The Fraser Henderson Caper

Introduction: 
The exact origins of this early work from Ian and Dale are lost in the mists of Ken Wong's Guestbook archives ;o)  All that we know for sure, since they were posted with Ian's old gpo email address, is that they were written before he left there in 1997.  So without further ado, sit back and enjoy the Fraser Henderson Caper...

I've got some information on Fraser for you now that he's in Spain. Seems he had to take a round-about route due to his passport situation. He drove way - way up north to Newcastle where he met up with a chap of nefarious persuasion, much like himself. Fraser had a difficult time speaking with the man as his English was almost unintelligible. In fact, Fraser thought "If this neddy doesn't soon start talking in English, it'll cost him a couple of teeth!" He managed to get the point across to the ne'er-do-well that a passport was needed and could he supply one? Yes, one can be supplied, but at a cost of 233 pounds. "Why 233" asked Fraser, "why not 230 or even 250?" "Ee 'eck," mused the felon "yae gan knaa luk aboot VAT divvnt thother knaa to deeye havva VAT", which very loosely translates as "Well, my supplier figures that if it's OK for the government to add on the outrageous VAT, so can he. It's just extra profit for him, but he doesn't want to gouge his customers, so he tells them that it's the VAT." Fraser thought better of carrying on with this inane conversation so he gave the money to the ruffian and awaited his new passport.

The next stop was the airport where the only flight he could get that night was to, and this is a real coincidence, Detroit, a suburb of Ann Arbor. I know Fraser has pals in Ann Arbor, but I don't know what he did there. Perhaps someone can fill us in?

He spent a few days in Ann Arbor, and then boarded a flight to Barcelona. On his arrival, he was driven to his bar where he met up with his henchmen Harry, Harold, Harvey, Hamish, Henry, Hugh and Humphrey, and his henchwomen Hillary, Hermione and Aphrodite, all three former sleazy gangster tarts of Fraser's. There is a story behind this.

All but one of Fraser's henchperson's names starts with the letter H to try and break Fraser's noxious habit of talking through his teeth. You see, when Fraser called for Hamish, it came out 'amish and everyone thought he was talking of the Amish, the strict Mennonite sect in the United States. Another name he had trouble with was Hugh, which he pronounced 'ugh sounding like "you". Consequently, when he called 'ugh, everyone came running. Aphrodite's real name is Hyacinth, but Fraser called her Aphrodite because of the fond memories they shared, and because it WAS impossible to for Fraser to pronounce Hyacinth through clenched teeth.

Fraser and his gang of thugs are ready to pull a job in nearby Andorra, something to do with sheep, wool sales, cigar production, duty-free shopping and international banking. I believe the job may be done this evening so perhaps RDale will have more information for you.

Ian Charnley.  Canada.

RIAN you've done it again - devastated me with something you said. I'm stricken and prostrate and in bed with the doctor. As it happens, RIAN, I was at finishing school in Vevey with Hermione, many years ago when we were mere gels, and we still keep in touch. Recently she wrote me that she had a very good job with an international businessman, travelled all over, he rewarded her handsomely and at one time they had even been an item - but she never let on his name. Now you've revealed to me that my dear chum Germy Hermy (gosh these schoolgirl nicknames can be cruel - I won't tell you why she was called that, or what mine was) was a gangster's totty. Really, her titled mama will be horrified. Hermione's drawer is not perhaps the very top one but she is well up the bureau. Or the tall boy, in this case. You've guessed it, of course. Hermy told me they were about to visit Andorra. She said she was being offered the challenge of offloading a shipment of woollen insulation fabric that her boss had recently acquired from a sell-off of assets of the Dorset Corset Company, and her task was to handle the financial transactions.

"A toute a l'heure," she signed off, "I'm just off to the duty-free shop to acquire a carton of cigars for a business chum of the boss's, a Mike Baldwin." Obviously when I saw this I thought "Not R Mike Baldwin?!" but the concept seemed so bizarre. How small this world is, and how curious! She's going to ring me tomorrow, when we always commemorate a private anniversary - you don't need the details but it involves the school chauffeur Giancarlo and some chocolate fondu - so I'll fill you in then. Incidentally, Hermy's father made his money from personalised toilet tissue - he did a gold crested line for several European royal households and his photographic renditions of world leaders were extremely popular in certain circles. Many airlines still use his Times crossword tissue in their first-class sections, but it was the ones printed like US dollars that made the fortune that saw Hermy sitting next to me in Madame Zimmerich's Academy for Daughters of the Gentry.

Funny you should remark on the H problem of Fraser Enderson. Hermy mentioned that while in Detroit, her boss was going to have an op on his lips to make them more like his current girlfriend's, which he greatly admires. Apparently twin his'n'hers BMWs are last year's fad - the really trendy couples now invest in matched cosmetic surgery. She also oped like ell that it would cure is haspirates which were ideous and orrible. It MUST be the same Fraser. Oh Hermy, Hermy, what have you gorn and done? They've just had a few weeks' R&R in beautiful Ann Arbor, where she says her boss took the bandages off and looked exactly like a character from "Eastenders". I wonder which one, and whether that will get him into more hot water. You didn't happen to see him round town, RLYDIA or RNANCY, did you? Must go now, the doctor is here with my tonic. Oh goodness, gracious me....

Dale. Wellington, New Zealand

RDALE: Funny you should mention the aspirate problem! Not only is it ideous and orrible, it is also happalling and hoffensive But that was the least of his worries. During times of stress he suffered the most disconcerting affliction of uttering spoonerisms! For instance, when he was nicked two years ago, He exclaimed "I aint cone duffink nopper!" when he meant to say "I aint done nuffink copper". You can see how embarrassing that might be!

Anyway, Fraser had plenty of time to think about that while doing his porridge, and he soon realized that it could be a problem of disastrous consequences! Fraser wasn't as thick as he looked, despite the lip job. If he wanted his chief safecracker, for example, he would say "Blair front and centre", but if he were under stress, that might come out "Clair bront and fentre", which sounds slightly Norwegian. He reasoned that this would never do and he developed a plan to avoid these spoonerisms

He was a regimented man, preferring to bark short orders rather than asking his people to do things and thereby inviting comments and questions. He spent long hours deciding on what to refer to his lieutenants as, and finally settled on the term henchperson, which he shortened to simply hench. He then fired all the henches whose names did not begin with H and hired all the people he has now. Problem solved!

No word on the Andorra job yet, but I did hear that Fraser came across a dzho and is contemplating dzho farming. Apparently he was quite taken with the appearance, reminding him of a former sleazy gangster tart of his, especially the hair.

Ian

Hermy rang! She's in the Bay of Bengal. No reason - it was just the first place she could get a flight to after the Andorra job went pear-shaped. Apparently it was like this: Raser and the Raser Gang were seated round the board table in his Handorran Ideaway, discussing the hincredibly hintricate hexport/himport regulations of the Handorrans. The big hattraction of the place, as Raser put it, is that Handorra as no hextradition treaty with Hengland. Er Majesty's boys in blue can't touch im there - they're elpless. So e oped to hescape British justice at the same time has making a brand new fortune out of hexporting dzho-air rugs and Handorran erbal remedies. The wild flowers that grow on the igh peaks are hespecially dear to is eart, and in is spare time Raser has heven been known to hadopt a nun's abit and op habout the crags like Julie Handrews.

There was just one snag - Handorrans are a cagey lot and would not lease him the access to the high peaks that he needed to gather the flowers. They wanted to keep their herbs to themselves and make a killing in gentian wine, though anyone who's ever tasted that knows that it's best kept for getting rust off engine parts and burrs off sheep. Suddenly the air was rent by a thunderous whocka-whocka and in the Ideaway's carpark, a helicopter set daintily down. Out stepped the petite figure of Yoko Ono, followed closely by her henchwoman RTracyLuv. Nothing escapes Yoko. Raser had let slip about the dzho when discussing the Dorset Corset deal. One whisper of the availability of rare dzho bloodstock in continental Europe (they're usually confined to a few inaccessible Himalayan peaks) and she was off for a spot of tycoonery. She had a vision of filling the Scottish glens with picturesque hairy dzho instead of stags, and as she descended from the chopper she was singing "Dzho, a dzheer, a female dzheer.." in her piercing wail.

Raser looked straight past her outstretched hand, however, and with a whoop saw his chance of high-country herbal access gifted to him on his own doorstep. "Hokay, enches! Op on the eli! " he barked, and he and half a dozen of the Hs scrambled to the chopper and had it gunned up and aloft before Yoko could say chopsticks. His whoops of triumph faded out and his face turned ashen, however, when Yoko's back-up security craft rounded the nearest peak and started firing at him. Ptoing! Zing! Doing-g-g-g! Bullets ricocheted off rocks and pinnacles in all directions. There was a hit on the chopper's rotor blade and it spun out of control, and out of sight, behind a crag.

Now Hermy's a sensible gel and knows when three's a crowd - she seized a Hog from the bikeshed and took off down the mountain lickety-split, not stopping till she reached the nearest airport. So she's safe, though still in the curry. But what of Raser? Did he survive? Did Yoko dodge the ricochets? Has RTracyLuv stopped moaning yet? And why are a dzho's legs shorter on the uphill side? Has anybody heard?

Dale 

Raser was hagitated beyond hall reason! Ere they were urtling down (elicopters tend to fly like rocks without a rotor blade) beside Montmalus with no means of escape when - when . . . wait, there . . . there's a erd of dzhos rounding that crag! The dzhos spotted the strange shape plummeting down and stampeded back whence they came. That was a huge error though as the dzho's short legs were now on the downhill side and they all toppled over, causing an avalanche the likes of which Andorra has never seen. The avalanche was good news for Raser hand is enches though, as the powerless elicopter landed on the mass of descending snow and coasted on the snow to the bottom.

"Mot a riraculous wecovery" spoonered Raser "Ere we were urtling down in that elicopter and ere we now stand safe and sound". He then fell to his knees, leaned forward and kissed the ground. Big mistake! In his euphoria he kissed a huge dzho plop instead. He was furious and what made it worse was all is enches laughing and pointing at him. "Dang those dzhos and their dung" he hissed as he scraped the foul muck from his newly-healed lips. "Me mates on Hogback Road in Ann Arbor told me that this Andorran job could be touchy, but this? This is too much! It's enough to make me go straight."

Meanwhile back at the summit summat was up. Yoko had thankfully ceased singing the dzho, a dzheer, a female dzheer song when the helicopter disappeared, but she couldn't keep from singing for too long and looking at all the mountains around her she started warbling "The hills are alive with the sound of music . . ." Well, perhaps warbling is not the right word. Shrieking maybe better suited. Anyway, when she screeched the word "hill" a tremendous crack thundered across the open spaces as the adjacent peak split and a chunk of rock the size of Blackpool tower began sliding down Montmalus towards the Raser gang!

RTracyLuv wailed "Yoko, you are a one-woman demolition team. Look what you've done now!" "Oh, stop your incessant moaning" warned Yoko "how was I to know that there was a fault in that peak?" which reminded her of something and she immediately broke into "How much is that dzho-ey in the window . . ." Yoko's back-up security helicopter had just landed and Yoko and RTracyLuv climbed aboard. The helicopter lifted off and flew towards Montmalus so they could learn of Raser's fate. They were astounded to see Raser and is enches scrambling for cover at the base of the mountain. The Blackpool rock slid unceasingly towards the gang. Will they survive? Will Yoko ever stop trying to sing? Time will tell.

Ian 

As Yoko's craft hovered above the tumbling Blackpool rock, Raser looked up and shook his fist at her. She waved cheerily back, aware that even in lawless Handorra firing on someone who's only borrowed your chopper is considered bad form.

"Get brack on your boomstick, Hono you weevil itch!" Raser spoonered misogynistically, but his words were wafted away on the Pyreneean winds. The giant rock hovered too, caught on a tuft of springy mountain tussock. The enchmen eld their breath.

Far below in the valley a clump of snow-covered rocks got up and shook themselves. The snowy, dozy dzho, protected by their bushy Imalayan air, had survived the fall! They began limping on their uneven legs back up towards the gentian fields on the igh peaks. Seizing her chance, Yoko had her pilot swoop down and scoop up a pregnant dzho into the chopper. Laughing like a drain, and singing lustily ("Dzho we've now got a barrel of money, Raser is ragged and funny...etc") she and RTracyLuv soared aloft and started westward over the peaks on their way towards realising her Scottish highland dream. She mused: perhaps she could interest Prince Charles in dzho-farming at Highgrove? She could tell him they were organic...

With a cackle of mirth, the dzho-napper Yoko began her victory yodel. The dzho, startled by the bloodcurdling shrieks, commited an indiscretion in RTracyluv's backpack. Yoko didn't care. She had other fish to sushi.

Raser's razor-sharp brain was meanwhile working hovertime. Is erbal schemes thwarted by haccess itches, and is dzho stocks depleted by Yoko's snatch and grab, e ad to elp imself hout of this ole. A quick deal was needed - of course, the Dorset Corset textile stockpile! The woollen hinsulation should do it! E got hout is trusty mobile phone and stainless steel electronic notebook and dialled a familiar Weatherfield number. "Ello his that you Michael? Still stitching? Ave I got a deal for you! Igh class foollen wabric swuitable for sheat-sirting! " His top lip started to perspire as it often did when the spoonerisms took over, and his collagen-enhancement grew even more pendulous. "I'll teet you on meutral nerritory - ow habout Alifax? Hor Ull? Hor heven Arwich or the Ook of Olland?"

"I fancy a trip to Amsterdam," mused Mike Baldwin, for yes you've guessed it folks, it was he "I'll meet you at the Ook.". They arranged a time and place and rang off. "Uh!" thought Raser. "I'll stitch im hup summink fierce, the orrible little ustler."

But he had reckoned without Mike Baldwin's powers of recall, or his insatiable lust for revenge. Way back when they had been rivals for the hand of the fair Maggie Dunlop, Mike had neither forgiven nor forgotten the way Raser had financed Maggie into her first flower shop, and made her independent of Mike's schemes for the future of Maggie and their son. It was payback time, and Raser had just handed him the golden opportunity. Mike put down the phone, blew a perfect smoke ring, narrowed his eyes and looked very, very thoughtful.

The giant rock anging above the Handorran Ideaway shuddered in the cool evening breeze and teetered imperceptibly. A cold moon shone palely down. Can Raser escape the rock? What is Mike's evil plan? Will Yoko convince the Prince that the dzho is a highland cattle crossbreed and thus environmentally kosher? Will it take bleach or an enzyme-soak to get the dzho-drops off RTracyLuv's rucksack? If you know, tell us...

Dale 

The down-draft from Yoko's helicopter hit the Blackpool rock just enough to shift the weight of the rock to the wrong side and the rock slid off the tussock and began hurtling towards Raser. At that instant, however, Yoko's victory yodel (the same one that caused the dirty dzho dung drama) reached the rock with the precise frequency and decibels needed and the rock split into thousands and thousands of harmless pieces. On the ground the Raser gang was stunned as the fallout blotted out the sun and began falling about them.

"Cor lads - we nearly went for a burton then, make no mistake!" he exclaimed as he examined himself. "Alan Whickers! Have a butchers at the state of me Dicky dirt and Callard and Bowsers, not to mention me daisy roots! That Yoko Ono is a right Kennington Lane in the old Gregory Peck! And I'm not 'alf peckish, I'd give me eye Hampstead Heaths for some Bernard Langers and lucky dips!" Let me explain. You all know about the aspirate and spoonerism problems, but when a time of high stress passes, Raser unaccountably lapses into Cockney rhyming slang. Funny thing that, as he's from Bamber Bridge! Anyway, I'll translate for you. What Raser said is: Gosh, we almost died there, chaps. My, my (very loosely translated so I don't blush). Just look at the dirt on my shirt and trousers not to mention my boots. Yoko Ono is a pain in the neck. And I'm very hungry, I'd give my eye teeth for some bangers and chips.

"Boss, boss" cried Hillary and Aphrodite in unison. "Blimey, wot do you teasy slangster warts gant? And hot wappened to Hermione?" he spoonered. "Boss, you've lapsed into speaking in rhyming slang again. Please sit down and relax for a while and I'll put t' kettle on." The two ex-tarts then legged it to the hideaway to fetch some tea.

Just then a sight for sore eyes came screeching around the corner. Three Mini Coopers ground to a halt and out jumped Harry, Harold and Maud, a new recruit from Andorra (names starting with H are illegal in Andorra) who replaced Hermione. Raser and the rest of the henches piled into the Minis and sped north towards the Ook of Olland for the Mike Baldwin meeting.

Meanwhile, the stench from the fermenting dzho dung was having an unwelcome effect on the helicopter pilot, a former SAS commander named Nimby and he started heaving and retching violently. Apparently, the SAS are trained to withstand everything EXCEPT dzho dung, an oversight that nobody could foresee as dzhos were thought to be extinct. Commander Nimby ordered the dzho and RTracyLuv's rucksack thrown out of the helicopter or suffer the consequences. Yoko quickly intervened and reminded Commander Nimby that he was an employee, not the employer, and that she would be giving the orders. "Fair enough" announced Commander Nimby, and with that he suddenly jumped out of the helicopter. A tad too quickly though, as his parachute was still hanging in the cabin. Yoko immediately launched into song - "Help, I need somebody. Help, not just anybody, Help, you know I need someone, helllllppppp...." She was right, she needed a helicopter pilot, - badly.

What fate awaits Yoko and RTracyLuv? Will the dzho suffer further indiscretions? And just what IS Mike's evil plan . . .

Ian 

Update on the Yoko fiasco: Her screeching of the Beatles' tune "Help" along with RTracyLuv's piercing wail combined to form a sine wave that carried hundreds of miles. They were just about to cross the English Channel so by a fortunate coincidence, George Harrison picked up the signal in his in-mansion studio. He immediately sensed trouble and managed to radio the helicopter to ascertain the problem. "Yes, we have no co-pilot..." squawked Yoko. Yoko's attempted singing had always annoyed George, and for a minute he considered terminating the transmission, but he knew that there was an innocent party aboard, as well as RTracyLuv. He asked to speak to the dzho to try and calm it down. The dzho made more sense to him than Yoko ever did!

He paged his own helicopter pilot and called a friend of his from the seventies who flew choppers in 'Nam. The trio hopped aboard George's helicopter and headed towards the channel. George's friend Ringo Moon had never emerged from the seventies and he looked it. Long hair, beard, bandanna, paisley shirts, bell bottoms, blue-tinted granny glasses,the whole nine yards. Even the speech was seventies. George outlined his plan. "We'll fly in front of Yoko and trail out a rope to which Ringo will be tied. We'll then allow Yoko to catch up and Ringo will climb in the helicopter." "Far-out, solid and right-on." sang Ringo. "That plan is outtasight, man. I mean, it's groovy. Let's split pronto and do it!" Ringo hadn't realised that they had already left - too many magic mushrooms had that effect on him.

(And if you think that the scenario is outrageous, just view Airport '75 where a pilot is inserted into a flying 747 through a gaping hole in the flight deck. Talk about ridiculous.)

Ringo climbed aboard the helicopter and headed toward the Ook of Olland. We'll catch up with the intrepid foursome later to learn of Mike's revenge.

Ian 

THE PRINCE OF WALES looked peevishly out over the early Spring wildflower avenue at Highgrove. The day was mild and serene, the first buds were on the Queen Anne's Lace, the larks were on the wing, and Camilla was on her way over. But for all these happy harbingers, Chilla was morose. The quick, anonymous jaunt to Canada with his pal Yoko and her extraordinary henchwoman the Weatherfield Whiner, had been unsettling. A glimpse into another world, a world far removed from the confined, protocol-bound existence he led within palace walls. If only, he thought, he could break out more often, perhaps wth one of those Spice Gels. There were times he almost envied the Duchess of York.

And what was that peculiar animal Yoko had smuggled into England and wished on him? She'd crashlanded with it in the Duchy of Cornwall, and assured him it was house-trained. Where was the housekeeper going to get an endless supply of yak butter to get the dzhostains off the Hepplewhite? Women seem to think I'm made of money, he sighed. He just hoped Yoko was right about the dzho revolutionising the Highland economy when he released it at Balmoral next week. It would all be for the best. Hope it likes a diet of heather and neaps, he mused.

MEANWHILE, in the Ook of Olland, Mike Baldwin paced up and down the small cafe, De Waalvis, puffing at his cigar. Alma had struck up a conversation with the owner about the difference between Lancashire Hotpot and Dutch Hutspot, but Mike could not get interested in all that women's stuff. Where was Fraser with the woollen fabric? Was he trying to pull a stunt? Mike had news for him, And he patted the pocket where the diamonds were hidden. Both pouches.

IN THE ROYAL STABLES at Highgrove, the dzho's mind was on higher things. She panted, dreaming of the tangy grass on the soaring mountains of her homeland, then bellowed a Tibetan oath as the pains became severe. Suddenly, with a heave, two small, dark, shiny bundles dropped onto the sweet-smelling wildflower straw of the stables. "I'll call them Betty and Yeti," she thought fondly, bringing up a tasty piece of cud. "Good Lord? How's the Boss going to keep these a secret?" said an awestruck groom, as the twins' coats dried to an electric shade of lavender and their third, central eyes looked trustingly up at him.

Dale 

THE DIAMONDS! Mike stopped his pacing . He had forgotten all about the diamonds! A London pal of his had asked him to do him a favour seeing as how he was hopping over to The Netherlands. Mike was to meet a woman in Euston Station who would pass the diamonds to him. He would then sail on a ferry to Europoort where he would be met by two men who would escort him to Antwerp. Once in Antwerp, he was to make his way to Schupstraat to deliver them to a diamond merchant. and receive 16 million francs for them. He was then to head for Delft where he was to convert the Belgian francs into gilders. Why Delft? His London pal's wife had always wanted a set of delftware! In return for Mike's help, he would be allowed to keep 15,000 gilders, not bad for a day's work.

Mike raced back to Europoort. The terminus was empty save for two of the sourest and shabbiest looking pillocks that Mike had ever seen. The two miserable sods introduced themselves and steered Mike towards their car. Mike had a bad feeling about this, a feeling that was confirmed during the 75 mile journey to Antwerp. And it didn't help, either, that the repulsive duo drove a Citroen 2CV of questionable comfort and reliability.

Mike squeezed painfully out of the car on Schupstraat and quickly found the diamond merchant. "I am Robrecht" the merchant introduced. "How was your trip from Europoort?" "Ooh, it was unbearable! I can't fathom going back to Delft with them." "Yes" agreed the merchant. "Those two, E. Nuff and Al Ready, are two of the most witless and vile of all the poxy little gits we have ever hired. The pair are completely devoid of any humour whatsoever. We have had several complaints about them and their wretched little car." Robrecht noticed Mike twitching and fidgeting while he was examining the diamonds. "I have a cunning plan" he announced. "Go out the back door and my driver will drive you to Delft." Mike almost danced with glee as he swept out the door and slid into the back of the large Mercedes Benz. "Wot a stroke of luck" he thought. Or was it?

Ian 

WAITING IN THE BACK SEAT of the large Mercedes Benz as Mike got in was a beautiful red-headed woman with arresting green eyes. She was dressed all in peach chiffon. "Hello, Mike, my name's Aphrodite," she said. Her voice was low and husky, and Mike felt a thrill at being in this luxury car, in this foreign location, with this sophisticated woman. "Robrecht's asked me to escort you safely to Delft. If there's anything you want, just ask." Her strange green eyes caressed him. Mike settled contentedly back into the soft leather upholstery, the 16 million francs safely in his briefcase, and began to light up a cigar. Suddenly Aphrodite started to choke and open a window, waving her hand agitatedly at the clouds of cigar smoke. Damn! And he'd thought he'd found the perfect woman. He still didn't put out his cigar, though.

The Merc sped through the flat, diminutive Belgian landscape, and when the Stella Artois beer signs on the small brick pubs were replaced by Heineken signs, he knew he was in Holland. Great drifts of daffodils were coming into bloom in the picture-book villages. Mike was flirting enthusiastically with Aphrodite when he remembered a forgotten detail: "After Delft, could you drop me back at De Waalvis in the Ook of Olland - I left my wife there and she'll be getting a bit irritated by now." Aphrodite smiled provocatively: "We're not going to Delft, Mr Baldwin." A small panic gripped Mike as he looked out the window and saw that they had left the autobaan and were headed down a tree-lined farm track towards a dark canal. He gripped the doorhandle and found the car centrally locked. Turning back to Aphrodite, he was surprised to see her long manicured nails were clasped around a gunmetal coloured object. A perfectly reasonable colour, for a gun. So she hadn't been after his virtue after all!

It was hard to say whether Mike's ego or his vanity were taking the bigger beating, but in the end his greed won out. With a feral snarl he lunged across the car at her. The gun went off, startling the chauffeur who drove straight into a haystack....

MEANWHILE, back at De Waalvis, Raser, the enchies, the wenchies, and a passing Taiwanese backpacker were engaged in a furious conversation with a tense Alma Baldwin. "How do I know where he is?" Alma was pleading, "He never tells me where he's going. I just wait and do his washing." "You're part of is heevil scheme! You're a crair of pooks!" thundered Raser. "Which one of you is my penfliend Jaap?" said the backpacker. Did the bullet hit anyone? Who's got the 16 million francs? Does Raser know that Aphrodite was in the car with Mike, or was she free-lancing? Does Alma have enough money to get back to England? Will Jaap turn up?

Dale 

....AND CAME OUT THE other side amid a flurry of straw and assorted effluvia. The chauffeur lost his bearings in the dusty brume and realised that his only recourse was to apply the brakes and hope for the best. The big Benz slid to a halt with a slight bump. The chauffeur spun around in his seat, expecting the worst. What he saw made his jaw drop. There was a neat hole in the rear window and Mike and Aphrodite were in each others arms, kissing passionately. The gun lay on the floor between them.

"Oh, Mike" purred Aphrodite "I've wanted to do that ever since you got in the car." She curled up in the sumptuous leather and ran her slender fingers through his hair. Mike held her and gently kissed her as the heady aroma of her elegant French perfume wafted gently upwards. The dust finally settled around the car and they saw their situation. The car had come to rest with the front wheels hanging well over the canal bank. Mike instructed the chauffeur to get out first followed by Aphrodite. Mike exited last, remembered the 16 million francs, and reached in and grabbed his briefcase just as the car slowly tilted and slid into the canal.

Mike and Aphrodite held each other as the chauffeur looked at the car and wondered who his next employer would be. That was the second car he had lost in as many months. Just then the muffled sound of a diesel engine reached their ears as a canal barge smoothly rounded a bend in the canal. The barge pulled up and a familiar face emerged from the wheel house. Des looked quite dapper in his violet silk shirt, black linen trousers and a Captain's hat set at a rakish angle. "Des!" exclaimed Mike. "I didn't know that your barge was sea-going!" "It's not" said Des. "But you know me; in for a penny, in for a pound. The weather reports said that the North Sea would be the calmest it has ever been over the past few days, so here I am." Mike wondered about the sanity of the boy, but here was transport. The trio clambered aboard, Mike helping Aphrodite as the cool chiffon brushed his arm. Gad, he was enraptured with this woman. He realised that he was in love, he had 16 million francs and nobody knew of their whereabouts. The barge slowly chugged off for distant parts.

MEANWHILE, back at De Waalvis, Alma was in heated discussion with the Taiwanese backpacker about his penchant for fried bread. The backpacker insisted that it should be deep fried, while Alma insisted that it should be pan fried on medium so as to let the maximum amount of bacon grease soak in. Raser and the gang felt ill listening to the discussion, so they retreated to a vacant corner and began planning their next move. Where are Mike and Aphrodite headed? Who will win the saturated fat war? Where will Alma and the Taiwanese backpacker end up?

Ian 

DES STOOD AT THE HELM, whistling cheerfully as the barge headed north through the polder country and the rainbow strips of bulb fields, towards his destination. It had been a good few weeks exploring the watery lowlands, and he'd developed quite a taste for oliebollen, but it was time to head out to sea again. This time he thought he'd try the Baltic - he'd always fancied seeing the Skagerrak and the Kattegat. Singing "Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen...." he waved jauntily at a passing coal hulk. Below, in the captain's cabin, things were not going so well. Mike and Aphrodite were curled together in the traditional curtained barge bed built into the wall. Aphrodite's eyes were streaming and her nose was shiny red as a Christmas cracker. She reached for a tissue, her seventeenth,and blew her nose lustily into it. Mike had to admit, she no longer looked so soignee. But then he didn't feel so chipper either. His eyes were itchy and his skin was breaking out in a rash. His nose was blocked and he could swear that this was a serious illness.

"Affie," he said, "That heady aroma of yours: I think I'm reacting to it. What perfume is it that you wear? It must be one of the really strong ones - Giorgio, or Poison. Think you could wash it off?" Aphrodite looked crestfallen. "I'm not wearing perfume at all, Mikey" she said hesitantly. "I can't; I have a number of severe allergies, and they include that cigar smoke that permeates your skin and hair. That's what's brought on my hay fever." She sneezed again, and Mike felt a new surge of itching in unmentionable places. They both looked stricken as they realised their great love could never be - they were simply allergic to each other. A gloomy Mike reached for his trousers, and lit a cigar for solace before thinking twice. With a strangled cry and a dry retch, Aphrodite seized the cigar, and the packet, and rushed aloft to fling them over the side into the murky waters of the canal. Mike panted up after her, aghast, to find that the bad news was only just beginning. Des had tied up alongside a small cafe, a cafe that looked eerily familiar. Of all things, he'd unwittingly brought them back to De Waalvis at the Ook of Olland!

INSIDE DE WAALVIS, Alma had finally succumbed to the primeval urge to put on a pinny and start frying something. She and the Taiwanese backpacker were having a fryoff. She was rendering two kilos of bacon down for fat, and the backpacker was heating up a couple of litres of safflower oil. Suddenly a quiet voice said: "You are both mistaken. .You first soak de bread in milk, den shallow-fry it in bacon grease. Dat way you get de moisture wizout excess fat saturation." They looked round, startled. The most gorgeous man Alma had ever seen stood before them. Tall, blonde, tanned, taut and terrific, with a glint in his sky-blue eyes and his little cap set at a rakehelly angle. And just old enough for Alma. If she thought she'd lost her head over Stephen Reid, she just didn't know the depths of emotion she was capable of. Alma's knees sagged and she automatically patted her hair and removed her pinny, as if in a dream.

"I'm Jaap," said the vision, "Was someone looking for me?" "I have been, all my life" replied Alma, and Jaap appeared to see her for the first time. Their gaze locked and they saw galaxies, eons in each others' eyes. They saw into past lives they had led together. They knew what they said to each other as he left for the Crusades. They knew the names of each other's pet gerbils in the Bronze Age. As their arms reached out for each other, a voice rang out: "Oi, mush! What do I 'ave to do to get some service round 'ere?!" Mike Baldwin was on the hunt for more cigars. At the sound of his voice, Raser became alert and started to move forward to conclude the Dorset Corset textile stockpile deal, the enchies and the wenchies moving in unison behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, but what came out surprised them all. Will Mike notice that Alma is not herself? Will Alma notice that Mike has returned? How will Aphrodite explain herself to Raser? Does Mike have enough spare change to buy all that wool? Would anti-histamines help? 

Dale 

BON JOUR, MONSIEUR BALDWIN, excuse-moi, mais es ce que vous avez du temp pour discuter au sujet du laine de la dzho?" Raser and the the enchies and wenchies froze in mid-stride. All activity ceased within De Waalvis, the only sound being the crackling of the bacon. Alma and Jaap were in a world of their own, continuing to gaze into each other's eyes. Raser choked back a sob, "not another speech impediment" he thought. Raser had never even been able to master the English language, never mind French. AND, to top it all off, he was speaking POLITELY as well. Raser was disconsolate as the crooked crew retreated back to their corner to discuss Raser's latest misfortune. 

MEANWHILE, Des was dismayed to find out from the locals that his beloved oliebollen were ersatz oliebollen, imported from England for the English living in the Netherlands. "I've been made a fool of. Again." he muttered and vowed to stop the flow of fraudulent oliebollen from England. Des had never felt so strongly or passionately about anything before, except when he torched his boat, but that was eons ago! He scratched his plans for the Baltic and charted a course for the North Sea.

"Alma ....ALMA," bellowed Mike "what's got into you?" Alma and Jaap broke out of their reverie. "Oh...Mike...sorry...I - I was miles away" she stammered as she busily straightened her frock, adjusted her hair and tried to blink her eyes. Jaap had moved over to the fryers and tended to the fried bread fry-off with fervor. "Hello Anese," he greeted to the Taiwanese backpacker "how vas your trip?" Anese gave a thumb's-up as he worked on his fried bread. Alma suddenly couldn't bear being near Mike and raced over to the kitchen to be beside her new-found love and to prepare her own fried bread. "Mike, will you be the judge for our fried bread fry-off?" Mike secretly loved fried bread with his egg and chips and mushy peas so he jumped at the chance. Jaap, Anese and Alma diligently worked on their creations while Mike spoke to Affie. "Now's your chance to escape from the clutches of Raser. Get on the barge with Des and get on with your life!"
Who will win the fry-off? Will Des stop the flow of fake olibollen and open his own olibollen shop? What will Raser do next? Did Mike leave the 16 million francs on the barge?

Ian 

THE BRIEFCASE WITH THE 16 million francs never left Mike's side as he moved into the kitchen of De Waalvis to judge the fry-off. Alma's bacon fat was sizzling as she removed the cooked bacon and inserted a variety of breads to be fried. The hot safflower oil was smoking as Eese the Taiwanese added the breads to his own concoction. "What you need to go wit dat is some good Nederlands oliebollen," added Jaap, and he reached into the freezer and withdrew a couple of packs. Des, looking on, felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he picked up the discarded oliebollen packets and read the label: "Made in England for KLM (Koninglijk Lekker Munchies) Ltd, and packed by Firman's Freezers (Weatherfield) ".

Zounds! Stap me vittles! Tuck me up and call me Teddy! All this time the ersatz doughboys had been made right on his own doorstep in Weatherfield, the world centre of fried starch cuisine! He was compelled to track down the source and order a lifetime's supply! Des sprang to the helm of the Argy Bargy and prepared to chug off into the sunset. In a flash, Aphrodite left De Waalvis and stood beside him. "You're going to need some help with the galley," she said, decisively, and Des sensed the kind of help that was on offer. He'd been there before. As the Argy Bargy pulled away down the canal mouth and out into the sea, Affie went below to check on the 8 million francs she'd removed from Mike's briefcase while he was overwhelmed by scratching. She was a pragmatic woman, and had only taken her percentage, but a girl had to eat, and more than oliebollen. It would see her through till she found another Raser...

MEANWHILE, BACK IN THE KITCHEN, the fried bread was crisping up like autumn leaves in the Red Rec, and Mike stood there salivating. Jaap sized up the situation. "You'll want a few eggs to go with dose," he said to Mike, who nodded happily. Jaap's eyes gleamed. In a trice, he set before Mike a huge platter heaped high with a dozen fried eggs, Alma's two kilos of bacon, thirteen oliebollen, twenty four slices of fried bread and a cup of applesauce which the Dutch eat with everything. "Now you can judge dem properly," he said. Mike's greedy little eyes shone as he tackled the huge mound of hot fat and calories. "Be careful, Mike!" Alma warned as his jaws chomped up and down, up and down. But he was beyond caring, pausing only to say with his mouth full "I wiss I had some brack pudding to go wid this." Finally, with no slowing of pace, he licked the plate clean, and .with some difficulty stood up. "I now declare that the winner is -". But they were never to learn whether oil or bacon fat produced the best result. Mike Baldwin suddenly clutched his chest, convulsed, and fell like a stone, another victim of Alma's fatal frying pan.

Alma gave a heart-rending cry that contained as much guilt as sorrow. Jaap wrapped her in his arms, consolingly, but there was something disconcertingly triumphant about the expression on his face. Another great cry was uttered by Raser, and echoed by the enchies and the wenchies. "Tell's heeth," said Raser heartlessly, "Oo's going to buy my stoollen woods gockpile now?" "You are serring wooden stools?" said Eese. "I have small furniture warehouse in Taiwan. Maybe we can do some wheering and deering." Raser's relief was palpable. A mug, just when he needed one! Just then Alma opened Mike's briefcase to call for help on his mobile phone. What she saw there stopped her in her tracks.

Will Affie desert Des for a tastier oliebollen? Will Raser pull the wool over Eese's eyeses?? What does Alma decide to do with the stash? Is gorgeous Jaap the answer to a maiden's prayer - or will he reveal a dark side?

Dale  

ALMA, JAAP 'n' EESE all stood around Mike waiting expectantly for him to come around and announce the fry-off winner when a familiar figure burst through the door of De Waalvis. To everyone's surprise, Roy Cropper flew to Mike's side brandishing a Harvey Elite stethoscope and a Babinski reflex hammer along with a well worn, but sturdy medical bag. (While Roy ran the caff during the day, he attended medical classes during the evenings, and had just graduated three weeks ago.) He knelt beside Mike and ordered everyone back. Roy examined Mike and noted Mike's distended stomach. "What happened?" he asked. Alma answered that Mike had just polished off a dozen fried eggs, two kilos of bacon, thirteen oliebollen, twenty four slices of fried bread and a cup of applesauce. Roy looked pensive as he mulled over the menu. "It's obvious," he proclaimed loudly. "The applesauce is the culprit. The sugars within the applesauce reacted negatively with the cholesterol in the eggs and the saturated fat in the bacon to severely yadda yadda yadda. I'll have to pump his stomach. Stand back everyone!" Roy didn't have to ask.

As soon as they heard the words 'pump' and 'stomach' in the same sentence, they stood back in droves!

Alma clutched the briefcase while she glanced furtively at Jaap. He was just a little too pleased with himself for causing Mike's collapse. She despised the smug look that reminded her so much of Mike, her Mike, her poor Mike that now lay on the floor of De Waalvis awaiting a fate WORSE than a fate worse than death. That disgustingly vainglorious air irritated her to no end. The longer she examined Jaap, the worse she got. It was all she could do to refrain from smacking him in the gob. She couldn't stand the infuriating smirk, the aggravating derisive grin. She'd had it! She swung the briefcase and caught Jaap full in the stomach. Jaap doubled over and fell to the floor, heaving uncontrollably. As he hit the deck, a key and a business card fell out of his shirt pocket. The business card read 'Kbec Sportswear Toronto - London - Paris - Alice Springs. Stephen Reid.' Stephen Reid again! Why, oh why could she not avoid that person. Alma turned the card over to find a scrawled message 'La Gare du Nord - numero cinqante-huit.' Alma scooped up the key and pocketed the key and card. A real mystery was in the offing.

MEANWHILE, back in the De Waalvis kitchen, Roy had rigged up a stomach pump using a portable drill with a pump attachment and a length of neoprene tubing he just happened to have in his medical bag. Roy worked wonders, soon having the effluent pumped out of Mike's gut. He then belted both of Mike's knees with the reflex hammer. The resulting kicks brought him around in no time. "Wha-what happened?" whimpered Mike wherein Roy filled him in (if you'll pardon the pun). Alma grabbed Mike and yanked him outside where she told him of the key and card. "The key must be to a locker in the train station," reasoned Mike. "Let's go to Paris and check it out. I'll get that poxy little git yet for cancelling our deal!" 

Jaap wasn't the only one heaving. So was the North Sea and Des soon found out the folly of eating oliebollen on a rough sea as he spent most of his time hanging over the barge edge. What will become of Des and Affie? What will Mike and Alma find in the locker? Will Raser dake a meal with Eese? Inquiring minds need to know.

Ian 

BACK IN DE WAALVIS, Eese and Raser were deep in financial discussions. Raser knew he had no wooden stools to sell Eese, but by the time he had to deliver, he would have found some. "Woollen upholstery, or Asian dzho-hair?" he asked entrepreneurially.

ON BOARD THE ARGY BARGY, Des lay moaning in his bunk, too seasick to notice that Aphrodite had turned the boat round and was making for the Cote D'Azur. AT TWICKENHAM, A BAFFLED Sergeant Oak looked at 24 streakers, all of whose names began with H. Why couldn't these things happen on someone else's shift? IN PARIS AT THE GARE DU NORD, Mike Baldwin wasn't feeling too chipper. A hearty meal of solid cholesterol followed by a stomach pump and a rushed trip to Paris had done him no favours, and now he had to cope with the extreme odours of the garlic-reeking French commuter crowds. It brought pungently to mind the statistic that the French use fewer bars of toilet soap per year than any other nation in the European Community (true). Mike sunk to a bench on the concourse, and buried his head between his knees as the nausea rose. "Alma," he muttered, proffering the key to his long-suffering spouse, "Go clear out whatever that poxy git Reid's got in his locker and bring it over here." Alma bit back the response that sprung to mind, as she always did. She obediently went to the rows of lockers and opened number 58. A small steel briefcase lay within.

Inside it were two envelopes; one beige, one white. In the beige, a set of dated photos recorded Mike and Sally Webster in the markets of the Greater Manchester area, selling illicit Kbec copies. Copyright infringement - and they'd thought Mike had been getting away with it! Reid had obviously had him under surveillance. There were closeups of the Kbec logos, of Mike, of money changing hands. Alma drew in a sharp breath. So this is what Mike had been hiding from her! It was evidence enough to put him in the big house for years, along with Raser's cohorts and Popeye McDonald. She knew the photos must be destroyed.

But an even worse shock awaited her. With trembling fingers, Alma opened the second envelope. Her knees felt weak and she clutched the open locker door to stop herself from falling. They were blurry and grainy, but you still got a very clear idea of the two people in the photos, and what they were doing. Alma felt the blood drain from her face, as she recognised her own features. She even recognised the bedspread - it was from the best room in the best hotel in Weatherfield, and it had been on the bed in Stephen Reid's bedroom the night she had lost control of her emotions. "No!" thought Alma,"The way I remember it, Stephen sent me packing..." - but had she been deluding herself?

Alma saw now what a blind fool she had been, seduced by one of the world's great Machiavellian masters of dialect and disguise. "I even thought he was Dutch!" she marvelled. Mike must never see these photos - she couldn't leave them here, but how could she destroy them? She put both envelopes into her handbag and shut the locker door. The journey back across the concourse to Mike seemed a thousand miles long. Suddenly a tall blond mustachioed Frenchman stood in front of her, blocking her way. With a cruel smile, he said "Zat's far enurf, Madame. You 'ave someseeng zat does not belong to you. 'And over zose envelopes eef you know what's good for you." Alma's reaction was pure adrenalin. Raising the steel case high above her head, she brought it crashing down smartly on the Frenchman's head, felling him. "You've tried one accent too many, Stephen Reid," she cried wildly, tugging at his false moustache to yank it off and prove his false identity. To her horror, it did not budge....

Who was that mustachioed man? Was Alma's memory playing tricks? Had she and Stephen really fallen between the sheets and indulged in unspeakable Canadian practices? Were both the Baldwins under surveillance? And who had the negatives?

Dale  

AT PARIS GARE DU NORD Alma ducked into a small alcove and withdrew the photos again. People were rushing over to the fallen Frenchman so she had a few minutes to compose herself. Yes, the photos were indeed blurred and grainy, but the more she thought about it the more enraged she became. "Who could have taken these photos?" she mused. "And why?" She hurriedly packed the photos in the envelope and placed them back in her handbag. An ambulance had arrived and the attendants were loading the Frenchman onto a stretcher. He was holding a cloth to his head and Alma saw that there was blood on it. But at least he was alive. Alma soon realised that this was NOT a good place to be, so she hurried back to Mike, who was looking slightly better. She calmly tugged him up just as there was an announcement over the station loudspeaker that a TGV was leaving for Lille on platform three. Alma reasoned that this would be a good escape, so they clambered aboard and settled into a first-class carriage. With a gentle nudge, the TGV departed and headed for Gonesse where it could pick up the newly laid high-speed rail lines and begin its high-speed run. Mike and Alma were soon hurtling north through the French countryside. Mike was feeling much, much better now and he ordered a large scotch and a threat to pass the time.

Mike's attention turned to the steel briefcase that Alma was still clutching and asked to see it. He opened the case and found it empty save for a small hole near the back of the case. He inserted the tip of his pen and the bottom sprang up to reveal a secret compartment. Inside the compartment was a bundle of bearer bonds to the tune of 1.5 million dollars Canadian! Things were looking better all the time! Alma then decided to come clean and not only showed Mike the photos of him and Sally, but also the fuzzy photos of her in Stephen's room. Mike was astonished that someone had been photographing him, but even more astonished at the photos of Alma and Stephen. "What did you think you were doing in his room?" he scowled. "Oh, Mike, I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was merely helping him cheat in a game of solitaire that he was playing. That's why I was sitting on the bed with him. After he finished the game he told me that he wasn't interested in me and I left." "But more importantly," she continued "who would take those photos of you AND me?"

Mike contemplated that question for some time before answering. "It would have to be someone with an interest in Kbec, but why take photos of you and Stephen?" The name hit them both at once. "Audreh!" they announced simultaneously. "The absolute cow!" continued Alma. "She had it in for me as soon as she found out that Stephen was attracted to me." "Stephen was attracted to you?" queried Mike. "Well, yes." explained Alma. "I ignored him at first, but he kept soft-talking me. That's how I came to be in his room." "The smarmy little git." growled Mike. "We'll see who gets the last laugh now that I've got his bonds." Mike and Alma spent the rest of the journey plotting revenge against Audreh, and revenge was Mike's middle name. The train pulled into Lille where they only had a 10-minute wait for a Eurostar to London's Waterloo station. The train entered the channel tunnel where the lights went out and the train slowed to a halt. The emergency lighting came on and Mike and Alma were stunned to find themselves alone in the coach, save for a striking woman of East Indian extraction.

Aboard the Argy Bargy Des was still moaning and still too sick to notice that they were now hugging the French coastline. Coincidentally, the barge passed over the channel tunnel just as the train's lights went out......

Ian 

THE ARGY BARGY PASSED OVER the Channel Tunnel just as the train's lights went out. In the boat, Aphrodite, using Raser's powerful experimental mobile phone to reach a business contact in Cannes, had fouled up the electronics not only of the train, but of every passing craft. Fifteen thousand feet above her, Concorde was just picking up height on its flight path out of Heathrow when on the flightdeck an astonished pilot found that his screen asserted that he was 7 billion tonnes overweight and flying at a height of twenty feet below sea level. He came up with his usual solution to faulty precision equipment, and kicked it.

IN THE TUNNEL, the striking woman of East Indian extraction had introduced herself to Alma as Freda Khan, and was showing photos of her beautiful dark-eyed grandchildren. "Have you got any photos on you?" she asked, and could not understand why Alma blushed beetroot red. Mike's ears pricked up. "Any relation to Imran?" he asked, and she said yes, but only by marriage. "But I have relatives in England, " said Edith, "I'm on my way to see them." She produced yet another photo."This is my niece Felicity, known as Flick." Alma was startled. "But we know them! They used to live round our way - in fact Flick ran off with -" she broke off, not knowing whether the bad news about Flick and Popeye McDonald had reached as far as Pakistan. "It's all right my dear, I know all about that. It's ancient history. In fact the McDonalds were among the influences that made my brother move away from Coronation Street." That figures, thought Alma. Even the McDonalds moved away from the McDonalds.

"Where do they live now?" asked Alma, and jumped when Edith replied "A much nicer area, Grasmere Drive. Over past the golf course, the other side of Weatherfield." Grasmere Drive?! But that was where Mike and Alma were headed, the home of Audreh and Alf Roberts, OBE. This was too far-fetched to be coincidence. Alma maintained her friendly smile, but drew herself in and began to be very, very wary of the innocent-seeming Mrs Khan.

AT MANCHESTER AIRPORT, a hastily chartered Cessna screeched to a halt and a grim-looking Jaap/Stephen Reid flung himself down from the cockpit. He didn't know where Mike and Alma were right now, but there was little doubt that sooner or later the pair would return to Weatherfield as a dog returneth to its vomit (Proverbs XXVI). He could wait. There was $1.5 million at stake.

OUTSIDE BALDWIN'S FLAT at the Quays, Mike's London chum Mac "The Knife" Macavity also waited. Mike was now three days overdue back from Holland with his guilders and his Delft clog from the diamond deal. Mac would give him one more day, then all hell would break loose.

AT THE GARE DU NORD, Mr French Moustache, gingerly fingering the bump on his head, was speaking urgently into his mobile phone.

DRIVING OFF THE SEALINK FERRY at Harwich, so was Raser. AND IN THAT NICE Mrs Khan's handbag, there was one more photo she hadn't shown Alma. It was of a herd of dzho. Not just any dzho, but Imran Khan's private special breeding stock, pride of the Himalayas. The ones that had gone missing just a month ago. She, Pakistan's only lady private d**k, was hot on their trail. All roads led to Weatherfield.

Will Audreh put the kettle on for all her visitors? Is it Stephen or Alma who's misremembering that night of passion? Has Aphrodite really made her escape? Does the Concorde pilot realise that his steel-capped Doc Martens have thoroughly stuffed the plane's central computer so that it now thinks it's a yoghurt-maker?

Dale  

ABOARD THE ARGY BARGY, which Affie (short for Aphrodite) had affectionately dubbed the Retch Ketch due to Des' unfortunate condition, Affie had concluded her call to her business contact in Cannes, and was making another call to Carnaby Woolskins in Dunedin, New Zealand. She had spotted a pair of sheepskin uggboots while in Andorra, and she just had to have a pair. She heard the ringing in the powerful cell phone and was startled to hear a Russian voice answer! The new phone connection caused even more havoc in the Concorde as the Concorde's nose cone drooped unexpectedly, and it was sheared off in the forceful air stream. The aircraft was no longer aerodynamic and the pilot had to slow down considerably to stop the aircraft from shuddering.

"Is 'allo?" answered a sleepy voice, "vot it is you vont?" "Um...I...er...I wish to purchase some...some uggboots," stammered an astonished Affie. "vot it is uggboots?" said a wary voice. "Isn't this Carnaby Woolskins in New Zealand?" queried Affie. "New Zealant? Hah. Zis is spacestation Mir and I am Comrade Vladimir Folsidentity. Ve is tousands miles vrom New Zealant! You 'av vrrrrrong number!" Comrade Folsidentity was agitated and upset over being awakened from a deep sleep and vowed revenge. He traced the call to the barge and surreptitiously fired one of Mir's long-range lasers at the barge. Nothing was felt on the barge, but a small hole burned through the deck and hull and water slowly started entering the barge.

The Concorde pilot broke out into a cold frown. "Rats, rats, rats!" he thought. "There goes my date in New York. Oh, well I suppose it's back to Dreary tonight." The pilot brought the aircraft around and headed home to London.

Affie rung off and immediately the Eurostar began moving again. Not a minute too soon either, as another Eurostar was only ten miles from entering the tunnel. Passengers soon began filtering back into the coach. Alma sat there wide-eyed, which caused the returning passengers to glance fearfully back over their shoulders. The only other eyes they had seen that were so big were on the tyrannosaurus rex in Jurassic Park! Alma asked them where they all had gone so suddenly. They replied that the train quite often stops, so all the regulars head for the bar car where free drinks are offered until the train starts again, and it's first come, first served. Alma lost track of Freda (aka Edith) Khan in the crush of returning passengers.

Edith made her way to the baggage car to check on her weapons arsenal. She would need all her weapons to be fully serviceable in the coming confrontations. She checked her Uzi and made sure that all the clips were full. She checked her plastic explosives, detonators and timing devices and made sure that all was safe. She then gave herself a little workout with her Nunchaku sticks and cleaned her Walther PPK and, satisfied, she settled back to read the latest issue of 'Soldieress of Fortune'. Let me explain. Not only was Edith Pakistan's only lady private d**k, but she was also the only woman in the world with the '00' designation, meaning, of course, that she had a license to kill. Her designation wasn't a number, though. Someone in Pakistan intelligence had a sick sense of humour, so Edith's designation was, and I am not making this up, '00W' or double-0 double-U!

AT MANCHESTER AIRPORT, Jaap/Stephen Reid flung himself down from the cockpit just a little too forcefully and he hit the tarmac with a sickening thud. Outside Baldwin's flat, Mac "The Knife" Macavity passed the time playing numblety-peg with his knife and accidentally lopped off his left pinkie. He hastily called his lieutenant, Nunzio, and raced off to the Weatherfield infirmary. As always, all roads led to Weatherfield.

Ian 

MARTIN PLATT WAS PUZZLED. He recognised his step-brother-in-law Stephen Reid right away, of course, when he had been carried in to the Casualty Department at Weatherfield General semi-conscious, having fallen out of a small (though parked) plane. But why had Stephen pretended not to know Martin? Surely his nurse's uniform hadn't made him so unrecognisable? And why was Stephen now talking hysterically in a heavy Greek accent and claiming to be called Hercules Kafkaloudes? And threatening to kill Mike Baldwin? Was it the concussion, or was there no end to this man's incarnations? And who was the second mysterious admission, the pinky finger of his left hand contained in a lady's change purse in his right hand? He'd given his name as

He was a right villain and no mistake, and Martin could swear he'd heard him say "This goes on your tally, Michael Vernon Baldwin..." as he had prepared him for microsurgery. Emily Bishop could offer no clues. "I was collecting for charity around the Quays when I saw the accident happen, Martin," she volunteered, "so I ran forward and caught the finger and put it in my purse for safekeeping. You wouldn't like to make a small donation to my charity box, would you? It's for a very worthy cause, office plants made homeless by restructuring and downsizing." Martin groaned - all this and now the well-known Emily sting as well.

AT BRITISH CUSTOMS, Alma and Mike pretended not to know Freda Khan as she was swept off behind a screen. Mike had made it through okay with the two briefcases of undeclared currency buried under his dirty socks, but an unusually alert British customs agent had spotted the false bottom on Freda's Vuitton travelling trunk, and the whole Customs team had gathered round with sagging jaws as her armoury was gradually exposed to the light. They'd never seen anything like it - Uzis, detonators, several types of grenade, the flamethrower, rocket launcher, Maori taiaha, and a completely baffling spherical object with one green button and one red one that had the senior weapons expert scratching his head. "Get the press release ready - I think we've uncovered yet another significant IRA arms cache, guv," said one of the Customs agents, and they looked around to Freda Khan for confirmation. But the adroit Freda had given them the slip and was already well clear of the Europort, and thumbing a lift from a Pakistani lorry driver heading north. Damn, she thought, I'll have to make do with what's in my handbag - a garotte disguised as a bead necklace, some poison darts in a biro, and a copy of Yoko Ono's memoirs." For a trained operative like Freda, it was enough.

ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF WEATHERFIELD, at an intersection, Freda's lorry sailed through a yellow light and hit a taxi broadsides, which ricocheted into an anonymous-looking white van. It was a seven-ambulance collision, as Raser Enderson, who was driving the van, was not alone. It was not going to be a good day at Weatherfield General, where Martin Platt's shift had another seven hours to run. And the ambulances were pulling up at the doors with seven cases of mild concussion - Mike, Alma, Freda, Raser, the two drivers, and Hermaphrodite, one of the more interesting w/enchies. IN THE CHANNEL, Des and Affie were being rescued from the sinking Argy Bargy by a passing fisherperson. "You can't beat really fresh fish," observed a beaming Yoko Ono, biting the head off a small herring and swallowing the rest with evident signs of enjoyment. "I'd rather have an oliebollen," said Des wistfully, watching the last of his frozen ones go to a watery grave. "You couldn't possibly head for the Manchester Ship Canal, could you Yoko?" "I was going in that very direction!" replied Yoko, "RTraceyLuv wants to visit her mother. Did you know she's going out with a Concorde pilot?" Somehow, no one was very surprised..........

Dale  

THE SPHERICAL OBJECT with one green button and one red one certainly had the Customs agents stumped. Close inspection revealed two well-concealed openings. Presumably, one pressed a button and a door would slide back to...to...to do what? No one wanted to press either button, fearing the worst. Not knowing led to much speculation, however, and the agents soon believed that it was some sort of nuclear device or biological weapon. They left it on a table where an incoming agent picked it up and took it to the lunchroom with him. The agents held their breath - they could not move. Legs were rooted to the floor, although if it was a weapon of the sorts that they had imagined, gaining any distance on foot would be futile. 

Minutes seemed an eternity, and as nothing happened, the agents began to relax. They moved cautiously to the lunchroom doorway and gingerly peered in. They saw Sanjay sitting there eating a tomato with the round object sitting on the table. "Sanjay," they cried "get out of there! That bomb could go off at any minute!" "What bomb?" choked a startled Sanjay. "That one there, on the table beside you!" they cried. "That is no bomb," he snarled, irritated with his co-workers for scaring him. "That is an Indian condiment mill, used for grinding sea salt and pepper corns!" He picked the object up and pressed the red button. A door hissed open and an electric motor whirred as salt came tumbling out. He released the button, closing the door and pressed the green one. A second door opened and, again, a motor whirred as pepper came tumbling out. The Customs agents didn't half feel thick! Then it dawned on them that their error had caused them to lose an IRA suspect. Doom and gloom settled over them as they filled out their reports. There would be heck to pay.

BACK AT Weatherfield General Emily was making a general nuisance of herself, hitting on anyone and everyone for donations for her latest cause, the Leeds, Accrington and Morecambe Beneficiary Collection for Homeless Office Plants (LAMBCHOP). She stepped over the line, though, when she stumbled into an operating theatre where a medical team was operating on Stephen Reid's head. "Get out, GET OUT!" screamed Matron. But it was too late. Germs had been introduced to the theatre.......

Ian 

AT WEATHERFIELD GENERAL, STEPHEN REID was in post-op. Wheeled back to the general mixed ward, his bed was placed in the middle of those occupied by Mike, Alma, Freda, Raser, Mac "The Knife" Macavity, the taxi drivers, Hermaphrodite, and Rita Sullivan, who'd just been admitted with a bad reaction to a new brand of wig adhesive. In an armchair nearby was a fraught and collapsed Emily, distraught with the damage she may have caused Stephen by her unexpected entry to the theatre. In the armchair next to her was an exhausted Martin Platt, who'd spent the night ringing relatives of the patients.

Visiting hour arrived just as the group were regaining consciousness. Gail Platt was the first to sweep in, dramatically crying "What have they done to you, R Stephen? Tell your half-sister!" But Stephen was still too woozy to speak. Just as well, because he would not have known how to reply to Audreh Roberts' anguished cry: "Children - are - our - future!" Gail shot an amazed look at her mother - so that's where she'd heard it first!

Mike was trying it on with Mac The Knife. "I haven't been able to get your money to you, Mac old son, because I've been stuck in 'ere for days. But don't you worry, it's all safe here, even a bonus for you because I wasn't able to get it all changed into guilders." Mac was relieved, he'd thought he'd have to slice the slimy smile off Mike's face. Mike was relieved too, that his story seemed to be accepted, even if it meant sacrificing a few of the Canadian bonds. There'd still be plenty left for him. Alma asked for a tranquiliser. It was too bad. Stephen Reid in the same room with room, in bed and unconscious, and she was here with her husband and a big foam rubber neck support. I must look like the wreck of the Hesperus - life can be very cruel, sighed Alma.

Raser had never seen Hermaphrodite in a nightie. It made him painfully aware of his troubles - the bungled attempt at dzho breeding, the destruction by havalanche of his Handorran Ideaway, the defection of most of his enchies and wenchies to watch cricket, and the task of finding 4000 wooden stools by Wednesday to complete the Taiwanese deal. "Hi wish Hi'd never 'eard of those perishing dzhos!" he exclaimed aloud.

Freda Khan sat bolt upright in bed at the mention of an 'erd of dzhos - and wished she hadn't. The many members of the Khan family gathered round her tut-tutted and soothed her, but it was useless. She limped over to Raser's bed and said "I've been looking for a man with excess dzho -there could be a reward in it!" At the mention of money, Raser's eyes lit up like the Mallett's Christmas decorations. "Well, my Pakistani poppet," he said, still Spoonerising but to little effect, "Let's tut the tackle and calk curkey."

Across the room, Stephen Reid was coming round. Friends and relatives crowded round to see whether he was still Hercules the Greek, as when he entered the operating theatre. Or would it be one of his other incarnations - Jaap the Dutchman? an American? Canadian? Australian? New Zealander? White Russian? Not even his mother knew. Stephen sat up in bed, still feeling the bump on his head. "Ecky thoomp!" he suddenly said, beaming at Gail, "Ello petal, by 'eck I could do with a pint and an 'otpot, my stomach thinks me throat's been cut and I'm spittin' feathers. Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs! If it isn't me mam, gorrany berm cakes, mam, what a mardy face yer got on yer! Stop yer moithering! And lend me yer earrings, I've left mine back at the Rovers. "

Rita gave a cry and ran to Stephen with her arms outstretched. "I never meant to drive you away," she cried to Audreh's astonishment. "I should have lent you the money, I know. Can you ever forgive me?" "Of course, chuck, "said Stephen, placidly, "Now you can lend me a fag instead, and some of your war paint. I've gorra pub to run." Emily's germs had mutated Stephen's neurones. He had returned to the bosom of his family in the guise of Bet Gilroy.

Dale  

WEATHERFIELD HOSPITAL, ISOLATION WARD. Raser 'enderson has a visitor -- none other than Hitney Whouston, who had flown over to help RGAIL with remembering the children . . . "Racer", she says, I know where you can find 400 stooden wools, you need to contact sergeant h'oak, whose been demoted, defrocked, and returned to the Dorset constabulary to mind the dairy farms 'gainst rustling"! 'E'el 'ave a line on the best milkin'stools, milk churns, and milkmaids in all of the country" "BTW", she added using the familiar Coricander lingo, "why are you in this isolation ward? Are you contiguous?" (Hitney was a bit of a Malaprop/Bunkerite). "Well, di mear," retorted Raser, gritting his teeth in that threatening but endearing habit so beloved by a former wenchie, "I've got comething satching, but if you don't get me out of here, and this plattitudinous dump, I'll go spare -- take me with you to the wooden stool country, we'll 'ave a wurzel or two, and then skip" So, disguised as each other, but with added white coats and moustaches, they hurried out into the rain, their wellie booted feet sloshing through the weatherfield puddles . . . What will happen to England once spoonerisms infest the hills and dales -- will the vet'neries of Yorkshire come to the rescue, will the milkmaids of the West chain themselves to their stools and never surrender . . ." 

Mary - Halifax

WORD SPREAD QUICKLY and soon Weatherfield General was infested with teenagers looking for Whitney Houston, er, Hitney Wouston. They scoured high and low, but Hitney was nowhere to be found. Martin was feeling a bit peevish about this time and tried to usher the fans out of his ward, battering some about the lugoyles with his thermometer. Audreh and Gail saw what he was doing and uttered "Martin, be careful. Children are our future!" in unison. Audreh and Gail looked at each other and started laughing. The remaining fans, patients and staff fell to the floor in heaps and started gagging. Extra staff was called in to administer vast quantities of Gravol and earplugs. Emily swooned and fell out of her chair, dumping her collected donations for LAMBCHOP all over the ward. The noise attracted everyone's attention and all eyes were drawn to two sparkling objects, one red and one green, in the middle of the coins.

Hitney had met Raser when they were both seeing the same speech therapist, although for different problems. "Hitney," frowned Raser "You hill staven't monquered the calapropisms yet, I see!" "No," replied Whit "The screech thermalist was no help at all. His stragedy was to consecrate on my stinging, but for some treason I can sting fine. It's only when I have to be articulate that I have truffle." "Whit!" cried Raser " You abused the word matriculate in a sentence without!" Raser stopped in mid-sentence and turned white as he realised what erupted from his lips. Once again he looked crestfallen as Whit stared at him in amazement. They climbed into Whit's car and headed for Yorkshire, Raser ruminating on his latest setback.

BACK AT THE HOSPITAL, Freda recovered her composure and looked around the ward for her dzho boy, Raser. She studied every face carefully, knowing the clever disguises that an accomplished masquerade artiste could muster with little, or no props. She had seen all the Inspector Clouseau movies several times, and knew all about Victor Hugo and Hunchback disguises. In fact, during her training, she also had a servant named Kato who attacked at the most inappropriate times. She settled on a likely subject, convinced that it was Raser, walked over and placed a swift kick to the shins. "Raser you rascal!" sneered Freda "Are you trying to welch on our dzho deal, you duplicit donkey?" 

"Yeeouuch!" cried Bet/Stephen Gilroy/Reid "Wot the 'eck do you think you're doing?" "Er, sorry Guv, "apologised Freda. Obviously this was not Raser. "Whadaya mean Guv? Can't you see that I'm a lady?" Bet/Stephen was indeed starting to look a little tarty. The blonde hair was turning platinum and bouffantish before their eyes. She was on his/her cellphone, ordering several leopard-skin outfits from her favourite boutique. She called Vickie and asked her to ransack the countryside for the most outlandish earrings that she could find. She called Alec at the travel agents and listened to an empty receiver as Alec fell into a dead faint. Emily awoke to the familiar voice and silently spoke to herself, "Whatever, ever have I done to Stephen."

Ian 

GAIL AND AUDREH PLEADED with Stephen to come back to them as his "real" self. "Gerraway off with you! I know exactly who I am: Elizabeth Theresa Gilroy nee Lynch, proprietor of the Rover's Return, Coronation Street, Weatherfield, and a right tasty bit of crackling." was all he replied, applying another layer of fuchsia polish to his already gleaming fingernails. "Stephen, luv, you've had a nasty shock - a bump on the head. Just take things quietly till you come round and can get back to your job in Kbec," urged Audreh, but her words seemed to inflame Stephen all the more. "Kbec!" he exclaimed "What's that when it's at home? Sounds like something you'd rub on sore feet. I'll be alright when I get back behind my bar and see the regulars. And who put me in these tacky pyjamas? I want my own saucy lingerie." He fretted to be let loose. Martin brought him a sedative, but Audreh helped herself to it instead.

Gail had an idea. "Maybe we should take him back to the Rovers, mam, then he could see that Jack and Vera run it now. It might help bring him back to his senses." Martin could see the logic in this, and a sedated Audreh was now agreeable to anything. Martin helped Stephen to dress - the first of his leopard skin outfits had arrived from his favourite boutique, and with a cry of delight he seized on the sparkling red and green objects from Emily's charity collection - "I wondered where I'd put those traffic light earrings!" he exclaimed. He adjusted the batteries, fastened them to his ears,and they flashed through the red-green-amber sequence in tasteful unison. Martin thought that in view of the absconding of Raser, and the rapid recovery of all the accident victims apart from Hermaphrodite and Mac The Knife, he may as well discharge the rest, so Mike and Alma joined Emily, Gail, Audreh, and Rita in accompanying Bet/Stephen on his return to the Rovers. As they reached the door of the pub, a disgruntled Ken Barlow came out. "I hope you've got your ear plugs, because you're going to need them," he said. "And don't try complaining, they just laughed at me. I'm off to the Flying Horse." There was no mistaking his meaning. The sound emanating from the Rovers could be heard blocks away. It was like a herd of dzho in labour.

Despite her fears, Alma bravely led the way into the pub. There, in a corner seat, sat RTracyLuv, her husband Robert, Des Barnes, Dreary, and a beaming Yoko Ono. Celebrating their return to England with a pint and a singsong, they were wreaking musical havoc on "I never will be a wild rover no more". Jack and Vera stood behind the bar with beermats stuffed in their ears. The noise was excruciating. It tailed off as the singers saw the newcomers enter. "Join us! " shouted a happy Des. "Dreary and RTracyLuv are best pals again! I've tracked down the world headquarters of frozen oliebollen, and it was right here in Weatherfield all along. And Yoko's discovered Jackson's chippy with their remarkably fresh fish - she's going to buy a house in the neighbourhood! Everybody's happy!" But everybody was far from happy. The look on Bet/Stephen Reid's face as he saw Jack and Vera behind the bar would have frozen the blood of an Antarctic right whale. S/he stepped up to bar and uttered the immortal words: "Look, laydeh...." And over in The Kabin, there was a bemused look on Rita's face as she unwrapped the day's bundle of newspapers and saw the headline: QUEEN MOTHER COLLAPSES - SEES SOMETHING NASTY IN THE WOODSHED AT HIGHGROVE.

Is Prince Charles's secret about to be revealed? Can Stephen convince Vera he was Bet Gilroy? Can Jack bring himself to strike a laydeh? And where is Freda Khan? 

Dale  

"LOOK, LAYDEH" to which Jacko grinned and immediately replied -"That is no lady, that is my wife!" and suffered Vera's handbag across the back of his head for it, knocking the beermats out of his ears. Bet/Stephen collapsed with laughter and caught the back of her/his head on the heavy wood of the bar and once again was rendered unconscious. Vera was staring daggers into Jack and, as Jack turned to pour himself a large scotch, clocked him across the mug, knocking his glasses to the floor.

Andy McDonald had just staggered through the Rover's door and stumbled over Des. "Shorry, mate!" he shlurred, "Can't sheem to get shteady on me feet for shome reashon." "It's OK, Andy. Let me buy you a drink." "I'll not stray no to that. Thanksh Desh." Des was all a twitter. A brilliant idea was forming. All that time being seasick on the Argy Bargy gave him plenty of time to think. Unfortunately, the only thing he could think about was 'Where the heck is Affie with that bucket,' and 'Drinka pinta milka day'. No wonder he was sick, he thought. His mind raced! Andy's appearance was indeed fortunate. 'I'll get me house back and start a business!' he thought. 'I'll sell my all-time favourite food! And I'll call it .....McOliebollen's!' He raced out of the pub and headed for Firman's to put in a standing order for all available flavours of oliebollen. Smokey bacon, spring onion, roast chicken, beef and mustard, shrimp cocktail, even plain, he'd sell them all! "I'll be rich, Rich, RICH beyond my wildest dreams!" he spluttered as he ran.

Des passed Ken, who was now gruntled, pleased with himself that he had the sense to escape the Rover's rather than to try to explain the merits of being quiet, especially to that Yoko. Gad, he had never heard such a ruckus. It was enough to drive Andy McDonald to drink. 'No,' he thought. 'That's not a good analogy. Lately drinking drove Andy to drink.'

BACK AT HIGHGROVE, Charles fanned his gran as two strange animals sniffed around. He ordered the groom to put the animals in their pen just as gran was coming around. "Chuck... those... those... animals looked... looked... looked just like Camilla Parker-Bowles! What on earth have you done?" "Well, grannie," began Charles. "It happened this way........"

Ian 

AT HIGHGROVE, fifteen flunkies put the Queen Mother to bed in the Peacock Suite while Charles tried desperately to convince her that Betty and Yeti, the two immature dzho that she had glimpsed, were in fact a new strain of highland cattle. Their coats were browning up into a less alarming shade of lavender, and their third eye was almost covered by the wild shaggy fringes characteristic of their breed. In fact, it gave Chazza an idea....In the meantime, he said "Granny, Glenlivet's a fine potion but we've all asked you a thousand times to take more water with it."

IN ANDORRA, Freda Khan put the lassoo down. She had finished rounding up the last of the dzho and had given a delighted Imran Khan the news that his prize herd was on its way home. We said she was good, didn't we?

BACK AT THE ROVER'S RETURN, Dreary was beaming from ear to ear. She had just witnessed Yoko Ono purchase Tony Horrocks's father's controlling interest in the carpet business, which meant Robert Preston could bring RTracyLuv back to Weatherfield to live, forever. Dreary didn't know which would burst first - her heart, with happiness, her neck veins with stress, or her eardrums with Yoko's victory yodel.

Yoko herself was flirting girlishly with a gobsmacked Jim McDonald. To entice him, she was singing a chorus of "I'm just a girl who can't say nuuurrrrr", and he responded by asking if she wanted a new manager for Jackson's Chippy. The future looked rosy.

In the corner, Alma accused Audreh of putting her and Mike under surveillance. Audreh, unsurprisingly, denied all knowledge. Had Alma arrived five minutes earlier, she could have confronted the real culprits. Mike had made a lot of enemies over the years, and when two of them - Ken Barlow and Don Brennan - joined forces, they had gathered the photographic evidence that could blow his marriage out of the water and see him doing porridge. They'd sold it, of course to Stephen Reid.

But which Stephen Reid? The man of a thousand faces and a hundred voices lay motionless on the floor of the Rover's, still dressed in Bet Gilroy's finery. He began to come round. A fascinated Mike Baldwin wondered who his nemesis would return as in this incarnation. And would he remember about the blackmailing photos, and the briefcase full of Canadian bonds? Stephen sat up. He glanced nonchalantly down at his long false nails and peeled them off one by one. He took off Bet's blonde bouffant wig and black false eyelashes, and laid them on the counter of the Rover's. Looking down at his odd garb, he muttered, "I'll send the equerry out for something." Then he turned to Audreh and Alf and the astonished crowd heard him say, in accents never heard round Weatherfield: "Well goodbye Mama and Papa. Must dash orf. I've got an estate to see to and an annighncement to make. And of course, my people need me." Clasping his hands behind his back, he loped towards the door and out into the street. He had a phone call to make.

AT THE SIDE ENTRANCE TO HIGHGROVE, the long-wheelbase Range Rover waited. Inside sat the placid dzho, some gardening tools, and on a pile of suitcases, a tense-looking Camilla Parker-Bowles. "Are you coming or aren't you, Charles?" she asked querulously, "It'll be daylight soon." "With you in a moment, Gladys old thing," replied Chazza, "We're just waiting for - well, you know."

Stephen Reid's car pulled up alongside the Range Rover and Stephen climbed out. He and Charles shook hands awkwardly. "Are you sure you can manage?" asked Charles, and was reassured when Stephen's replied: "Is the Queen C of E?" "Don't worry about us," said Charles. "We're going to have a wonderful life - completely anonymous, of course. We'll be as right as ninepence. We've got this little sod crofter's cottage on the island of Muck, and We're going to raise dzho and chickens, and Camilla's going to spin the dzho hair into clorth for all Our needs, aren't you Our beloved?" "So you say," replied Camilla, but her face registered mixed emotions. Charles got into the driver's seat and started up the Rover. "Don't do anything We wouldn't do!" he exclaimed, and chuckled merrily as he drove off. Camilla's pale and wistful face stared out of the back window for a long time.

Stephen wasted no time in setting up a Press conference. In the yellow drawing room at Highgrove, before the assembled journalists, and the whirring cameras, he began the speech that was to be quoted so often in the years to come, when he was a much-loved King, and his subjects looked back to this day as the turning point in the survival of the British monarchy. Stephen's words echoed round the elegant room: "I would like you all to know that I have decided not to marry Camilla Parker-Bowles," he said, as the reporters gasped. "Mindful of my duty to God and the Commonwealth, I resolve to put personal considerations aside and dedicate my whole life to the service of my country." It was a popular decision. His last role was his most brilliant one.

THE COMPLETE AND UTTER END. 

Dale