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Lost the Plot Episode 2 The Awakening


By Monkey1 & Crouch n'Hold
July 12 2006

The sun beat down on the 4th morning since the crash. Scattered over the beach were the Slashing with Lincoln posse. The place was a mess, empty bottles & beer cans everywhere. Most of the survivors were nursing the hangovers from hell, the rest were still asleep & had that pleasure yet to come.

Oblivious to the oblivion, the 3 children played happily around the replica of the Eiffel Tower that had been built by some of the drunks to give the girls something to play with. Some time during day 2, Westand had found a magazine washed up on the beach with a picture of the tower & this had inspired the drunks into action. Not so much a big metal thingy as a little bamboo thingy. They had made it into a wendy house, the 2 older girls fussing around with little Em & having a great time.

 

 

The responsible parents had left them strict instructions not to leave the island & then got drunk with everyone else.

 

Touchy had managed to start an impressive fire using his knowledge of chemistry to extract useful flammable chemicals from the native vegetation. RnR had managed to make an even more impressive fire using his fag lighter. Both fires were now just gently smouldering piles of ash.

 

As everyone slowly awoke & gathered around these dying beacons of hope they tried to remember what had happened over the last 4 days, everyone that is except CnH who was still asleep.

 

What a party it must have been as nobody could remember much.

 

GFB awoke with a nasty cut on her arm which she vaguely remembered getting as she swung from the little bamboo thingy to put a Falcons flag at the top. The cut looked pretty nasty & would need medical attention now that the anaesthetic effects of the whisky were wearing off.

 

Luckily there was a doctor on the plane & Dr.B was sent for. Unluckily he was a doctor of physics & his only medical qualification was his 1st aid badge when in the scouts. Everyone chipped in trying to help poor GFB. An emergency scarfectomy was performed on Leipy which provided enough bandages until she resembled Boris Karloff as the mummy in a Hammer Horror film.

 

 

Monkey1 started to do the only thing he knew how to do with a hangover – cleaning up. The beach was an awful mess so he started by collecting all the bottles & cans, Charlie Says following to make sure they were all empty. Inspired by this act of good housekeeping, a few of those able to stand up wandered down to the shore to tidy up the mess that had been washed ashore from the wreckage of the plane.

 

Some useful items were among the collection of magazines & rubbish. Touchy’s eyes lit up at the sight of some golf clubs, Dr. B & Pod found a bright orange box that looked a bit computerish. There was a large metal tank that must have been an important bit of the plane. A dust pan & brush were taken over to Monkey1 to help with his cleaning obsession, Westand found a torn page from a magazine with a picture of some food & realised that apart from a packet of crisps they hadn’t eaten anything for 4 days.

 

 

 

Westand was at home, it was late, he was on his own. The empty vodka bottle lying beside his shabby armchair had nothing more to offer & was discarded like a broken toy.

 

This was not the life he was used to when he worked in the Office for Government statistics. He was respected then, an important position as compiler & publisher of the most prominent official statistics issued by the government.

 

His disgrace when he was sacked still hurt as he slumped in the armchair even though nearly 2 years had passed. Being caught downloading photographs from the internet on the office computer was a matter of gross misconduct. To then insert these photographs into the government publications was much worse.

 

He got away with it for years because nobody ever reads the publications. It was partly the futility of his job, partly the dull appearance of the statistics that drove him to it.

 

It started innocently enough, a 17,000 page document on types of padlocks used on farm gates, a small publication by government standards. Page after page of dull tables & words nobody would ever read. Westand decided to break the monotony of the verbal beige by finding some pictures of farm gates to brighten it up a bit, he was particularly proud of a view of a frosty field entrance at dawn that embellished chapter 187, subsection 72 (Hasp Locks, 4 Lever, Zinc Plated).

 

 

As the years passed he became braver & would take great pride in finding the most appropriate pictures to enhance the appearance of the documents. In a statistical analysis of the types of breeze blocks used in industrial construction he managed to find on Google an accurate picture of each of the 248 types of breeze block & include them in the relevant sections. A catalogue of every telegraph pole in the UK was illustrated with hundreds of pictures of telegraph poles, each one carefully selected to include all the native songbirds in Britain.

 

Instead of dull lifeless publications, his department now produced beautiful collections of art. Nobody except Westand ever saw them of course as the publications were never opened, they lay in dusty libraries & basements, their pages never seeing the light of day.

 

8 years after the first timid inclusion of a few pictures of farm gates, fate finally caught up with Westie. A debate in the House of Commons about the government’s record on the use of the Royal aircraft was threatening Tony Blair’s position. Above the snores & farts of the debate chamber a lone voice was heard. The Right Honourable Percy Potterton (con), member for Upper Chillington asked how many times the Prime Minister had boarded the Royal aircraft during the previous year.

 

A shocked silence descended on the chamber, enough to awaken the sleeping MPs & arouse a burst of flatulence as the assembled members sat up & took an interest in the proceedings. Somebody had asked for a fact, an exact figure, an accurate statistic. This was against all of the unofficial rules of parliament, they never deal in facts.

 

There was a flurry of activity among the civil servants who attended the chamber. After a lot of searching, the relevant document was found, the dust blown from its cover & it was opened for the first time.

 

The opening page of the section on prime ministerial use (official & unofficial use combined) was embellished with a picture of the Prime Minister boarding the Royal plane. Worse than that, much worse, on this particular photograph the Prime Minister was not grinning like a Cheshire cat.

 

There was immediate uproar. An official government publication should only have approved photographs of the Prime Minister, always showing him grinning like an idiot yet looking serious & sincere at the same time.

 

An investigation was launched at the very highest levels. It was soon found that all the statistical publications now contained photographs relevant to their subjects. The trail soon led to Westie, his dismissal was immediate & humiliating.

 

As he sat in his old armchair drifting into a drunken sleep as he did every night, he asked himself again why he had to do it. Deep down he knew he was right to make a stand, to fight the utter dullness of the establishment. As he finally descended into the darkness of passing out he saw himself as a valiant crusader against the dark forces of dull documents.

 

 

 

He looked again at the torn picture in his hand & his stomach rumbled.

 

He quickly decided to put together a team of fit blokes to explore the jungle & see what food could be found. Realising that there were no fit blokes he had to make do with a few of the shabby excuses for human beings that were capable of walking. Sheeny, Happy Hooker & astonishingly the Lincoln were in a fit state to explore, the Lincoln being free from the illness known as a hangover owing to still being drunk. The rest of the blokes were still too unsteady on their feet to be of any use apart from Monkey1 who was too busy rinsing the cans & bottles ready for recycling.

 

The girls did what they do best & sat around comparing suntans.

 

“Ahm gowin a nars shade er brahn” said Tracy “ah don’t see much sun usually, not wiv all them sessions in the Queen Vic”.

 

“Good job we all packed our bikinis” said Charlie Says “be such a shame to waste this sunshine”.

 

“I bet the weather in Paris isn’t this good” said GFB.

 

Mally groaned & inspected her sunburn, Ma Leipy wished she had taken off her silly hat as she now had a stuffed falcon shaped white patch on her tanned forehead, CnH still snored.

 

Only Pod was missing from the girlie group, she was busy with Dr B dismantling the orange box of electronic wizardry that they had found. Wires & circuit boards were strewn around them as they busily worked away making some sort of Heath Robinson affair. With a crackling sound that woke CnH, their box of tricks burst into life. A few of the blokes wandered over to see if they could interfere as blokes feel they have to on such occasions. The girls went back to their sunbathing, CnH went back to sleep. Leipy had become delirious. With his scarves removed he had quickly succumbed to sunstroke. In a daze he disappeared into the jungle.

 

“We’ve built a radio”. announced Pod proudly.

 

“You’ve destroyed the bloody black box”. answered Touchy.

 

“It wasn’t black it was orange”. Argued Dr. B

 

“Black boxes are orange”. Countered Touchy. “Well done, no chance of any rescue mission finding us now unless you fancy putting it back together again”.

 

One look at the cannibalised electronics dispelled any hope of rebuilding it.

 

Pod stood supporting an enormous stack of empty beer cans to act as an arial. Dr. B slowly turned the tuning dial but the only sound was the hisses & crackles of static. Wherever they were it was out of range of Radio Newcastle.

 

 

The cobbled together radio went quiet as it locked onto a signal. Strange sounds were heard, nobody could quite believe what they were hearing, the only transmission that could be detected. It was unmistakably the sounds of a man & a woman doing, well, what Adam & Eve found to be quite entertaining after munching an apple.

 

“That’s the pilot & Betty, I am sure it is”. Muttered Dr. B, “I would recognise that smoker’s cough anywhere. He must still have his flying helmet turned on”.

 

“Sounds like he has Betty turned on too”. Added RnR.

 

Dr. B continued to turn the dial but only static.

 

“Great” said Touchy “you’ve destroyed the black box so we can snoop on Biggles & Betty”.

 

“It was orange”. Protested Dr. B

 

The group of hungover blokes dispersed as they realised that they couldn’t offer useful advice such as “Try pressing Esc shift control delete” or “Turn it off, wait 10 seconds & switch it back on again”.

 

DG wandered along the shore allowing the waves to lap over his bare feet. He saw a sheet of paper floating in the water & picked it up out of pure boredom. He read it for a second time & ran up the beach waving it in the air & shouting. A group soon gathered round.

 

 

 

DGNTR was staggering back from the pub along the same route that he took every night. By day a respectable looking accountant, by night haunted by the lie he was living. How much longer could he masquerade as an accountant, the truth that he could barely count up to ten would be found out one day.

 

From an early age he had wanted to be an accountant, influenced by the gleaming Jaguar that stood outside the offices of Nickett & Spenditt that he passed on his way to school. He longed for the wealth that oozed from the accountants’ offices & was determined that one day he too would live the high life.

 

It was an unfortunate career choice for someone numerically dyslexic & with no mathematical talents whatsoever but his mind was made up.

 

Despite leaving school without a single qualification he managed to secure a position as a toilet cleaner in a large office development in Manchester. He chose his employer with care as the top floor of this prestigious development was home to the large city accountants firm, Frords. Every night for 4 years he would copy the study papers of one of the high-flying trainee accountants being nurtured by the firm, duplicating every examination certificate & carefully inserting his own name. During the process he learned much about the practise of accountancy from the works of the bright student whose identity he was duplicating for himself.

 

By clever use of fraud, dishonesty & forgery he became a chartered accountant with enough knowledge of accounting practise to pass as genuine in the pub. He packed in the cleaning job & moved back to his native Newcastle to set up a small accountancy practise. He knew enough to get by & the actual calculations of accounts he got done by slipping his young nephew the odd fiver to do the adding up.

 

He only targeted moderately successful small businesses knowing that they never looked at their annual accounts for more than a few seconds before stuffing them in a drawer. The clients were happy as long as they received a load of bound paper with “Annual Accounts” written on the front, & were taken out for a pint once a year by the genial & portly accountant.

 

His reputation as a good beer drinker spread & soon he had to expand to 2 young nephews to slip fivers to. 8 years later his practise had grown to 7 assorted nieces & nephews, the local Brownies & boy scouts. He was making huge profits, charging thousands of pounds for accounts that typically cost 15 quid & a sherbet dib dab to prepare.

 

It couldn’t last. The Inland revenue were starting to question the utter crap that they were being given by DG & TR Accountants, as were HM Customs & Excise. The clients were becoming agitated by the repeated inspections of tax & VAT by stone faced little Hitlers & the lengthy letters detailing errors & sometimes downright dishonesty in their accounts.

 

As DG staggered along the road towards home he knew it was becoming hopeless. Maybe he should take the money & run, but where to? His love of the Falcons kept him imprisoned in Newcastle as securely as a bird in a cage. He stopped to relieve himself in a front garden & realised that the game was up. Maybe on his trip to Paris tomorrow he would think of a new scam, a change of identity perhaps.

 

 

 

The group fell silent, wondering what important document this could be.

 

“This is the flight plan & passenger manifest” DG proclaimed “Look, MTL tours. Well it’s obvious isn’t it? Monkey Travel Ltd”.

 

“Oh wonderful” groaned Touchy “all we bloody need. So Pod & the mad doctor have destroyed the black box, and the plane was flying on a route devised by the Monkey. We will be thousands of miles off course, no chance of anyone looking for us here. They will be looking for us in the English Channel & here we are in the bloody tropics. I need another drink”.

 

He pulled out his hip flask but it was empty. Not a drop of alcohol left on the island, they had drunk the lot.

 

“Wait a minute” said Peter “the seat numbers. Why are some marked with a skull & crossbones?”

 

“Let me see”. Said Touchy, taking the sodden sheet of paper. “4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. These are the numbers that I won the bingo with. What the hell is going on?”

 

“Let me see”. said DG “I am an accountant, I know a thing or three about numbers. Hmmm, well if you add them up they come to 106”.

 

“108 actually” corrected Touchy.

 

“No, 106”. Insisted DG as he checked again using fingers & toes. “Or is it 110, no it is 97, hang on a minute. Has anyone got a calculator?”

 

“I think you will find it is 108”. Replied Touchy.

 

“I make it 108 too”. Chirped in Pod who was utterly crap at maths.

 

“Ah well, if you deduct the prepayments & add the accruals it, erm, OK ahem. But what does it tell us?” asked DG.

 

“It tells us not to trust accountants with numbers”. Answered Touchy. “They are definitely the same numbers that I won with on the bingo. Just coincidence I suppose”.

 

The ponderings about the significance of the numbers were interrupted by a shout from the top of the beach.

 

“I say chaps, I have a spiffing idea”.

 

It was the first time that anyone had understood a word that Leipy said.

 

“Come over here chaps & see what I have behind this rock”

 

The group ran towards Leipy.

 

“What is it?” asked Ma Leipy

 

“Well it’s granite actually but that’s not important right now. See this big metal jimmy from the plane? Well I washed it out, collected some splendid fruit, chopped it up & chucked it in here with some water I found at a jolly little stream just over there”.

 

“Excellent”. Said RnR. “Is there a reason for doing that or did you just have a sudden urge to wash fruit?”

 

“Steady on old chap, do you think I am quite bonkers or something, what?” replied Leipy.

 

It was quite evident that Leipy was completely bonkers, the sunstroke having changed him in some small way.

 

“Let this little lot brew in this heat for a few days & hey presto, Chateau Tropicana in no time. We seem to be all out of G&Ts, thought we could make our own sozzle, what?”

 

Having been deprived of alcohol for several hours the assembled populace suddenly warmed to the idea.

 

“Well splendid, what? Top hole”. Gibbered Leipy “I say, if you chaps can find another bucket I’ll get some more fruit, what? Toodle pip”.

 

Leipy disappeared back into the jungle. DG now a man on a mission swam out to sea, dived down to the wreck & returned with 2 more of the metal containers.

 

“Fuel tanks”. He explained “Wash them out, get some clean water in them, I’m off to find fruit”.

 

The thought of more alcohol spurred the group into action. The girls joined in, even CnH woke up on hearing the word ‘alcohol’, this would be a true united effort.

 

The hunting party appeared on the beach, laden down with food & looking very disappointed.

 

“Sorry, we were hoping to find some meat but all we could find was fruit”. Muttered a very downcast Sheeny.

 

“My hero”. Squealed Mally, dragging the fruit away to chuck into the tanks.

 

Before long all 3 tanks were full & bubbling away with Chateau Tropicana. With little else to do, Touchy decided that a round of golf would take his mind of the terrible lack of booze till sunset. He collected the golf clubs that he found washed up on the shore, found a ball in the pocket of the golf bag & teed up on the beach. Aiming for a clear patch of jungle he took the stance & swung the club. He hooked the ball badly to the left as always & trundled off into the undergrowth to find the ball.

 

The rest of the Slashing with Lincoln posse settled down on the beach to chatter & sunbathe. The 3 children were still happy playing with the little bamboo thingy, CnH went back to sleep, it was a peaceful holiday type atmosphere.

 

The peace was shattered by a shout from the jungle.

 

“Hey, come quick, I’ve found something”.

 

It was Touchy & they all rushed into the jungle following the shouts of a very excited bingo winning tight fisted golf playing unemployed ex-miner with a phd in chemistry.

 

“Look over here by this tree”. Shouted Touchy.

 

“What is it?” enquired Happy Hooker

 

“It’s a Wild Tambran, a large tropical canopy tree, botanical name Pithecellobium arboreum but that’s not important right now, look underneath. This is some sort of man made thing, a man hole cover or something”.

 

“Somebody has been here before us”. Said Dr B stating the bleeding obvious.

 

“Well what is it? What is it for?” asked Sheeny.

 

“Way ah diivvna, muckle clarty n’all”. Commented Leipy, his sunstroke cured.

 

“Ahh lewk, that’s a hatch”. Squeaked Squeak.

 

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