In a post-Brexit, pre-dystopian Britain, the traditional political system has collapsed and Oxford and Cambridge are on the verge of war. Cambridge have captured ex-Prime Minister and notorious warmonger Tony Blair and tied him to a chair in the kitchen. Door-to-door duster salesman and occasional spy Nigel Farage has just returned from his mission to gain information on Cambridge’s plan, to report back to his master Boris, King of Oxford…
Friends are found in the most unlikely of places and none are so unlikely as serial blog commenter, Trenton Babbage. He started out as a sort of casual stalker, but his dedication to providing me with amusing photoshopped pictures of Nigel Farage saw me finally relenting and accepting his friend request on Facebook. It proved to be a good decision, although my social media is now prone to outbursts of random filth, on occasion. In this semi-regular series, Babbage will be sharing with you all his epic tale of a couple of fool-hardy bacon smugglers. He has promised to keep obscenity to a minimum, but if you are my mum I probably wouldn’t read this…
This diary was inspired by a comment conversation with one Lucy Brazier (hi Lucy!); I forget how it started, but it ended with an idea about bacon, and its undoubtedly transformative abilities with regards social harmony and ultimate world peace. As logically follows from this statement, bacon also has the power to divide people and nation states if its distribution is not universal, nor of the highest quality. So follows the adventures of the bacon smugglers Manfred Pear and Perl Ritorg; they also bump into Arthur Browne, because no-one should be going on any trips without a guide such as he; and Trent Lewin, because one isn’t adventuring correctly if one doesn’t come into contact with a crazy moose loving canadian such as he. Thanks to exhaustive research and my own patented algorithm, I have discovered that the optimum WordPress post length in order to achieve both comfort and retention, is 637 words. There will be no deviation. Enjoy.
The Diary of a Bacon Smuggler
The 3.16 from Chester – 3.24pm
Well the train’s late. But unlike a tardy menstrual cycle there will be no alterations to ones life plan resulting from this unwanted delay. I’m standing on platform four, the greatest of all platform numbers; all those famous movie scenes in railway stations? filmed on a platform four; the majority of welcome home and farewell smooches occur on platform four; a station hasn’t made it in the eyes of other stations until it gets a platform four, they look down on it, I’m not saying it’s right, just that it happens; more suicides have been prevented on platform four…although more suicides have been attempted on platform four, so that may just be a statistical thing – train’s here!
I’m on my way to Southampton; gateway to the world, mouth of the ocean, sphincter of the high seas. I’m going like so many have before me; to seek adventure, fortune, fame or infamy it matters not a jot to me, but I will make my mark! together with my partner in porcine crime; a striking blonde danish goddess of a woman going by the name of Perl Ritorg, she is perfectly unfiltered and has a particularly undefinable look in her eye, like a light bulb seducing a door handle…but better.
I am travelling from Cheshire and she from somewhere else, but we have agreed to meet in Oxford in order to blow up a co-op. Specifically the one at 42 Walton Street. The beauty of this store is that it is under a mile from the station: walk south – 220 ft; turn right towards Park End St/A420 – 141 ft; at the roundabout, take the 1st exit onto Park End St/A420 – 279 ft; at the roundabout, take the 1st exit onto Hythe Bridge St/A4144 – 0.2 mi; turn left onto Worcester St/A4144 – 0.1 mi; continue onto Walton St, destination will be on the left – 0.4 mi. The other convenience associated with the wanton destruction of this type of premises, is that all bomb making paraphernalia is located under the one roof.
No-one was to be harmed in the bombing, is was merely designed to rid the world of one more bloody co-op…bastards.
But before the delight of seeing Oxford alight could begin, I had to suffer the indignities of the buffet car: specifically the lukewarm muroidal faecal matter the server had the effrontery to call a bacon sandwich…I impaled it…the sandwich that is…on the seat next to me, in the manner of the late 19th century serial killer Johannes Pannerberg: not impaling as one object, but displaying it in its constituent parts; annotated in detail, the organs cursed with the genetic predisposition to fail; that which drove Pannerberg to save any destined offspring from suffering the same fate by butchering the prospective parent…my notes on the degenerative nature of the bacon were extensive.
The tone of the day is given the greatest possible omen as not just one, but both our trains arrive at platform four, twenty three minutes apart; one of the very best amounts of time between two things…but not dinner courses, or twins, or toilet trips. We embrace, tightly – unhindered by our ergonomically designed hats, specifically fashioned for a number of aesthetic and practical purposes, one of which being embracing – inhaling the smells of leather, skin, and of course, bacon. We double check the time and head out onto the mean streets of Oxford: we walk south – 220 ft; turn right towards Park End St/A420 – 141 ft; at the roundabout, take the 1st exit onto Park End St/A420 – 279 ft; at the roundabout, take the 1st exit onto Hythe Bridge St/A4144 – 0.2 mi; turn left onto Worcester St/A4144 – 0.1 mi; continue onto Walton St, our destination is on the left – 0.4 mi.
Tinned musac fills every aisle, and the pair of us die a little inside; just a
“Another drink, Sir?”
The Right Honourable Boris Johnson didn’t look like he needed another drink. He reclined in awkward repose upon a blue velvet 18th century chaise longue, resplendent in a silk Japanese robe and little else. He turned his head towards the very nice man who was offering him another drink.
“A humble measure would suit me decorously, old bean!” Boris replied, with some enthusiasm.
His obliging companion was his permanently irritated butler, Snetterton.
“And what form will the humble measure take this time, Sir?”
“Oh. Well – what was the last one?”
“The last one was a creme de menthe, Sir,” replied Snetterton, eyebrow twitching furiously. “The one before that, was a Pernod.”
Before the bemused Boris could answer, an almighty crash and shower of shattered glass erupted from the bay windows, encouraged no doubt by the garishly-attired figure travelling through it apace. Boris sat up with a start, causing the silken robe to suppress yet less of his sturdy assemblage. Snetterton tutted.
“It would appear that Mr Nigel Farage is here to see you, Sir.”
“Farage! Bing-bang-bully-o for that! Well, if it’s Farage invading my supplicatory shack I suppose it had better be pints all round, what!”
Snetterton effectuated the most subtle eye roll known to man.
“Certainly, Sir. Two pints of what, would you suggest?”
“Chablis, if you will, Snetterton. Nigel! What are you playing at you dastardly fopdoodle?” Boris flung his arms wide, inviting a manly embrace.
Farage tolerated this unflattering reception, on the grounds that he had been called far worse.
While Snetterton retreated to the drinks cabinet, Nigel got uneasily to his feet and limped towards what he deemed to be a distinctly uninviting-looking Boris. Keen to avoid any physical contact, Nigel perched himself at the far end of the chaise longue and cast furtive glances in the direction of an industrious Snetterton.
“Quite an entrance you made there, chum,” remarked Boris. “That calls for a drink! Huzzah!”
“It was your bloody dogs!” Nigel cried. “They chased me all the way from the bloody carpark.”
“It’s not a carpark, you ridiculous peasant, it is a sweeping approach.”
Snetterton returned with two magnificent pints of Chablis and the mood improved immediately.
“So, what brings you here?” asked Boris, hardly noticing that a small pool of Chablis had gathered in his navel.
“Well, as a fellow Brexiteer and notorious trouser-dropper, I’ve been worried about you,” replied Nigel. “All this to-do about the general election and you’re nowhere to be seen! What’s going on?”
“Aha, well, Bozza here has had some pergravis pursuits on his hands, I tell you. All in preparation for that most auspicious of dates – 10th June!”
“10th June?” queried Nigel, his brows knotting so tightly it would take a brawny sailor to untie them. “The election is on the 8th June!”
“Damn and blast the buggering election!” blustered Boris. “No, no, no man. No. Lucy Brazier’s spanking new novel – PorterGirl – The Vanishing Lord – is released on 10th and there’s going to be almighty carousing in Cambridge on the very day! Broadcast across the globe by all manner of technical jiggery-pokery. I’ve invented a pair of self-removing trousers for this very occasion and it has taken up all my time. Old Bozza hasn’t even had a moment to consider this election whiffle-waffle.”
“Blimey, I bet the Prime Minister’s furious!”
“Actually, it was her that suggested it,” Boris paused to take a large swig of Chablis. “Can’t think why…”
“She was probably concerned about you coming out with more of that 15th century gutter talk…”
“And that’s another thing!” Boris brightened immediately. “There’s plenty of fine medieval trash-talking and lashings of rumpy-pumpy in the new book! Huzzah!”
“Well, it sounds utterly marvellous,” said Nigel, clasping his hands together with glee. “Where can I get my hands on a copy?”
“It’s available on pre-order now!” replied Boris, only a small amount of Chablis dribbling from his chin. “Whatever the result next Thursday it’s bound to be horrific for all concerned – The Vanishing Lord will be just the thing to cheer up the hoi polloi and idiot elite alike!”