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For Your Pies Only - 6


By Dr. B
May 26 2006

Having departed from Kingston Park in Tino, the Fellowship have made a brief stop at Kingston Park MuckDonald’s to refuel 0007. We pick up the adventure with Micky happily tucking into a vast pile of double quarterpounders with cheese somewhere south of Washington Services.

“Mmmmf ….. mmmfffff …… grbrrrbbbrbbb!” exclaimed Mickey, currently experiencing something akin to culinary nirvana as he polished off the penultimate burger and washed it down with a monstrous gulp of generic fizzy soft drink.

“WHAT?” asked Mankey, slowly reaching over his shoulder to remove the semi-digested slime of burgers, Cadbury’s Crème Egg and reprocessed cheese that had been deposited on the back of his neck by Micky’s last outpouring.

“D’yerz not know any songs like?”

“No!” said Hergan quickly. He had obviously heard 0007’s singing on the flight back from the Brive game.

“Ah do!” Micky sat on the pillion seat, left knee in Hergan’s face, right knee trying to accomplish exploratory rhinoplasty on Louchy and Perry’s happy visages. A strange rhythmic booming began, which Alison realised came from Micky beating his ham-sized fists on his own knees to keep the beat:

“Oooooooooooooooooh me lads, you should have seen uz gannin’
Down the A1, full of grub, our mission we are plannin’
On the way to Leicestershire and other foreign places,
Goin’ down to Welford Rooooooooooooooooooad,
To batter Tiggers’ faces!”

Louchy cringed and sank deeper into the sidecar, apologising to various parts of Andy Perry’s anatomy as he did so. How had he ended up here? Andy Perry behind him and Mick Hergan to his left? Purgatory, thought LouchTine, sheer purgatory. 

0007 was in fine voice for many dozens of miles of A1 but he gradually began to turn blue and lose his happy thoughts.

“Way Alison, it’s getting’ cowld doon heyar like!” he moaned in a petulant child’s whine.

“No worries Micky love, we’ll sort you out with something warmer! Pull over Mankey!”

Pulling off the A1 onto a slip road, Mankey pulled Tino round to the right and parked up in a layby so 0007 could change. Unfortunately, Mankey had pulled into the Sedbury layby on the A66, where the finest hot snacks van in Northern England was located. The gentle waft of sizzling porcine products reached the finely-tuned nostrils of 0007 and awakened the primeval rumbling in his mind and stomach once more.

Brushing aside the comforts of the fleecy subsuit Alison was holding out to him (resplendent with corporate Ward-Badda-Bing logo) 0007 headed for the hot snacks van, leaving a trail of drool not unlike the trail left by a one hundred kilo slug.

Janette was not having a good day. Hordes of morose truckers had complained ceaselessly about the bacon sarnies all morning and the tea boiler was playing up again. And now there was this ….. THING draping itself over her counter and babbling at her in some strange foreign dialect.

“Why aye pet, you’re a canny lookah aren’t ya? Whass your name then eh like?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand!”

The monster help up its mighty hands and uttered more gibberish:

“Ohkay, ohkay, playun’ hard tu get eh? The name’s Ward, Micky Ward. Canna have a bacon sarnie like?.”

And now, to compound matters, a small ragtag bunch of people were tying to restrain this flesh beast; one man sat with a map upside down scratching his head and muttering about Colchester; another man seemed to be pondering climbing into his own camera innards and ending it all; there was another man who appeared to be having a very important phone call with a lady from Northern Rack and two more people who were having an argument about wearing a baby blue swimming cap complete with some sort of bird logo on it.

The man with the phone ended his call and walked over.

“I’m sorry, I’m his translator.”

Janette seemed unimpressed by this fact. “Just get him off my hotplate will you?”

0007 had taken the opportunity to lay down on the hotplate and scoop hot bacon contentedly into his cavernous mouth, occasionally stopping to breath and apply some TCP spray-on skin to the third degree burns he was suffering as a result.

“0007, front and centre!” barked Hergan sternly.

“Howay man, I’m storvin’!” pleaded Micky. “This lassie doesn’t understand ma lingo!”

“We told you you’d need a translator!” sighed Hergan and approached Janette apologetically. “How much do we owe you for the bacon?”

“Erm, twenty quid,” said Janette, wondering what kind of creature would lay across a hotplate simply for the reward of twenty pounds’ worth of unsmoked back bacon.

As if reading her mind, Hergan reached into his pocket, pulled out a slim pen-like device and said “He’s a front row forward.”

This rang bells in Janette’s mind. She cast her mind back to her childhood and remembered names like Moore, Leonard and others. Men who had faces like raw chicken wrapped in condoms that had been battered by socks full of snooker balls. This creature in front of her was something more primeval than those men though; as if the very essence of the front row had been distilled, purified and injected into a silverback gorilla.

Sated by £20 of bacon, 0007 retired to the pillion seat of Tino and began singing again, a hit from Toni Basil from the early 1980s:

“Oh Micky, you're so fine
You're so fine you blow my mind, hey Micky, hey Micky!”

Overcome by the base reaction to a neanderthal man who foregoes physical pain in order to be fed, Janette vaulted the van counter and joined it with the chorus:

“Oh Micky, what a pity you don't understand
You take me by the heart when you take me by the hand
Oh Micky, you're so pretty, can't you understand
It's guys like you Micky
Oh, what you do Micky, do Micky
Don't break my heart, Micky!”

Hergan looked down at the device he held in his hands. So much for the mind-wipe then. Too many witnesses now, and he couldn't afford to antagonise Louchy any further. The two had already almost come to blows when Hergan had asked whether Louchy had renewed his season ticket yet.

Louchy held his head in his hands. He could see his place in the sidecar being usurped by the new woman in 0007’s life. Already the giant prop was gazing smitten at Janette as she wheeled around the layby shaking her pompoms at all and sundry. This looked like love. And love had no place in Leicestershire …………..

OUR NEXT INSTALMENT FINDS OUR MOTLEY FELLOWSHIP IN LEICESTER, DESPERATELY TRYING TO FIND AN OUTLET OF ‘NEXT’ SO THAT 0007 MAY BE APPROPRIATELY DRESSED FOR HIS CONFRONTATION WITH THE PUSSYCAT EMPIRE’S DEMONIC HORDES (ALISON ONLY BROUGHT HIS ’CRUISE’ SUIT, YOU SEE).

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