The only problem, to paraphrase dicky-eyed ex private Peter Falk, is that Sidley Woods is now mostly a Gateways carpark. Again anyone who’s been there for more than 15 seconds will know that if Death rode a Pale Horse into Sidley, locals’d have it up on bricks and be boiling up the hooves for glue before he’d had a chance to shout ‘Apocalypse Now.’
But if it did happen. There’s only one group of people to stop it.
The former employees of the independent cinema, sadly closed once again (just in case you’re interested, the Former Proprietor is still after the lease, though given his political aspirations he’d probably have to get someone in to run it for him – is this a job for the Ass. Man we hear you cry ? Or more likely weep. Not likely, the fat clown’s run away to France to avoid parental responsibilities and credit card debts). We’ve had experience of this sort of caper after the Stormtrooper job, so it’s not as if we don’t know what we’re doing. (Yes it is)
By Stormtrooper, I do of course mean we were wearing white disposable decorators boiler suits and half head rubber masks. We were also carrying plastic guns, for this was before the War on Terror. We were promoting a local laser tag business, that having been opened by Jon Pertwee no less, was now proving something of a second home to the local taxi firms. Our fee – a bottle of cheap vodka, ten quid and a free game each – not bad for dumping the leaflets in the bin and going to the beach. Two of our number were a little more zealous and thought they’d give out some of the leaflets before heading for the off licence and decided to start with the local jewellery shop (it was next door). Who thought they were trying to rob the place.
Now two of us had opted out of the diy stormtrooper look. HRH because he’d been given a ‘Darth Vader costume’ instead. Which was a full-head mask, a homemade black cape, and a lightsabre. Well, a stick that someone had painted neon yellow. No expense had been spared, no thought had been given. With the stick he looked a bit like a blind person, which given that the mask lacked eye holes, he was.
The second of our group to express himself individually was of course Brendan the Spy, clad in one of those jumpers with epaulettes and arm patches that were usually navy, this one was black. To top it off he was wearing a headset (that wasn’t plugged in), I have no idea to this day what he thought he looked like. You will be utterly unsuprised to discover that in between missions to the former Yugoslavia, France, London, the Pizza Pasty shop, fatso, prince of espionage had been pelted with eggs from a moving vehicle to the clarion cry of ‘oi blazer’ (he was sporting some sort of jacket and carrying an empty briefcase).
The mission such as it was ended in the way that such things do.
HRH, with the help of George the Coolest Soul produced three young ladies,having stolen their cauldron. George was briefly captivated by a well chested lady of inferior diction with a marked resemblance to a sulky bloodhound. One of her companions had a sharp face and a caustic manner but rapidly sussed that HRH despite being in possession of a beige leather jacket and a yellow stick had his own flat. Needless to say we were rapidly evicted as HRH pursued a short lived, non existent romance. One of our number, an unfortunately ginger ex Harrovian went off in pursuit of imaginary foreigners to fight. The rest of us found a beachfront shelter to smoke in. It was at this point that Brendan the Spy set off for the promenade, framed against the shore, like a catalogue model who’d really let himself go. He began to weep gently.
An hour passed. Bereft of nicotine someone asked him what was wrong. Once more with feeling:
‘You don’t understand I’ve got blood on my hands.’
Not again.
‘I don’t know if I can go on.’
This was new.
‘Well go and jump then.’
A pause.
Britain would not be so easily parted with her top, top secret agent.
Daft and tragic merkin that he was.
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