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For Your Pies Only (Part 1)

Secret agent man?

By Dr. B
May 25 2006

It was a brisk, cold morning at Kingston Park. All was normal. Rob the DoR was out on the pitch with his hairdryer muttering about hard pitches, running rugby and destiny. Crazylegs and Boost were in the changing rooms ogling the latest issue of the Worzel Gummidge fanzine. Spud, Noah, Dickson and Gail Platt were all reading Gavin Henson’s autobiography, with God helping out on the big words and assorted other squad members were lolling around, scratching themselves in unspeakable places and looking more like the monkey exhibit at Flamingo Land Zoo than an elite bunch of Premiership rugby players.

Watching over them all was the stuffed and mounted head of Owen Finegan from its vantage point directly behind the posts at the back of the South Stand, a dire warning to all newcomers to Kingston Park of the intolerance of failure round these parts.

Unbeknownst to these athletes, deep below the pitch upon which the DoR wafted zephyrs of hot air, the North East’s number one secret agent, 0007, met up with his mentor, Walts, codename W in the top-secret cavern known only as The Fat Cave.

“Morning Ward!” said W in his abrupt, impersonal manner.

“Aye, canny nice mawnun’ like,” grunted Ward in reply, his voice muffled by six Chicken McNuggets and the straw of a super-size chocolate milkshake.

“We have a problem, 0007,” muttered W. His look of disdain at Ward’s high-fat, high-cholesterol breakfast was lost on the prop, whose sole focus in life appeared to be cramming the last of the McNuggets into his gaping maw whilst simultaneously unwrapping the first of what appeared to be several Mars bars.

“Hmmff? Wassat like?”

“It’s those Pussycats from Leicestershire again Ward, they’re concocting an evil plan to wrest control of Premier Rugby from the consortium and take over the world!”

“Aye? Tha’s shuwer like? Ah woz undah the impreshun that the Cheetaz rooled the walled anyweigh so divvent care aboot little things like Premieh Rugbee.” This unusually verbose outpouring was accompanied by a small, yet perfectly formed, shower of breadcrumbs, brown viscous ice-cream-like material and smooth, smooth caramel. Licking his fingers clear of detritus, Ward ambled slowly over to the tall, burly figure of W who stood expectantly in the middle of the cavernous hall they alone occupied.

“Hooz leadin’ ‘em this tayem like eh?” Ward questioned, jabbing his chubby fingers at a delicate-looking control panel in front of him.

Wincing, W moved around to usher 0007 away from the panel.

“We have every reason to believe it’s Oz Tin this time 0007,” he muttered. “He seems to be taking overall control of the Pussycat Empire and must be stopped!”

Ward looked stunned. “What? Oz Tin? That buggah wi’ nee hair? Wee Barldilocks? Well, buggah me!”

W took several steps backwards as if nothing on Earth could present him with a vision more repugnant than that brought rampant into his mind by 0007’s latest offering.

“And izzy bein’ helped like? By his meeyats agen? Moo Di, Dee Kon and Morr Phi?”

“I’m afraid so 0007 …..”

“Right, that’s it. Ah had enuff o’ them at Kingston Pork in Febuwery like. Get me Thumpah on the fat phone!”


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