toad did serve his community service and he recompensed all
he had basically shafted. Mrs Alice Beezon got a new car, the owner of the
Vauxhall Insignia got a Mercedes as he hadn’t been that lucky with Vauxhalls
and even the two Chavs got a new bass box. The motorway was built but using
another alternative route and there was a junction especially for Toad Hall as
Toad Hall was now a stately home/theme park open to the public and now even
boasted a Safari Park. Troops of trained monkeys would break off wipers,
mirrors, hubcaps and anything else that could be prised off and sell them back
to the car owners later. Toad’s latest obsession was making money and he was
pretty damn good at it as well. Badger was sadly on remand for downloading
child pornography, Ratty was being investigated for benefit fraud and Mole was
now a totally unsavoury character as he spent his entire life frequenting
public toilets. Agent Orange was still being secretive (and still shopped at Tesco’s)
and
THE END