Swisshh!
‘— we removed twenty-five Revolutionaries —’
Swisshh!
‘— and best of all —’
Swisshh!
‘— two liberals!’
‘Woo-woo-woo!’ sniffle the pack with all eyes on the crop.
‘OK —’
Swisshh!
‘— So we lost the best parts of our men along the way —’
Swisshh!
‘— Qué será será —’
Swisshh!
‘— What army doesn’t suffer a few casualties now and again? —’
Swisshh!
‘— I ask you.’ — twang! —
The Ruler of Law not drawing the desired degree of fear the Mountain is looking for and dumped for a meatier example. A decent practice swing and the pack of lost fighting sheep back to normal.
‘He stole my conker!’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘No I didn’t — ’ss mine.’
‘Liar! Lair! Bum’s on fire!’
‘Gentlemen!’
‘You big girl’s blouse!’
‘You shut your face!’
‘Make me.’
‘I am quickly losing my patience!’ With one crack of the riding crop the ear of a sniveller neatly clipped <—> ‘I do not expect bickering in the ranks —’
— Swisshh! —
‘— I expect military precision. What do I expect?’
The pack answer back.
‘That’s right. Military precision. Gentlemen!’ At a push he would hardly describe the pack of brave fighting dogs as straining in the traps — petulant pups cowering in the kennels closer akin to home base — ‘We’re about to embark on the Greatest Escape Britain has ever seen —’
Swisshh!
‘— and you lot are sulkin’ and squabblin’ like we’re off on a march to Havana.’
Swisshh!
‘Cheer up for God’s sake!’
The pack cheer up slightly.
‘Trust me. No more Knees ...’
‘Woo!’
‘... No more Governor ...’
‘Woo!’
‘... And no more of Chef’s food.’
‘Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!’
Oh but the natural love and affection felt by the leader of the pack to those under him is immense! Only when you have run your own pack, your own cadre, your own new model army, can you appreciate the bond of obedience that binds a psychopath to his people.
‘We’ll soon be eating champagne ...’
‘Woo!’
‘... Drinking caviar ...’
‘Woo!’
‘... None of your foreign muck.’
‘Woo-woo-woo!’
‘So come on you lot.’ Swinging in the party mood Tosa-the-Man-Mountain claps, stamps and whistles to the tune of Colonel Bogey ♫ ♫ and after a stuttering start a perfect disharmony prevails as the pack warbles with more Zeitgeist than the nuns in The Sound of Music ♫ ♪ ‘Hitler has only got one ball ♪ The other is in the Albert Hall ...’ ♫
‘Sway! That’s it! That’s it! ♪ Hitler (Stamp! Stamp!) has only got one ball ♫ ... Come on, boys, sing! Marvellous! Marvellous!’
The pack soon exhausted of puff, Tosa-the-Man-Mountain inhales dramatically and whoops to the wings — ‘Gentlemen!’
‘Woo!’
I give you Operation Armageddon!’
‘Woo-woo-woo!’
‘The beauty of my plan ...’
‘Woo!’
‘... lies in its simplicity ...’
‘Woo-woo!’
‘... Either Knees shows us the Promised Land ...’
‘Woo!’
‘... or else Knees is a dead man.’
‘Woo-woo!’
‘... You have my word ...’
‘Woo!’
‘... Either we escape ...’
‘Woo!’
‘... or kill Knees!’
‘Kill Knees! Kill Knees! Kill Knees!’ rave the pack.
***
Lowering cloud-cover looms like el Presidenté Bliar’s dad’s dead dog’s blanket.
Another dismal day drags much like another dismal politician. And then is soon forgotten.
The Skip Raiders’ Another Day invades the mind games of Blunkett, a dog-eared lone ranger doddering the linoleum plains with no name.
Blunkett sick to the black boots at the foreign lady doctor’s dropping of so many pub-backroom-English-swear-words. Cock-’n’-bull country words. Corny cowboy words. Which only shows that a foreign lady doctor in a man’s prison is not natural. And any man who can’t see it is a Whitney.
The fox has a hole, the birdie a bower, Jeffrey Archer a padded peter, el Presidenté Bliar a sunbed on the Fascist Riviera where he can mix with hard-licking buddies. The Gerbil boy a kingdom of sunken souls.
The once semi-Christian soul of Blunkett shrivelled to a conker with the daily vinegar of mouldering men, stale blood, two hundred radio boxes pumping poison, and an enforced diet of modern management.
The daily rat-a-tat dread before the dull nameplate.
Back when the world was sunny, the snot-nose kid fishing from Lower Springwood canal was the Gerbil. The snot-maggot chin borrowing marbles, now burrowing budget sheets, the same snot-buds of May. How the bad times rush back armed with clackers to bruise the good!
‘What the blazes are you dithering! You gave Knees the message?’
‘Yussar.’
‘Hang wodge he say?’
‘Ho well I tooks with me Mayhew, Renton, Howard, Mellor, hall the way — hall the way — to the top of the hill —’
‘You’ve been gone hours.’
‘— And Knees pops out and I calls across the rusty-con, “Very important visit from der Filth boys after lunch!”’
‘And did our fishy bite?’
‘“Ho no! Not Squawking again. Tell Squawking I must have my thinking sleep.”’
‘Yah well Knees — Knees can think what he likes. We work undercover. And I want blanket State Security.’
Blunkett follows faithful the ritual slurping of every slop.
‘Hang where's these supplies we ordered?’
‘Sar, not before Saturday. So the deliverymen can swizzle us double.’