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For Your Pies Only - 7

By Dr. B
May 26 2006

The heptet are now an octet with the addition of the smitten Janette. Setting forth from Sedbury layby, Janette found herself sitting on Micky’s lap on the pillion seat of Tino whilst Louchy got progressively more grumpy. A series of phonecalls from Kingston Park confirmed that his spot by the hoardings of the East Terrace was to be declared an area of Special Scientific Interest and as such would render it unusable by anyone who wasn’t a member of the Premier Club (Platinum). Louchy vowed to take this up with Mick Hergan once they returned from defeating the Pussycat Empire.

Gazing adoringly into her new sweetheart’s eyes, Janette crooned softly the lullaby that her father had taught her:

“Half a pound of luvverly fat,
Twenty pounds of bacon,
Eat it up and then lay flat,
What’s that noise you’re makin’?”

This meant nothing to Micky. He barely understood her Darlington brogue but the sweet melody of her voice awoke an image from his childhood – his father used to make Micky watch interminable videos starring some rancid old fella from the 1950s with a silly moustache who sang the same refrain over and over again. Mr Wastey his name was, or something like that. Micky searched his mind, found nothing and settled down for a nap on the back seat of Tino.

“Which side of the country is Worcester on anyway?” yelled Mankey over the din of an eighteen-wheeler overtaking on the inside lane.

“We’re going to Leicester ……..” Louchy was getting increasingly grumpy.

“Leinster?” repeated Mankey.

“LEICESTER!” stated Louchy emphatically.

Mankey must have misheard: “Brest? In France?” he queried.

“L-E-I-C-E-S-T-E-R!!!!!” shouted Hergan, passing Louchy a small white bottle as he did so.

Louchy took the bottle reluctantly. It wasn’t like the club’s Commercial Director to give things away for free. There must be a catch.

“What are these?” he asked Mick.

“Pills – they’ll relieve you of your pessimism and innate grumpiness.”

Louchy read the label. It didn’t belong to Mick, that was for sure. This bottle belonged to a bloke named Thrift.

Seroxat? Louchy being a chemist had heard of this stuff. Anti-depressants. Bloody happy pills! Mick Hergan thought he needed damn happy pills!

“Keep them!” Louchy grunted and flung the bottle into the slipstream of the eighteen-wheeler. Unfortunately, Micky chose that moment to yawn whilst in the deep arms of slumber and inhaled the entire bottle.

Janette gasped in horror as her love inhaled what appeared to be a few thousand milligrams of happy pills, burped happily in the depths of his sleep and smiled the smile of the truly enlightened.

Mankey was still no clearer as to where Worcester was, but didn’t want to bring matters to a head; Louchy was slumped even more miserably between Andy Perry’s legs and Mick Hergan had a face that could crack paving slabs. “I’ll keep on the A1 until someone tells me different,” he thought quietly to himself.

Little did Mankey realise, but he wasn’t on the A1 anymore. In the drama of the Thrift happy pill incident, the Fellowship had found themselves on the M1. Scores of cars, vans and lorries hurtled past whilst their occupants gazed in astonishment at the sight of a Sinclair C5 plus associated sidecars and pillion seat pootled gently down the middle lane of the M1, an enormous prop forward snoring noisily on the back and dribbling uncontrollably over his new love.

In an effort to lighten the mood, Mankey decided to play another of ShucknJive’s CDs that they had found earlier: The Cheeky Girls should do the job nicely.

“Touch my bum, this is life ……”

No sooner had the music started and the vocal kicked in than Micky was wide awake and trying to lambada around the miniscule confines of Tino with Janette. The vehicle rocked crazily and now resembled some sort of manic carnival float on acid. Mankey gritted his teeth, bent low over the handlebars and gave his flying helmet a tug to block out the sound of a Falcons front row forward blasting out the Cheeky Girls like it was karaoke night in the Bigg Market.

The ingestion of the happy pills seemed to have freed Micky from his natural apprehension of being in foreign lands and he blew kisses frantically at the coaches, trucks and 4x4s that streamed past either side of Tino.

“Mankey. Would. You. Please. Pull. Into. The. Left. Lane,” muttered Louchy from his position between Perry’s knees.

“OK, OK …. which way’s left?” asked Mankey.

“THIS WAY!” screamed Hergan, holding out his left arm as Tino headed straight for a collision with the back axle of a tanker full of industrial strength defoliant.

Alison screamed. This was to be how her life ended. Squashed against a chemical tanker whilst in a Sinclair C5 being serenaded by Micky Ward on Seroxat? It wasn’t a day to be ticking one of her life boxes, that was for sure.

Mankey took drastic action, swerving violently to the left. Micky and Janette were catapulted down the embankment to the left of the hard shoulder and Perry threw out the emergency brake, which in Tino consisted of holding Louchy by the ankles and asking him to grab onto the tarmac. The smoke and squealing emanating from Tino may have been due to the tyres promptly melting under the ferocious braking offered by Louchy’s grip or it may have been predominantly down to the fact that Louchy now had no fingertips left but one thing was certain; Louchy was never going to be anyone’s pianist.

Up ahead, the tanker of defoliant pulled in to check on the state of his underwear after almost witnessing eight people in a modified Sinclair C5 ramming him up the M1.

“Find 0007!” ordered Hergan and Perry immediately vaulted out of his sidecar, accidentally on purpose whacking Louchy across the nose with his knee as he did so. Louchy’s nose started to bleed.

“I’d offer you a tissue,” began Hergan, “but they’re special offer tissues only available to early bird season ticket renewals …” Louchy fixed him with a withering glare but stayed optimistically (and unusually) silent.

“Aye aye captain, I’ve found him!” Perry’s first words in the story were hardly profound, but they elicited a sigh of relief from Hergan. He rushed down the embankment to be confronted by the sight of Micky sat rubbing his bleary eyes whilst Perry tended to an enormous lump on his head. Janette was mopping his brow, although not with a mop obviously.

“Are you alright 0007?” asked Hergan.

“Aye, fine enough like,” answered Ward, nodding his head slightly despite the ministrations of Perry.

“What day is it?”

“Erm …… the day aftah yestahday like!” Micky liked easy questions like this.

“Where will the Falcons finish next season?” Hergan was determined to catch 0007 out this time.

“Top o’ the league o’ course, ya daft nancy,” 0007 began. “We’ll have the pack from hell, ah’ll score two tries per gayem, Melon will make a comeback and play at outside centah, Jonny will sprout wings and turn into an angel and Louchy here will have all his dreams come true when Rob resigns and comes round to dig his gorden like.”

“My god, the man’s delirious!” Alison was concerned for Micky’s mental health now.

“No, no …” Louchy was chuckling. “It’s those pills he accidentally took. They’ve turned him into an incurable optimist!”

“Are you alright mate?” It was the driver of the tanker, scrambling down the embankment. “Are you OK?”

“Aye, aye!” Micky chortled, getting unsteadily to his feet.

“You could have killed us all,” screamed the tanker driver, rounding on Mankey. Mankey’s eyes widened behind the goggles and his jaunty scarf seemed to droop under the full ferocity of the driver’s rage.

“Naw, naw, just hang on a minnet there meeyat,” said 0007, drawing himself up to his full height. “Leave him be like.”

The driver looked from Micky (who was still wearing his pink shirt and yellow shorts, don’t forget) to Mankey in his pseudo-Biggles costume to Perry who appeared to be wearing a sailor suit and cracking his knuckles in anticipation of a rumble. The last time Perry had ventured into Leicestershire, he’d been punched repeatedly by some southern thug and had no intention of going through that humiliation again.

“Are you like the Jim Rose Circus?” asked the driver, wondering whether he’d almost been rear-ended by some kind of fetish group.

“Erm, yes that’s right, we are,” replied Mick, reaching stealthily into his pocket for the mind-wipe device. “If you just look into the pen for a moment, you’ll find all the answers to your questions lie within.”


It was done. Mick though carefully. If he was truly cunning, he could kill two birds with one stone here. “Andy lad, take this lot up to Tino and get them on will you? I’ve got something to discuss with Janette here.”

“Right away captain sir. Do you want me to pipe them aboard as well?”

“Drop the seafaring analogy please Perry,” snarled Hergan, “I’ve got important business to get done here.”

Perry took the unprotesting bunch of Falcons back up the embankment leaving Janette alone with Mick.


Mick rejoined the rest of the group. “Right, get out of Tino and on the tanker. Quickly!” he ordered.

“What about Janette like man?” asked Micky, craning his neck to catch sight of his pork-product-providing passionflower.

“She’s going to travel in Tino with the driver of the tanker,” smirked Hergan.

“Aye, righty ho!” agreed Micky, nodding under the influence of the Seroxat.

Louchy understood entirely and smiled to himself at Mick’s cunning and guile. Wasn’t it a few dozen miles ago that he’d thought there was no room for love in Leicestershire? Could it be that there was some grudging respect developing?

Transferring the walk-in wardrobe from Tino to the tanker was no mean feat, but Alison managed eventually and she also managed to persuade 0007 to change into his dress suit from Cruise, Newcastle.

“Heh heh, ah look the bizness now like!” chuckled 0007 happily, brains addled by inhuman quantities of anti-depressants.

Mankey once more took the wheel and steered the tanker further down the M1. A large blue sign loomed on the left …. LEICESTER.

“This one Mankey, this one!” screamed Hergan as Mankey hauled on the anchors once more, sending clothes and shoes flying everywhere from Alison’s arsenal of haute couture.

The journey into Leicester itself was punctuated by the savage snoring coming from the back of the tanker where Micky had succumbed to the drowsy effects of the Seroxat and was sleeping it off.

Pulling up outside Welford Road was like seven small hobbits pulling up at the Gates of Mordor. Black clouds circled overhead; lightning leaped from floodlight to floodlight; peals of thunder ricocheted around the stadium, being amplified by the empty terraces. They had arrived at the headquarters of the Pussycat Empire.

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