Dragon's Den Homeless Edition

Voiceover:

The next person into the Dragon's Den is Ken Little, a tramp whose wandered in off the street.

Ken:

All right? What's all this then?

Deborah:

What's the product? 

Ken:

Eh?

James:

Hi Ken, I'm James. 

Ken:

All right?

James:

Can I tell you where I am on this? Your appearance and smell are making me nauseous. So, I'm out. 

Ken:

Are ya? Get us a pasty, will ya? Oh, and a bottle of cider?

Duncan:

Cider? Wass wrong with McEwans? Or Tennants? Ya paff. I'm oot. 

Theo:

OK, Ken. I'm going to need to know some figures.

Ken:

Eh? 

Theo:

What are your projections?

Ken:

Well...probably vomit. 

Theo:

So in the first year we're talking...what?

Ken:

Chronic alcoholism.

Theo:

And in the second? 

Ken:

Liver failure.

Voiceover:

Ken's confidence under fire and obvious disorientation have impressed the Dragon's, but will it be enough for Peter Jones to invest?

Peter:

Hi Ken.

Ken:

Wha? 

Peter:

Look Ken, what I need to know is...can I make a profit on this? How much will this pasty cost. Retail.

Ken:

£1.50. 

Peter:

Right. And the cider?

Ken:

£2.20. 

Peter:

OK, so that's £2.70. OK, here's what I'm going to do. I'll put in £1.35. That's half the money. But I want 25% of the pasty....and I do mean the meaty bits, no carrots. Oh, and a good long pull on the cider.

Ken:

Bastard. 

Voiceover:

Peter's offer has given Ken food for thought, but can Theo Pathitis lure the entrepreneur homeless with a more succulent offer?

Theo:

Right, Ken. Here's the deal. I'm willing to match Peter's offer, and if it's ok with him I'd like to go 12.5% of the pasty each. I don't want any of the lager and I'm happy to have carroty bits, but I'd like to trade that for a third of a scratch card and half a Double Decker. 

Ken:

That sounds all right.

Theo:

And also, you get a free ride on Deborah Meadon afterwards. 

Ken:

Fuck off! I may shit in my pants to keep warm, but I'm not that desperate!

(He storms out and is greeted by the BFG presenter) 

BFG:

Oh...rotten luck there Ken...

(Ken chins him).

Meanwhile Peanut Brittle, after chatting to punters standing outside the pub, paid them a cheery good night before climbing back into his car, gritting his teeth and patting his gun on the front seat. Lessons need to be learnt, serious lessons, and he was going to be teacher. No one would dare accuse Peanut Brittle of thinking in clichés.

Rick O'Shea was in the uncomfortable position of being alone with Marianne Ketch. It's wasn't that he disliked her as much as everyone seemed to, it was just that usually she was fairly cold and distant with him, and that's what he was used to. He had definitely been under the impression that she didn't like him, that she didn't like anyone, not even her husband. But as he tried to avoid her gaze, he realised that she was smiling at him and there was something strange about her eyes. In fact the last time he had seen that look was from a pair of crossed-eyes in the laundry room. Surely not. Perhaps she had been drinking. Perhaps she was in shock. Whatever it was, something had changed about her.

"Alone at last" Marianne said, clumsily laying her hand on Rick's trousers. "I've seen the top half all uncovered" she said thrusting a finger into his ribs. "I wonder what the bottom half looks like", suddenly and overeagerly leaning in to kiss him and head butting his withdrawing nose.

"I hope Marianne's all right" said a fretful Keith, looking around the group for a little reassurance.

"It's that boy I feel sorry" corrected his mother, who was glued to a repeat of Baywatch Nights. "If there's anyone in danger out of the two of them, I'd say it's him. Mark my words".

Peanut Brittle moved stealthily into the empty hostel living area eye trained on the barrel of his gun. Climbing the dark stairs, he saw a light from the far end of the corridor, and creeping along the corridor he could distinctly hear the tremulous bass of Barry white coming from within. He took a breath, steadied himself, and kicked the door open to find a naked beach bum on top of some old redhead.

"Victor Peach?" he demanded.

"No!" yelped Rick O'Shea seeing the huge gun, pulling the covers up to his neck for protection, whilst trying to nudge a snoozing Marianne Ketch awake.

"Yeah. Well, you're coming with me anyway" Peanut ordered, cocking his gun.

Victor's side of the invasion seemd to have gone better than he could have possibly expected. Victor arrived to find Max and his gun relegated to the toilet once more, leaving the rest of the base unguarded.

"Ha ha!" celebrated Victor Peach, springing into the front room with hiking poles waving threateningly. "Now we've got you!" he said, staring particularly at Deborah.

"Hello landlord. Good pub quiz by the way" Keith congratulated Victor, which unbalanced him a bit.

"You!" Deborah's eyes flashed. "You've got a bloody nerve showing your face, after what you tried to do to my business!"

Victor was incredulous. These were not the shocked and guilty reactions he had justly anticipated.

"My bloody pub was all but burnt down thanks to you!" he raged at Deborah, pointing a hiking stick squarely at her.

"That's nothing to do with me! I only wanted rid of that bloody banner of yours! It was you that tried to have my kitchen smashed up."

"I did no such thing" said a protesting Victor Peach. "A broken window and a few laxatives in the food is all I said."

"Oh" mouthed Deborah as she glanced at the chow mein and then at Max emerging from the toilet. "I think someone put laxatives in your food Max".

"I think I'm over the worst of it" he mumbled patting his stomach appeasingly, before spotting the new arrival. "Victor Peach, early closing today, sir?"

"Chip pan fire" muttered Victor Peach, suspecting that this highly organised group of desperadoes looked more like a bible study group.

"Nothing serious I hope" replied Max, popping the cigarette lighter into his belt, suddenly embarrassed at its presence.

Keith Ketch certainly didn't appear so relaxed as Max.  "Where's my wife?" he demanded angrily of Victor. "You were down there with the rest of them. What have you done with her?"

"I'm here" snorted Marianne, wrapped in a sheet, followed by a naked Rick O'Shea – only hiding his most pressing source of shame with a DVD box called 'Exposing Your Soul' by Padre Ravi Widangwidang. Ushering them in was Peanut Brittle, gun in hand and unlit cigar in mouth, delighted to be back in charge.

"Hello gang" he greeted them with paper thin bonhomie. "Delighted to meet you all at last." The nice thing about having a big gun, thought Peanut, is that no one interrupted you...

"Marianne!" said a startled Keith. "What the....what are you doing without clothes...?"

"In case it's not clear enough" Peanut began, "They was having some nooky, when I came to soon...so to speak..." he chuckled.

"You utter bastard!" yelled Keith staring at Rick O'Shea. Then, in an instant, he grabbed Max's gun from his belt, pointed it at Rick and pulled the trigger.

Marianne was preparing to scream when she noticed that rather than ejecting a sppedng bullet, the lighter clicked and gave out a fairly pathetic flame.

"Oh, thanks very much" said Peanut leaning forward and lighting up.

Suddenly Chris Cubb jumped through the open front window shouted "Hit the deck", raised his paintball gun and fired a paintball at Peanut Brittle's groin.

"Fack!" yelled Peanut, folding over.

"Is everyone OK?" asked Chris Cubb heroically, slinging Ricks' paintball gun above his head and standing with legs apart. 'You're a bloody man, Cubbster' he thought, in premature self-congratulation.

An even higher-pitched Peanut Brittle looked up with blood-shot eyes. "I will be, but not you mate" he hissed, raising his gun and taking a half-focused shot at Chris Cubb. The bullet exploded from the chamber, and was only stopped from entering his chest by Cubb's outstretched hand, taking off two fingers.

The room fell dead with shock. Peanut Brittle, determined to set an example, straightened up and was about to finish off Chris Cubb when something else came flying through the window. Something small, black and metal. Something that belched smoke. "Oh bollocks" said Peanut Brittle. Just before losing consciousness, he reminded himself to vet those around him more carefully and give his cousin a sharp slap, as he had had now justified suspicions from the word go that that pillock who got an arrow in him was a copper.

The Results:

Garfield Maxwell Force – Six years imprisonment for multiple kidnap. N.B. Judge Justice Burnshaw allowed a reduction in the sentence due to mitigating circumstances. Namely, that the gun was actually a lighter and that having 'Garfield' as a first name must have caused Max psychological damage. This did not stop Justice Burnshaw making a quip about "an hour recess for lasagne".

Christopher Colin Cubb – Four years imprisonment for kidnap. N.B. Judge Justice Burnshaw said that such a light sentence was due to suspected partial consent by Mrs Gladys Ketch, the defence citing 'comfy sofas' as prime evidence of this. A further reduction was suggested following a Police Bravery Award for action aiding the apprehension of Percival 'Peanut' Brittle. Judge Justice Burnshaw got a proper laugh when he said he "might use a rubber gavel if it would make Mr Cubb more at home".

Richard Jonah O'Shea - Two years suspended sentence for accessory to kidnap. Judge Justice Burnshaw also ordered that O'Shea undergo psychological analysis for 'smiling too much' in the face of jail sentence.

Keith Geoffrey Ketch – Although initial investigation unearthed a possible attempted murder of Richard O'Shea, a charge by the potential victim was not filed and Keith went free.

Marianne Isabelle Ketch – One month imprisonment and a fine of £2,000 after being found in contempt of court.

Victor Terence Peach – No charge. Currently undergoing investigation for insurance fraud after a fire damage claim.

Deborah Mae Kwon  - No charge.

Percival 'Peanut' Brittle – Found 'not guilty' of kidnap, attempted murder, ABH, carrying of automatic weapons by a jury of his peers. A fraud and tax evasion investigation has been suspended due to the disappearance of evidence after a Scotland Yard fire involving an unattended chip pan.

And that was the end of the Tangle Bay War. Shorter and bloodier than the Anglo-Icelandic Cod Wars, with far fewer fish, but the actions of one day changed the destinies of an entire village. Peanut moved back to London and sent Fudge off for a long holiday in Tangle Bay. Keith used his month of peace and quiet to make some renovations to the guesthouse, organise his finances and catch up on his reading. Marianne joined him months later and seemed newly enamoured with her husband. Partly because of her time in a all women's prison without conjugal visits, and partly because, as she boasted to anyone who would listen: "My husband's a dangerous man. Attempted murder. Military background you see. Cold blooded killer he was". Victor moved away to Spain, eager to escape further investigation, where he set up a country club for ex-pats with his brother Michael. Deborah continued with her restaurant and enjoyed the loyal custom of Mrs Sharon Peacock, enjoying a boost after a televised visit from Gordon Ramsay. Rick O'Shea went back to college and studied criminal psychology, assured by a stoned friend that his name alone would garner him rapid promotion in whatever criminal psychologists did. Chris Cubb and Max Force eventually moved back to Tangle Bay and went back to their former businesses.

Viv turned the windscreen wipers on. Heathrow Airport in the rain was a pretty miserable sight, but fortunately, unlike cabbies, limo drivers got bacon rolls and hot cups of coffee, so it wasn't all bad in the big leagues. Unfortunately, today he was due to pick up a bunch of spoilt American girls – something to do with the Ambassador. He had moved from Tangle Bay two years ago, briefly enjoying a monopoly there after the arrest or removal of all other cab firms – but with the arrival of 'Fudge Sunday Cabs' the legacy of overly hostile competition remained in Tangle Bay. At least he got to see his son again, albeit once a week in the cramped front room of a terraced house under the furious gaze of judgemental ex-in-laws. Viv didn't really get a chance to get to know anyone in Tangle Bay, and so he hadn't kept up with news there. In fact, as far as he knew he hadn't seen anyone from there – except in the papers.

The backdoor opened and there was a bustle of bags and voices "So I was like, oh my God, Tiffany. Like, what are you thinking..."

Viv was tempted to put the driver's partition up and drown out the loud, teen American girl voices boring into the back of his head.

"I thought the limo driver was supposed to like open the doors and whatever..." one of them complained loudly enough so he could hear.

"Oh sorry" Viv turned to apologise, still stuck with cab habits. He had been warned about something called 'Gold service expectations'. He realised that the three designer labelled prom queens were given him stares designed to bring down light aircraft. This wasn't going well.

"You'll never guess who I had in here the over day?" he said trying to win them over with his recent new trump card.

"Like, whatever...I don't know" said one of them, looking positively insulted.

"That rapper guy. The one in the charts. AK Peacock" returned Viv, with a wink.

"You're shitting me!"

"Nope". That had done the trick.

"Oh my God!" chanted the girls in unison, and suddenly he was their closest friend and confidante as they screamed and chattered with delight.

"Well what the hell is he doing with an arrow in him?...Well I suppose you better get him to casualty if that's what you reckon....tell them no police...tell them you did it, DIY accident or summink...well I don't fucking know. Make something up." Percival 'Peanut' Brittle slammed down the phone. "Fucking bastard fucking hypochondriacs" he exploded, in a high pitched cockney accent. He couldn't understand it. Bows and arrows? What fucking century was this? They had shooters. Back in the smoke you wouldn't stand for it. If someone was to bung an arrow in your mate, you would naturally shoot first, then ask first aid questions later. They should know that. The fresh air was rotting their brains, that was it. No bollocks. That was the problem. He'd have to get on the phone to his cousin back in London. 'These boys you sent me are no good Fudge' he'd say. 'What are you playing at? What sort of jokers you letting in my organisation?' Powerless. He felt powerless. Peanut Brittle hadn't felt powerless since he was 12. He was sent up to secondary school and all the lads kicked the shit out of him cos his name was Percival. So he changed it to 'Peanut' and no one dared. What's in a name? Fucking everything. That Shakespeare was talking out of his arse. Peanut Brittle – the most notorious gang boss in London. He knew he was, he was the top of Scotland Yard's list. He knew that because he bought two cops just to keep tabs on how wanted he was. It was a matter of pride. Then one day he was tipped off that they had evidence, tax evasion or something. A lot of it. They were thinking about a bust. He should go somewhere. Keep his head down. Take a holiday. Not Spain or anywhere too obvious. Somewhere totally off the radar. So here he was. Middle of nowhere, running a taxi firm as a front, and his cousin Fudge Sunday, useless fuckwit that he was, looking after business til everything had settled down. Lending money to penniless twats and sending him shit for brains boys. Nice fucking work, Fudge. Nice caretaking. Stupid bastard. Six fucking months of rain and sticks of rock and boredom. Sometimes Peanut felt like knocking off one of the shops in town. He didn't need the money of course. He'd do it to stay sharp, to feel involvement, for a laugh, whatever. He knew he couldn't of course. The last thing that he needed was police attention. That was the beauty of this shit hole - two coppers who had probably fought in the Boer War and had fossilised shit for brains. The last thing they had caught was arthritis. No crime, not here. Everything tickety boo. Like an undertaker's college reunion....and then suddenly....WHALLOP! Over the taxi radio it came....Kidnaps, bows and arrows, all hell. Not good. None of it. Might attract attention, then the next thing he'd know the flying squad would be knocking on his barn conversion door. He'd sent his boys to go and sort things out while he went to talk to the old bill. Of course he couldn't just pay them off. They were yokels, they wouldn't understand the system. They'd probably arrest him! No, he did it the old fashioned way. Took over a ton of booze and spun them some yarn about Her Maj's authorities not getting the respect it deserved and a fine service to the community and he used to be a pig himself, ten years in the Met and would still be in service if not for the old war wounds, don't you know. The mugs swallowed it of course, that and a shitload of whiskey. "Well, we are on duty Mr. Smith, but I'm sure a wee dram more wouldn't hurt". By the time he left they were out of it, the phone lines were cut and that was that sorted.

He tapped impatiently on the window and walked over to his window, overlooking the bay. "What are you stupid bastards up to?" he demanded of the many village lights. Suddenly, from the village centre, there was a muffled explosion and plumes of fire leaped towards the sky, like someone had lit a match next to the window. "FUCKING HELL!" Peanut Brittle jumped. "What the bollocks was that?" he shouted at the window. "Right that's it. You stupid fucking fuckers" he ranted as he fumbled to unlock a cabinet containing an unnecessarily large gun.

"Well I hope you didn't hit anyone Dietrich" said Keith, peering out of the window into the dark. "Because although ornamental, it was still a weapon, and the improper use of weaponry is not only a hazard to you, but also to those around you" he lectured, remembering his training manual. "Absolutely right Keith" nodded Max supportably, still absent-mindedly pointing his fake gun at the seated hostage. Max looked around the room. Marianne was sprawled on the couch painting her nails, the German boy was staring out of the open window with hands linked together behind his back and a slight smile of achievement on his face, and Keith (having delivered his lecture) smiled nervously at Max and went about dunking his paintbrush in a jar of white spirit. Max's eyes fell on a Chinese takeaway menu and his stomach gurgled at the thought of chicken chow mein. "Is anyone peckish?" he asked amiably.

Rick O'Shea had to ask himself how it had come to this. He finally had a woman at his house, but the problem was she was about 50 years too old. She was also Keith Ketch's mother. She had entered like a flustered chicken screaming blue murder and calling Rick a 'Jamaican pimp' and Chris Cubb a 'body snatcher' but once he had put the kettle on and found a repeat of Heartbeat on cable, she soon settled down. "Well, I must say. I didn't take kindly to the welcoming party" she muttered bitterly, pointing a gnarled finger of accusation at a battered and bruised Chris Cubb, "but we must thank the Lord for small mercies... at least that tart who lives with my son isn't here and your sofas are very comfortable..." and then as an afterthought, "Kidnapees don't have to pay board do they?" Rick placed a packet of Hobknobs on the sofa next to her. "Oh no, Mrs Ketch. It's all inclusive" he simpered. "Oh lovely" she muttered, but had already sunken into a glassy eyed televisual trance.

Rick ushered Chris Cubb into the kitchen. "Dude. What the hell have you brought her in here for?" he whispered.

"I said I would, didn't I?" returned Chris, wiping his glasses and generally looking a bit shell shocked.

"I thought you were going to drum up some business. Not grab a granny".

Chris chuckled involuntarily. "Grab a granny. That was good, that".

Rick O'Shea turned away in annoyance and tried to remember something about positive energy and channelling chakra, but all he wanted to do was confiscate Chris' glasses and smash them underfoot. "This isn't a joke, man. Don't you understand? You kidnapped someone...we're kidnappers. We could go to jail."

Chris Cubb suddenly looked hugely under credited and rather annoyed. "Unless, you've been living in a hole, mate, this town has gone cuckoo. We're not the first people today to kidnap some business. Max got himself a busload this morning and now even Keith and Marianne are at it...and right from under your nose too" he spat, prodding Rick's chest with a fore-finger. "The police are nowhere, the pub's on fire, it's war out there my friend. At least I bought us some collateral."

"C-collateral?" stammered Rick, bewildered at the fact that Chris Cubb seemed to have more of a handle on things than him. Things really had got that insane.

"Exactly. Collateral. Some leverage. They've got your boy. You've got their mum. It's a straight swap."

"But they've got guns, Chris!" exclaimed Rick. "And a bow and arrow!" thinking of the scene he had witnessed earlier. The storming of the castle that never happened. He still thought that the German lad may have been trying to send him a message, but that the invader had intercepted it – through his shoulder.

"And a what?" asked Chris, thinking he had misheard.

The fire had already cleared the handful of punters from Victor's pub and he was struggling to tackle it with a leaking garden hose. From the explosion he guessed that the saboteur (namely the mad triad Deborah Kwon) must have started it in his cellar. Of course, the truth is that it was Dean who had started it, but not strictly on purpose. Dean, rather than taking the banner down before burning it, was worried that someone in the pub might notice and so drenched the sign in petrol from a window ledge, not noticing that the petrol he was so liberally splashing about was dripping off the sign onto the pavement and draining straight down through the gaps in the hatch into the cellar. One he lit the sign on fire, he removed himself quickly from the vicinity, not staying around to witness the flames follow the path of the petrol and ignite a large crate of vodka, with explosive effects. The reasons he scarpered so quickly were twofold. Clearly, he had learnt his lesson from earlier, but more importantly he had to catch the last bus home – stopping off to buy his mum a 200 pack of Superkings - barely making a dent in his days takings. Part of him was to wonder on the bus ride home whether there was any more money to be made if he had stuck around, but one thing he had learnt from his gambling father was 'always quit when you're ahead' which is why dear old daddy had fled the nest the day after young Dean was born.

As Deborah Kwon approached the Tangle Bay guesthouse, she wondered what was going on. Chris Cubb's taxi was parked outside of the hostel, Max Force's battered mini-bus was lodged into a wall and as she knocked on the front door it opened to reveal some kind of hostage situation with Max actually carrying a gun. "Oh hi, Debbie" Max chirped brightly, clearly revived by the smell of hot food. She hated calling him Debbie, but he did have a gun. "Hello Max. I've got your takeaway" she said cautiously, furtively glancing at the terrified hostage, at Keith staring distractedly at the skirting board, at Marianne working her way through a bottle of ancient liqueur, until her eyes rested on a fat boy doing press ups next to what looked like a bow. She had left Tony in charge of things because, as usual for this time of year, the place was dead and also she was a little bit worried about what that maniac Victor Peach might cook up next. She liked Tony, but he had come through a temping agency and he looked like he could handle himself. She had also left the restaurant to get away from the insane events of the evening, only to have left the frying pan and to have clambered willingly into the fire. Max tucked the gun into his belt and dived at the bag. "Anybody want any? Plenty for all" chattered Max cheerily, seemingly forgetting the tense hostage situation he had created. "Would you like anything?" he asked the terrified hostage. The hostage (who had been staring at his shoes) looked up in fright, as if Max was toying with him. "I've got some chicken chow mein here" cajoled Max.

"Oh...well....does it....do they....i-is there nuts in it?" stammered the hostage.

"Oh. I don't know. Got me there squire. Debbie?" asked Max.

"Yes. Some peanuts" Debbie replied carefully.

"Oh lovely!" mewed Max, shoving his face in the bag and taking a long sniff.

"Oh" said the hostage, "I can't have nuts. I-I'm allergic."

"Oh" said Max, disappointedly. "Is it just nuts you're allergic too? Because I think you'll find that a peanut is technically a type of legume. I think it was in the quiz. Does anyone remember?"

Strangely enough, no one felt like trivia. Half way through his huge plate of chow mein, Max suddenly had the very urgent need to visit the toilet, during which time his hostage made his apologies to everybody else and bolted.

Deborah sighed with relief and sat down. "So what was that all about?"

"I think Max was being a bit pushy promoting his business" replied Keith diplomatically.

"What are you talking about? The man's a psychopath. There's clearly something very wrong with him" railed Marianne, emboldened by something sickly, red and smelling of apricots.

Max appeared in the doorway looking flushed and glassy eyed. "I think there's something very wrong with me" he groaned over the gurgles of his stomach.

"Well don't blame it on the chow mein, it was all fresh" protested Deborah.

"Where's my tour party gone?" said Max, scanning the room.

"Oh...he had to leave" replied Deborah.

Max looked panicked. "Oh shit!" he blurted, before running back to the toilet.

Peacock had vanished, Deborah Kwon had run to the hills, only Tony was at the restaurant. As much as the furious Victor Peach wanted nothing more to incinerate Prog Wok, he knew that Tony wouldn't stand for it. Also, the Fishers were dining there and he planned to have them round for drinks on Friday. He had managed to extinguish the fire with the help of a few regulars before the fire department arrived and gave him a needless lecture on the dangers of unattended chip pans. He left them to examine the charred front of the pub and went off for revenge. He was told that Deborah had headed for the hostel or the guesthouse, Tony couldn't remember which. Knowing that Deborah had a long running feud with Marianne (as practically everyone did), Victor headed for the guesthouse – only to find Keith Ketch's mother installed in front of 'Road Traffic Accident: Armageddon', Rick O'Shea looking less smiley than usual and Chris Cubb in serious sounding negotiations with Max Force.

"He sounds pretty desperate" Cubb reported, unaware that Max was taking the calling from the toilet. "I said we want the kid back in exchange for grandma".

"I'm not a grandma" interrupted Mrs Ketch, "Mores the pity. Although I'm not sure I would want anything come from Marianne as kin of mine".

"Listen Mrs Ketch" Rick intermediated. "We're going to need you to go back to the guesthouse..."

"I heard what that ruffian said" retorted a rattled Mrs Ketch, "But I will not go to THAT house with THAT woman, and that's the end of it...I have captor's rights you know. Stockholm syndrome whatsname rights" she said with grave authority.

Chris gave Rick a bewildered shrug. "Err...it's no go" he reported back to Max. The old lady isn't budging. She doesn't want to go to a house with Marianne in it...yeah, yeah I know...it's like that farmer and a boat...you know, take two animals. The fox, the pig and the gr...".

Max laughed at the analogy, and instantly had the phone snatched from his hand by a bold but unsteady Marianne. "Tell dearest mother that I'll come down and take over from her and the she and her useless son can bore each other to death up here..." she slurred, "other people have been quite comfortable to invade our home at all hours" casting an evil eye over Max, Deborah and the German boy, "...so it's about time I go and invade someone else's place".

Despite Keith's strong protest, the trade was agreed. A very uncomfortable Max Force escorted a singing  Marianne down to the trading point where they met Rick O'Shea armed with a paintball gun and arm in arm with Mrs Ketch – who refused to acknowledge her daughter-in-law and gave Max a look of instant distrust. "You seem very fidgety...do you need to go to the toilet?" to which Max Force replied "Very badly".

Viv watched with incredulity as the Tour de Force van swung into the station and screeched its brakes in front of two emerging American girls wearing backpacks. The fat anoraked figure of Max Force hopped out of the van and waved a gun at the two cowering students who were bundled into the back of the mini-van. Viv's shock turned to terror as Max's attention suddenly rested upon him. He had been spotted witnessing a kidnapping, and the mad fucker had a gun. With fumbling hands, Viv started his cab and with a ducked head, he put his car into a breakneck U-turn.

"Hi Viv!" shouted Max waving his novelty cigarette lighter in greeting, but Viv was already out of firing range, over the hill and speeding back into town.

"I want a word with you" demanded Deborah Kwon as she marched towards Victor Peach, who was up a ladder hanging a sign saying "Now serving international cuisine" over the door of the Three Headed Dog.

"What is it?" muttered Victor Peach, whose mind was fixed on a late delivery of boil-in-the-bag coq au vin.

"You know what it is!" bellowed Deborah Kwon, brandishing one of Victor's fliers boasting, among other things, 'oriental cuisine'.

"I have nothing to defend myself against. I am totally within my rights" Victor returned in a high-falluting tone, not daring to look down and catch Deborah Kwon's fearsome eyes, and secretly wondering whether he could reach the bathroom window from his current position on the ladder. Victor Peach knew that his scheme to convert the pub into a country club had hit its first real obstacle. He had already tried to improve his clientele by putting his drinks up by 5p and barring the Peacock boy. Further modification included a plan to convert the pool room into a squash court and the installation at the front of the pub of a fetching stone cherub armed with a bow and arrow, which Victor thought looked just the thing.

"What the hell are you playing at Victor? I've worked fucking hard to get the restaurant up and running and now you're trying to shut me down with microwaved spare ribs and multipack prawn crackers". By this time, Deborah Kwon had her hands on the ladder and Victor Peach knew that the wrong word may mean broken bones.

"I'm not trying to close you down" said Victor Peach quietly, eyes fixed on the wall. "I'm just trying to run a business". Deborah Kwon gripped the ladder and stared up at the prospect of the underside of Victor's tread bare loafers and huge brown corduroy packaged buttocks. She tapped the side of the ladder with both index fingers and wondered what would happen if the ladder was to fall over.

"Are you going to come down and talk about this?" she snapped. A subdued "No, I don't think so" came from somewhere beyond the buttocks. There was a moment's silence as Deborah decided what to do which was broken by a strangled whisper. "Now, you're not thinking of pushing this ladder over are you? B-because there are witnesses" Victor urged staring pleadingly at a cat sunning itself on an adjacent window.

"No", Deborah replied coolly. "There's more than one way to bring you down a rung or two". With that she gave a worryingly carefree laugh and left.

Viv had reported over the cab radio that Max Force had gone mad and was at large. Chris Cubb then passed this information onto Rick O'Shea who was busy soaking up the small strip of sun emerging from the rainclouds, keeping one eye on the German kid who was standing on the decking humming to himself and going through some kind of Tai-bo routine, and every so often glimpsing the flashing binoculars of Marianne Ketch at the guesthouse. Before Chris Cubb's taxi had turned up, he had been considering his gambling debts and wondering whether his father, a parish priest, had the kind of cash to bail him out. Perhaps if Rick agreed to display the Christian literature in his "InfoZone" rack, Reverend O'Shea would stump up the loot. Of course, the only problem with spreading the good news is it tended to put off potential new pussy. Rick had always been against established religion ever since an elderly woman farted next to him at the communion rail aged 10. Of course, he was a deeply spiritual person, but preferred the teachings of Padre Ravi Widangwidang – who preached that inner peace came through love of oneself combined with the regular purchase of healing crystals and instructional DVDs. Chris Cubb's puttering engine and shrill voice had interrupted Rick's meditation, but he had managed not to pay much attention until Chris had mentioned female American backpackers. "Has anyone called the police?" asked Rick urgently, eager to retrieve his natural property. Chris Cubb wasn't sure about this, but he wasn't to know that the police were being kept well out of it.

Although the sun had only made a brief appearance that day, it soon disappeared behind a fresh batch of storm clouds as the day gave way to evening and a cold wind picked up. Dean Peacock was standing outside the Three Headed Dog admiring his handy-work. Having received the indignity of being barred that day, he had taken the opportunity of Victor Peach's absence (he had closed up for the day and had gone to a delivery depot searching for a missing order of coq au vin) to take the bow and arrow from the cherub and replace it with an inflated condom. It was a quality piece of work, even by Dean's high standards of vandalism, and made Victor Peach the proud owner of one masturbating stone child. By coincidence, he had dumped the bow and arrow in a skip outside "Prog Wok", the restaurant belonging to Deborah Kwon. The one attribute if the master criminal that Peacock had yet to learn was the leaving the scene of the crime pretty soon after said crime had been committed one. So pleased was Dean of his creation that it didn't occur to him to remove himself even after an angry Vincent Peach had parked his aging Landrover, had spotted crime and criminal and was closing in on Peacock's location with great purpose.

At about the same time, an individual had decided to put a stop to Max Force's gunpoint tour. Whilst Max Force was deciding how to reconfigure the tour for the new captives in a way that wouldn't be too repetitive for the old captives, his minibus was broadsided by one of two Tangle Bay Taxi Company's high-powered black BMWs. The other BMW blocked the minibus' progress and Max received a pistol whip round the head as his passengers were unloaded and reloaded into the BMWs by two leather jacketed, aviator wearing hardmen. Max lay still a while trying not to sniff blood and pretending he had been knocked unconscious. He heard the men instruct his clients to "get out" then more faintly to "get in" as he was left with the man who had soiled himself. "We'll come back for this one, Frank, once I've dug out the tarp" said one of the taxi drivers, apparently unwilling to pollute his upholstery. Once the cars had left, Max grabbed his novelty lighter and escorted his final paying punter over the wall of Keith and Marianne's guesthouse, just as the overcast sky darkened and a cold rain began to fall.

"I didn't do nothing. Reckon a ninja did it or something" was the best that Dean Peacock could come up with as he was pinned against the wall by one of Victor Peach's meaty paws. "You little thug" rasped Victor Peach, "and to think I fought in a war for the likes of you". The fact that the war with Iceland involving fishing rights wasn't really a war and was settled by the European courts did little to stifle Victor's strong sense of outrage. "Where's my bow and arrow, you little bastard? You bring it back or I'll knock your ruddy block off" Victor spat, before noticing the three twenty pound notes in Dean's pocket, that he had cashed in earlier that day. "I don't know where it is" Peacock squirmed desperately, "probably in a skip somewhere". Despite Victor's overwhelming urge to boil Dean Peacock in a bag, two immediate thoughts couldn't help entering his mind. First, the only skip in town was outside Deborah Kwon's restaurant. Second, Dean Peacock NEVER had money on him, hence his attempt earlier in the year to pass off black and white photocopied five pound notes as the real thing. While not a racialist, Victor had always believe that Oriental types had a great taste for vengeance. Not that he had done anything wrong, but Kwon had definitely threatened him. "She paid you to do it, eh." stated Victor releasing his grip on Peacock a little. Dean Peacock had no idea who "she" was or what the old man was on about, but breathing felt better than not breathing. "What if she did?" ventured Dean cautiously, just to test the waters. It seemed to work. "Gave you 60 quid did she?" asked Victor eyeing Dean's pocket, with something like a slight smile on his face. "What if she did?" asked Dean, still totally baffled, hoping that the answer would prove as successful a second time round. It did. "Then I'll do better. One hundred. You can deliver a little message for me".

"All right" said Dean, hoping that 'one hundred' meant pounds, but not understanding quite how events had led up to him getting it.

"You'll never guess who's coming up the driveway" Marianne Ketch wittered excitedly from behind her binoculars. Keith looked up and winced. The storm clouds were gathering, it was getting dark and it was soon time to collect his mother from the station. While he had spent the entire day painting and repainting the skirting board according to his wife's whims, his 'better half' had been pressed to the glass, as usual, paying special attention to the youth hostel owner whilst his shirt was off. "I don't know" Keith replied presciently, "a mad man waving a gun". The disturbing combination of Keith and sarcasm worried and annoyed Marianne so much that she was forced to momentarily abandon her binoculars. It worried her because after 18 years of marriage, Marianne had rarely known Keith to step out of line. There was the toaster incident of 1993 and the affair he had found out about (although even she had to admit that he was entitled to let off a bit of steam over that one), but by this time she thought any hint of bolshiness had died along with the follicles on top of his head. It annoyed her because what she had to report was so interesting. The curly haired bespectacled guest she had spotted at the Youth Hostel was now advancing up their path wielding a bow and arrow. Typical of Keith not to be interested in anything worthwhile, she thought. She looked at him down on all fours painting over his hideous crème with her inspired eggshell blue. She stared at her slight reflection in his gleaming bald spot and surveyed his paint-splattered green sweatshirt and worn out chinos pulled up too high. She hated him.

"Hi Marianne. Hi Keith. Sorry not to knock but I'm in a pickle" said Max apologetically, appearing with his hostage at gunpoint. "You don't mind if I hand about here for a bit do you?" he asked, wrinkling up his nose and smiling sheepishly. Marianne said "Oh God" and Keith managed "Hi Max" but kept his paintbrush close.

Rick O'Shea returned to his hostel empty handed, unable to find his backpackers. Chris Cubb had been good enough to ferry him about the place, but had charged him nonetheless – explaining that he needed each and every customer to 'keep the wolves at bay'. In return, he promised that he would bring all new arrivals in the village to the Youth Hostel. However, when Rick returned to the hostel he was a little to find his German boy disappeared. He finally found a note in reception saying "DEAR PROPRIETER.  GONE TO THE GUESTHOUSE BECAUSE OF A WEAPON. DIETRICH, 202". Retrieving his Dad's bird watching glasses sure enough he could make out the fat nerd stood by the parlour window with an armed Max Force talking to Marianne Ketch. So they had all finally lost it. The village had finally gone mad. Max Force and the Ketch's were working together. Kidnapping the tourists and providing tours and holding cells in some kind of Baghdad visitor's package deal. Rick could have sworn he had seen Deb Kwon give that local kid a petrol can and some cash, but at the time he'd assumed he's imagined it – so distracted as he was by his libido. But now he had seen desperate acts in such quick succession. He could believe anything. He was about to pick up his paintball gun and head over when he spotted two armed men climb out of a BMW next to Max Force's battered minibus.

"This whole place has gone mad cous, I'm telling you. Like, gangster shit or something" Viv whispered down his phone. He had just witnessed Chris Cubb practically force an old woman into the back of his cab while she kept protesting "I'm waiting for my son". Once Chris Cubb had given up on diplomacy and tried strong-arm tactics, the old woman retaliated with a rolled up brolly. Despite everything, Viv forced himself to suppress a giggle as it looked like Timmy Mallet was finally facing his own Wackaday.

What Rick O'Shea had witnessed the final escalation in the skirmish between Prog Wok and the Three Headed Dog. After Victor Peach had paid Dean Peacock £100 to deliver a message (tied to a brick) to Deborah Kwon, Dean had got the wrong end of the stick and rather than throwing it through her window, he had knocked on the service entrance and hand delivered it to her. At that point, Deborah's only crime had been to ring her lawyer brother in Whitechapel to see if there was anything she could do about Victor's culinary assault, but now she knew that Victor had gone to Defcon 1, she was determined to follow suit. She sent Dean back to the Three Headed Dog with £150 and some paint instructing him to paint "Peach is an unscrupulous bastard". Peacock had no idea how to spell 'unscrupulous', 'bastard', 'Peach', 'an' or 'is' so instead settled for painting a penis on Victor's landrover. For this he received a slap round the head from Victor, £200 and some extremely strong laxatives to put in the food coming out of Prog Wok's kitchens. Dean made it back as far as the kitchens and managed to secrete the whole lot into a batch of chicken chow mein.

"What are you up to back here?" asked Deborah, emerging from cold storage. "What did that bastard send you to do?" Dean Peacock wasn't a very effective liar, but somehow he had managed to acquire nearly £500 in vandalism money and he liked it, a lot. From somewhere, Dean Catona Peacock grew a brain. Like the kid from nowhere who is enlisted and suddenly becomes a war hero, Dean found himself in an arena full of possibilities, a time to prove himself to himself. "That Peach bastard only paid me to come back and do something back to you. You know, cos I painted all that writing. You know that he was an unstuperless dickhead..."

"An unscrupulous bastard" corrected Deborah sceptically.

"Yeah, well, when I did it I had it writed down, didn't I..."

"What did he want you to?" asked Deborah impatiently.

"Only...err...." Dean scanned through the possibilities: bazooka you up, cap your arse, slap your mum, smash up your kitchen..."Only, smash up your kitchen..."

Deborah Kwon wasn't sure if she believed him. How was a squirt like him expected to complete such a task, particularly when the maitre d' (Ken) was 6''2' and had a black belt in tae kwondo. She was also puzzled as to why he hadn't attempted it but supposed that even this simpleton knew his limitations.

"So why aren't you smashing up my kitchen? Isn't that what he wanted you to do?"

"Well yeah...but, listen Debs. I'm on your side innit? I hate that old fucker. He barred me, didn't  he. He always is having a go at me. I don't want to smash up your kitchen. I like you..."

He could see from Deborah's reaction that she wasn't buying this last statement.

"Well, all right" he said, trying to save his defence, "Maybe I don't like you anymore than the other fuckers here...but my mum likes that chow mein thing you do, and she would thump me if she knew I'd smashed up the best chinkies in Tangle Bay".

Although Deborah baulked at the word "chinky" she could tell from Dean's glazed, doe eyed expression that the insult was not meant. She also knew, from the takeaway run she occasionally had to do when Ken was off, that a disproportionate amount of chow mein went over to skid row (as she thought of it) and that Peach's contemptuous treatment of this boy was legendary, even of he probably deserved it.

"I don't believe you" said Deborah gently, "But it doesn't matter. He's gone too far, and I want you to show him that. He may be a lunatic, but I'm not. So listen, I want you to set fire to that sign of his. The one above the entrance, and then that'll be the end of it".

Max Force lit his tenth cigarette of the morning with a gun that was actually a novelty lighter. He was careful to conceal this, however, as he didn't want the six terrified tourists in the back of the minibus to realise that they were being held hostage with something Max had bought at the Tangle Bay Bring and Buy Sale. Max picked up a small microphone and announced through the whistling speakers that they were going to visit a natural rock formation that looked a bit like a pig's head and so was called 'The Pig's Head'. When Max was 16, he had drunk a 2 litre bottle of cider up against The Pig's Head and had vomited on his new jeans after being rejected by his one true love Sally Hollicks. These days, it was one of the handful of stops on 'Tour de Force's Tangle Bay Odyssey'. Usually tourists generally agreed to go there of their own freewill, but this year things were different. "Ok folks, wagons roll" he muttered into the microphone as he had done a thousand times before. At the back of the bus the man in seat 6B quietly urinated into his own underpants.

The German boy in the heavy duty waterproof anorak stared out of the window as the rainstorm lashed the hostel. Although Bob Marley was telling people to "Get up, stand up", the boy seemed happy just to sit upright on the couch of the 'Chillout Zone' of HostelXtreme@TangleBay. Owner Rick O'Shea tried to maintain his trademark carefree grin as he stood at front desk bobbing up and down to the music, but even he couldn't hold back the feeling of contempt for this acne-ridden bespectacled nerd.

"Which time is beginning ze Honolulu Bach Barbecue Luau?" asked the German boy, clutching a brightly coloured leaflet.

"Oh, sorry dude" Rick grimaced, "It's like off-season at the moment and the weather isn't exactly like...you know, the numbers..." he said, looking left and right to point out that the hostel was empty.

"Oh..." hummed the sole guest of HostelXtreme@TangleBay. "From hostelonline.com, I am leading to believe that here ze party is non-stop, and yet I am not seeing so far ze party at zis chunchure". Rick felt himself reddening with annoyance and could tell that his smile was visibly faltering. "Bad timing man, bad timing. You should have checked in like 2 months ago. It was sweet as dude. Sweet as..."

The truth, as Rick knew only too well, is that it hadn't been sweet as. It had been late July, the height of the high season, and yet the bay had been pretty much dead. As a fine, perma-tanned, deadlocked specimen of 34 years, Rick should have been taking in a cool grand a day in rooms and booze, plus some serious chick action. For some reason this year he was barely able to cover his outgoings thanks to an abominably slow season and the only notch on the bedpost had come from a cross-eyed Lithuanian  student who had given him a hand job in the laundry room. This was not why Rick had got into the hospitality industry and it was not why he had flunked out of Marine Biology at Plymouth. The party had started when Rick had packed up his dorm room and gone travelling, and it hadn't stopped. At least til now.

Marianne Ketch could glimpse the lone sitting figure of the German boy as she peered through a pair of high-powered binoculars out of the net-curtained windows of the Tangle Bay Guesthouse. "Looks like His Nibs isn't fairing much better" she shouted at an unnecessarily loud volume to her husband, who was giving the skirting board a lick of paint five feet below her mouth. Her husband was startled, but had since learned to expect such unannounced outbursts. "Well Marianne, it's been very quiet all round" he suggested in as placating a tone as he could muster.

"I realise that Keith" she growled. "It's all right for him in his party shack, but we have rooms to fill. There's not a soul here". Keith was going to point out that his mother was due to arrive that evening and she might make a small contribution towards upkeep, but 18 years of marriage had taught him that things that sounded helpful to him merely infuriated her. Fortunately a stint in the army had given Keith a valuable lesson in life: there is almost nothing worth saying out loud.

"I've not even had the chance to put up NO VACANCIES this year and you know how it's one of the many jobs around here that I actually enjoy doing..." She looked intently at her husband who nodded enthusiastically in agreement, even though he couldn't remember the last time his wife had lifted a finger in the guesthouse – instead preferring to watch daytime TV, spy on the neighbours or run off into the village on some 'errand'. For a moment Marianne stared through Keith as if hypnotised before turning her attention back to the hostel. "Still, this should take the wind out of that little pillock's sails" she murmured, secretly wondering what it would be like to grip O'Shea's muscular arms as he ravished her. "You're not seriously painting the skirting board that colour are you?" she asked her husband without averting her gaze.

"It's dead mate. Dead as a dodo."

"As a what?" Sammi asked down the phone from Hounslow.

"As a dodo cous. It's a dead bird".

Viv had picked up this expression from his first pub quiz at the Three Headed Dog. It had been his first taste of Tangle Bay social life and his first opportunity to meet the locals. Most people seemed all right. Victor Peach, the landlord, had given him a pint of something warm and flat on the house. Rick O'Shea seemed to smile and wink at him constantly, leading Viv to suspect that he was either gay or had a facial tick. There was a balding middle-aged guy called Max Force, who wore tracksuits and smelt of cigarettes and sweat – and a few others whose names Viv had remembered and forgotten as the rounds of drinks were bought and emptied and the baffling questions came rasping over the PA system from the throaty voice of Victor Peach – who for some reason included an entire round on the subject of the Third Cod War 1975-6. Viv hadn't spotted many nice girls. Everyone seemed to be middle-aged or married, and one of the worst offenders of both categories, a red haired fright who ran the guesthouse, occasionally winked at him, and at one point had brushed his inner thigh with her nails. What with that and Rick O'Shea's constant grinning at him, Viv had worried that he had wandered into a den of swingers. Well, there had been one cute girl – a tall Chinese girl in probably in her 30s – but she had marched in at the end of the night, gulped down a triple vodka at the bar, and marched back out. By that time, Viv's muscles had turned to jelly and he had been pinned down by a fellow cab driver called Chris Cubb, who seemed to be complaining about a rival taxi firm and peanuts. Viv had been too drunk to take in the details, and so merely nodded, slurred agreement and wondered whether anyone else had noticed Chris Cubb's uncanny resemblance to early 90s TV personality Timmy Mallet. This morning, Viv's cranium throbbed. It felt like Chris Cubb had been belting him over the head with a rubber hammer every time he'd got a Cod War-related question wrong. The rain lashed on the windscreen and Viv focused his aching eyes on the train station. This was not the escape he had planned. Not the escape from the terraced house, grey streets, smog and traffic and ex-in-laws. Viv stared at the picture of his son taped to the dashboard, staring at the big brown eyes staring back at him while the DJ at Tangle Power Play 102.2 power played 'Lady in Red'. Viv started to get the impression he'd made a huge mistake.

The slow summer season in Tangle Bay seemed to have concerned everyone in Tangle Bay except young Dean Peacock. This was for two reasons. Firstly Dean Cantona Peacock was in no way linked to the economy and secondly he wasn't technically a Tangle Bay resident - living, as he did, two miles away on a rundown council estate euphemistically called 'The Meadows', in a pebble-dashed council house with his Mum. He sat huddled in the bus shelter, awaiting the bus and sucking on a Lambert and Butler. Having recently turned 18, Peacock had become a breadwinner and was en route to collect his dole money, having been reminded to ask the dole people whether disability benefit covered hangovers. Dean had followed in the proud Peacock family tradition by being expelled from school without qualifications, on the sound reasoning that exams were for "boffs" and further education was fundamentally "gay". Peacock only had a few stops to make in Tangle Bay – as he did most days. On a bad day, he'd hang around the green until hungry, before buying chips washed down with a litre of White Bastard cider, taking him nicely through to 3.15pm, when the school bell rang and kids were there for the victimising. Usually he managed to exempt enough for the bus fare home, and sometimes he could stretch as far as a packet of cigarettes for his mother. Otherwise he would steal a bike. However, today was not a normal day. Today was what his grandfather had called "D-Day" - dole day. Today he could make a grand tour: DSS, green, chips, pubs, games arcade – on days like this the necessary business of shaking down the local kids almost seemed beneath him. He was 18, he could go into the pub with an ID and say "Victor mai good fellow, a paint hoff your fainest Stella Artoys and a slim panatala if hugh schplease" and that Peach wanker would have to fetch his drink straight off without any saying he'd call the police. Besides, he didn't care about the pathetic snobs of Tangle Bay looking down their noses at him. He felt above them all now. He had a plan, and the first step involved getting a fifty million pound record deal, moving to LA and releasing his first hit rap single, "All You Gays in Tangle Bay" by AK Peacock (ft. Tupac). In fact, that very day, Peacock's fortunes were to rise dramatically, but not quite in the way he'd expected.

He found the first available company representative and lectured her on the faults of the system. "This guy has been wandering around asking for money" he barked. "What is he supposed to do? Starve and die here? You've got his passport number and his details. Sort it out!" The poor girl ('Lolly') was sympathetic and said she had only 10 soles on her. She asked him: "Couldn't you lend him the money?" to which my saviour replied. "I do, but, that's not the point....I don't know him from Adam". Never give people ideas, they'll only throw them back in your face. In fairness, he gave me 20 soles and managed to infer, as noncommittally as possible, that should the worst come to the worst he would pay for me. He had to tried to help in his own way and had put up a bit of money. I could understand his reluctance. If I was in a bus station in England and some kid came up to me and told me he needed money to help him get home, I would be a little sceptical. At best, I would probably give him a quid and send him on his way. So, thank you bald cockney man...you helped, not much, but it was a start. Meanwhile, Lolly pointed me over to the helpdesk and explained (without passing the buck) that the tax was levied by the airport and not by the flight company. The moustachioed 'girl' at the Help Desk clearly had a very loose idea of what it meant. From her personal dictionary:

help (verb)

2. to be an obstacle or impediment.

3. to cause delay, interruption, or difficulty in; hamper; impede

In fact the robot with a tash told me the opposite of the truth. She told me it was a matter for the flight companies to deal with and had nothing to do with the airport. I could tell she was lying. I could tell she wanted to get on her lunch break and victimise some puppies. Her face had the clear look of "I couldn't care less if you and all your family died in synchronised and statistically improbable cases of spontaneous combustion...at an orphanage picnic". Dejected, I wandered back to Lolly and told her. I must have looked like a totally hopeless case because at this point a miracle happened. She said to me, with great determination, "Don't worry. I'll pay for it. You won't miss your flight". Praise the Lord! An official person intervenes! It's one thing to have the kindly help of a passing Samaritan type, but when an official person takes an interest, you've hit the fucking jackpot! It's the Holy Grail of customer service. She organised a whip round, even getting a couple of soles from the guys who work in Starbucks. (So Terminal wasn't lying, there ARE airport staff communities...it's still a shit film though thanks to Tom Hanks and Catherine Zeta Jones and Spielberg and the script). She then wisely escorted me to the place where you get your ticket stamped and I coughed up the collective loot. She seemed delighted when I started to smile and told me that she had been in the situation before and people had helped her out, also that she had friends in London. She was lovely, so I could believe that. As I kissed her on the cheek I planned a dazzling letter of praise to her bosses, but secretly wondered whether they would approve!

The cockney boys also seemed please to see me as they shopped for duty free in the departure lounge. They seemed a lot more easy and genial – probably because we had achieved some kind of parity and I was no longer asking for money. "I would probably have cried in your situation" confided one of them. Cockneys always seem to be on the edge of crying. "At least you wasn't a Northerner" reasoned the other, to restore some kind of manly prejudice to the conversation. They meant well. I liked them, and I liked Lolly – despite her chosen nickname. My faith in humanity was temporarily restored, and I felt a bit better about my species. Except for the old bags, who I will henceforth pray nightly for a painful and inconvenient demise, possibly involving a fishing hook and tetanus.

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Even in the taxi I was worried. I had 50 soles in my pocket. Only 50. I'll be honest. 10 of it wasn't mine. 10 belonged to an American guy who a shared a dorm with in Cusco. I took the money out of his pocket while he was asleep. I tried to believe that he was an arsehole who deserved it, but he wasn't and he didn't. It may have only been £1.50 or so, but it bothers me still. The last time I stole anything was when I was 8 years old. It was a penny sweet and it haunted me. I expected the police to break down the door. As far as I can remember, these were the only two times I stole anything - I am a very small time thief. Office stationary doesn't count. That's compensation for lethal levels of tedium, also I was going to use th pens for things more interesting than administration or TV listings. I felt I was setting the pens free to nest in my pocket. Like an animal rights activist. Not stealing. Releasing.

My wallet had been lost/stolen. It depends who asks. People who lose things are idiots. People who have things stolen are victims. No one would dare call a victim an idiot, so I know which inaccurate tag I would like slapped on me. I had been living off one emergency cash withdrawal (an odyssey of sitting around and ineptitude in itself) and a bunch of Western Union transfers. I thought $100 would easily cover my last three days, but it's amazing how breathing in and out costs money. Particularly when you breathe in through a rolled bank note with nose at one end and cheap Peruvian cocaine at the other. Don't think poorly of me. I recompensed by eating two course meals for 50p in a marketplace next to cow's mouths and pig's bollocks. I was further reassured that airport tax was 15 soles. (In Peru you have to pay to leave the country. Insulting the host or liking Mohammed a bit too much isn't enough to get you a free pass out.) It would be a close thing. I had 20 soles left after taxi fare and I was sure I could just about swing it. However, the phrase "just about" started to prey on my mind. The bus I had travelled on to Lima had got a flat, and it was a good tense hour before the crew managed to change it. For a while we just drove on the flat.

Q. What do you call a Peruvian bus with a flat tire?

A. A Bolivian bus.

The season travellers laughed, the non-English speaking Spanish were suspiciously quiet, But the joke was out of relief that we were actually moving at all. Literally everything hung on me catching my plane. All I had was a box of crackers and a limited amount of water. For the first time in my life, I coveted plane food. I desired to pull back that foil lid like a suicide bomber wants to peel back a virgin's hymen. I COULD NOT miss that flight.

So, 20 soles left in my pocket upon reaching the airport. 15 for tax, leaving me 5 for spending money. A cup of coffee perhaps. Something to fool my stomach that it was getting nutrition of some description. There's no harm in lying to your body – as long as you occasionally do something nice to it. Buy it flowers, take it for a nice dinner, pay it back for all the abuse. An indissoluble marriage between body and you. Til death do you part.

"Do you want to pay airport tax now? It's 90 soles or 30 dollars". OK. Don't panic. I'm sure this happens all the time. There's probably a form you can fill in. They might let you off. None of the above. The girl looked embarrassed. She tried to offer solutions. Go to a bank. Get Western Union. Use a credit card. None of which was possible for me in the next hour. Naturally I was angry. Not in the usual self-recriminating way, more in the righteous English man abroad way. Why did I have to pay? I have a beard.. I have an Irish surname. Couldn't they just extradite me? I already had the plane ticket. They'd barely have to lift a finger. I won't lie, I was a wee bit distressed. Like as if I found out that I hadn't been born but was cloned from one of Andie McDowell's genital warts.  I'm not Eddie Murphy in Beverley Hill's Cop.  I can't scam myself out of things by being all creative and black. The only reason people feel sorry for me is because I look a bit pathetic. This, at least, I had going for me.

I saw two menopausal women. Probably mothers, I thought. I spotted a Morrisons bag. Before I could even start my sob story they told me they had a flight to catch and scurried off.  It turns out that they were on the same flight as me. I saw the old crones arguing with some poor cash registrar. They were the cropped-hair, gold-ear ringed, dried up old biatches that are only good for dinner lady duty or to be ground into Polyseal for other old moochers to stick their plastic teeth in with. Solyent Green Dental Solutions. The Eskimos would have approved. The Inuits would be in to it. I know that their husbands must either be screwing other people or watching unhealthy amounts of pornography. I am a misanthrope, but I overcompensate for it by feeling guilty, loathing myself and being friendly to people. However these old fucks deserve everything they get. They may have their reasons, but should they be skewered through the eyeball tomorrow by shafts of frozen urine fallen from passing aeroplanes, it wouldn't be a minute too soon. It would be a great youtube nasty. A small price to pay for top notch entertainment.

I saw two guys in the queue. They were in their 30s, with backpacks, tattoos and walking sticks. What choice did I have? They listened to me without saying no or yes. They seemd unaware of the tax and discernibly uncomfortable about me asking them for money. I used phrases like "I know you don't know me from Adam" and "Finsbury Park" to gain their trust, but I knew it wasn't enough to reassure them. I followed one of them to a cash machine. Their bank only had enough for them to take out, apparently. In fairness, he substituted money for ire. He told me the best thing to do was to 'make a fuss'. Stir things up...

WILL FINISH THIS TOMORROW. EXCITING, EH?

Words and Music by Jurgen "Zwei Scoops" Harvey...

NEWS REPORTER:

This is the British London News. According to a report from Scientists in the Top Field of Science, "If you smoke, your life it's a joke"...

JURGEN:

If you smoke, your life it's a joke. It's a joke. (Repeat x4)

Me and my crew we drink Coca-cola.

If you take drugs we won..t even know ya.

If you drink booze we'll always disown ya.

Drink, take drugs and you'll be a loner.

The only time I'm high is when I climb up a hill.

The only pill I take is a headache pill.

The only time I'm cooked i when I sit on a grill.

Don't be tripping, always keep it real.

Party, not partly, we party very hearty.

Banging out tunes, funky and charty.

Having great times, drugs'll never stop us.

The only poppers we're popping is party poppers.

THORSTEN:

Here's the facts you need about drugs.

Heroine is made from squished bugs.

Maujana farmers don't wash their hands.

One puff of that stuff will expand your glands.

JURGEN:

I once knew a guy on LSD.

Who got so high, he thought he was a tree.

Some birds flew by and nested in his head.

When the egg hatched out, that guy was dead.

Mescaline explains the mess you're in.

I'm not questioning or pestering.

It's infectious like wrestling.

So I suggest incest's a sin.

Loser, user, I'm here to abuse ya.

White lines on your mind so you'll find I confuse ya.

If at noon you're cookin up a spoonful,

Goon you'll soon be at your own funeral.