And Dog Created Basingstoke

By Jim Connibeer

In 1990, two Aldershot supporters hijack a twenty four year old Reliant Robin and embark on an adventure. For the Reliant is a means of transport through the Void, the ultimate discontinuity connecting all points in space and time with all other points. The Reliant is controlled by Eamonn, a Void Courier with mental and vocal presence but no physical form, who faces decommissioning but refuses to take his fate lying down. Blod and Billy are caught up in Eamonn’s great escape along with Olga Thlorsen, Void Voyager, who pursues them through time and space as supreme beings, the Nexus Betans, head towards communal nervous breakdown over Eamonn’s ability to defy them.
Blod and Billy enter and exit the Game, a cosmic survival test. They survive challenges, plucked from their own imaginations, and are pursued and eventually joined by the delectable Olga.
Blod and Billy eventually return to Earth, richer for their experience, in particular that of Olga, and with new found talents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291995909

Book preview

And Dog Created Basingstoke

AND DOG CREATED BASINGSTOKE

A novel by Jim Connibeer

Copyright © 2014 Jim Connibeer

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-291-99590-9

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SYNOPSIS

In 1990, two Aldershot supporters, a little the worse for alcohol and stranded on the Basingstoke ring road, hijack a twenty four year old Reliant Robin (with a tow bar) and embark on an adventure which proves more of a match than even an away game at Wrexham.

For the Reliant turns out to be a Void Module, a means of transport through the Void, the ultimate discontinuity connecting all points in space and time with all other points. The Reliant is controlled by Eamonn, Void Courier and John Inman impersonator, a first generation fast breeder comptutor with mental and vocal presence but no physical form. Created by Nexus Betan mind forms and having outlived his technological usefulness, Eamonn faces decommissioning but refuses to take his fate lying down. Blod and Billy, hapless yet by no means typical Aldershot fans, are caught up in Eamonn’s great escape. Olga Thlorsen, Void Voyager and commander of the Reliant Void Module, indignant at having been stranded on Earth with only her support module, a battered Triumph scooter, pursues them through time and space as the Nexus Betans head towards communal nervous breakdown over Eamonn’s ability to defy them.

The Nexus Betan creator of Earth, and original discoverer of the Void, known on Earth as God, has long since been banished to isolation in time-space for failing to create anything superior to category five life forms known as humans. God proves also to have been responsible for other creations in hitherto uncharted and undetectable regions of time-space. Eamonn, Blod and Billy, complete with Reliant Robin, encounter these Earth prototypes as they enter and exit the Game, a cosmic survival test devised by the Nexus Betans for their amusement. They survive ‘Death by Ten Thousand Jamie Lee Curtises’ and other challenges, plucked from their own imaginations, and are pursued and eventually joined by the delectable Olga.

Their continued survival precipitates the Nexus Betan nervous breakdown, until eventually Eamonn’s bold confrontation of his creators proves a master stroke, leaving him in a position of power in the Void with the Nexus Betans in exile. Blod and Billy return to Earth, richer for the experience, in particular that of Olga, and with new found talents.

Eamonn assumes power in sublime ignorance of the guiding hand that used him as an instrument of revenge on Nexus Beta. As Blod and Billy so aptly exude, ‘All is well and God is in His heaven’. Even if, She ruefully reflects, they got the gender wrong.

1

The restraining straps were chafing his wrists as he clung to the lingering remnants of consciousness. He could see a hazy panorama of greyness through an expansive windscreen. A tall, indistinct yet undeniably female figure ghosted gracefully over what appeared to be an enormous control panel. Next to him someone else was lying prone, similarly secured to a psychiatric-style couch.

As Billy finally lapsed into unconsciousness, an unfamiliar, murmured phrase seemed to float from the stillness.

Nadolig Llawen a Blwyddyn Newydd Dda !

And then all was black. And something seemed to be drawing from the innermost depths of his mind, a chilling and strangely defiling sensation of memory being drawn from his soul.

He finally succumbed to unconsciousness, as in the flow of that memory he was falling, crashing to the ground

2

Ow !!

Nine point six! A near perfect double somersault reversed and piked.

Dog off! It’s not my fault I travel on a different plane to the rest of the world.

The horizontal plane at present!

Ow! My aching lobe!

Billy’s uneven contest with the force of gravity may have been a little less one sided were it not for the hour he had spent earlier in the Farmer’s Arms. The seven pints of strong lager may have sounded as if they’d been made by Danes, but they tasted as if they’d been made by mistake!

Where are we, anyway?

It’s a pub. We’re in the car park.

I can see that! My head’s just had a close encounter of the worst kind with something hard and yellow with wheels!

You’re sobering up! If you’d called it a car I’d have known you were still pissed.

Gareth ‘Blodwyn’ Williams, Billy’s best and only friend, was staring at the battered yellow object Billy had chosen to break his recent fall. As he slowly circled, the thing he liked to call his face went through its full repertoire of expressions.

Of course I’m sober. It’s been nearly an hour since we left the Farmer’s, muttered Billy, as he struggled to regain the ground he had lost so ignominiously to gravity.

If he’d had more arms he may have succeeded in accomplishing the task his lager-lagged brain had set him. As it was, the attempt at simultaneously dusting himself off, nursing his aching head and counterbalancing his meandering legs was doomed to failure. Billy bit the dust for the second time, acquainting the other side of his head with the same yellow object.

Gravity  2, Billy Whizz  0, ventured Blod in his best Grandstand voice, And we’re only part way through the first half!

Oww, my aching lobes! updated Billy.

Make a substitution, offered Blod. You could use a fresh pair of legs!

Oh, tres amusante! About as spontaneous as Bob Monkhouse, was the grunted reply as Billy narrowly won his third battle with gravity.

Never count a man out until he is out. I think Richard Nixon said that. Or was it Harry Carpenter?

Now you’re mixing your metaphors.

Rubbish! I’ve stuck to lager all night.

But enough of this. Come and look at your little yellow friend. It’s something else.

As Billy joined Blod in his circular tour of inspection, the identity of Billy’s lobe-lumping assailant slowly emerged.

It’s a Reliant Robin. God, it’s a wonder it’s still in one piece. Look! Your head actually made two holes in the bodywork.

What a bloody insult.  If I’d known it was a Reliant Robin I’d have forbidden my head to hurt!

Hey, what do you call a Reliant Robin with twin exhausts?

God knows.

A wheelbarrow.

GROAN !!

Look, it’s a D reg. It can’t be only four years old, surely. It’s falling apart,

No, the D comes at the end. It’s 1966. The dogging thing’s 24 years old!

Hey, Bill. What do you call a Reliant Robin with a tow bar?

Optimistic, I should think.

Yeah, especially when it’s twenty four years old. Look, the bloody thing’s got a tow bar!

Pain dispelled, thirst propelled, a strange four legged, two armed, spluttering, giggling creature staggered its way across the car park in the direction of the public bar. Blod and Billy united arm in arm to frustrate gravity, but were no match for the absurdity of their little yellow friend.

The bloody thing’s got a tow bar!!

"Ssssppppplllllllluuuuuuuuuttttttttteeeeeeeerrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!

3

But where are we?

Just about to enter a pub.

Listen, knothead. I may be fighting an unequal battle with gravity but I never fail to recognize a pub when I see one. Approximately which part of the country do we find ourselves in is what I meant!

Sorry, Bill. A childhood blighted by sheep has dulled my Welsh wits. We’re somewhere near Basingstoke.

That’s more than enough reason for a drink! Lead on and you can remind me how we got here.

The fact that at seven o’clock on a Saturday evening, Billy and Blod were entering a pub on the outskirts of Basingstoke without Billy realizing how they’d got there wasn’t really too far from normal practice. Impulse had often proved their failing after an Aldershot game. Besides, part of the pleasure was the jigsaw of recollection.

4 - 0!

GROAN!

And to ROCHDALE!!

GROAN!

I know it was an away match, but it makes you wish the club had been wound up after all.

That Spencer Trethewy fella must be some sort of masochist.

Spencer Trethewy was the nineteen year old whizz kid who had stepped in at the last minute to ensure Aldershot F.C.’s financial survival. Billy fervently hoped that the man possessed some sort of divine connection to ensure their survival on the field.

But it still doesn’t explain how we got here. All I remember is going to the Farmer’s as soon as we heard the result on Grandstand, and as far as I’m concerned we’re still there!

The landlord wouldn’t agree with you, Bill. He would probably stick to his story that he threw us bodily from the bar after your full throated, and uncensored version of ‘Nellie the Elephant’.

Not with the actions?

Full frontal!

Oh, God! Did he say when we’d be allowed back in?

Something about when Aldershot makes the first division.

That bad, eh?

That bad!

So what happened then?

Normal story. A randomly hitched lift. Before we could decide where we wanted to go we were on our way to Basingstoke.

But why did we get out here? This is Volvo and BMW country.

Something to do with you expressing your opinion of Margaret Thatcher.

What’s wrong with that? A man’s entitled to his political views. That sort of prejudice makes me sick!

Exactly! All over the back seat of his brand new Audi.

Oh, shit!

Fortunately not!

I’m gonna have to give up this boozing. Your round, added Billy in turning his empty glass upside down on the table, a habit he’d acquired from his Welsh friend.

Blod swayed his way to the bar more by instinct than good judgement. He never ceased to wonder how he managed to control his motor faculties when out with Billy. His taste for alcohol was not pronounced, but he found himself matching Billy drink for drink yet never quite succumbing to the extremes of activity and insensibility of his friend. These evenings always began enjoyably. The inhibitions, instilled in childhood ‘chapel’ years in the market town of Carmarthen, slowly melted with the first few pints, and his natural verbal creativity began to flourish with the next few. From then on, however, he was preoccupied with an immense internal struggle to maintain the tenuous links his brain enjoyed with the extremities of his body. Ensuring that his legs did not resort to mutually independent action; retaining the hand-eye coordination essential to transferring the contents of a pint of lager to increasingly anaesthetized lips; reproducing a reasonable facsimile of the English language as those same lips refused to cooperate with his tongue; coordinating the relaxation of muscles involved with the excretory process with times when he was actually in the loo; all this he managed with some distinction.

The effort this cost him went generally unrecognized. Only at times when forced to exercise control in three or four of these areas simultaneously did the stress begin to show. Fortunately this was always later in the evening when everyone else was too far gone to notice. He thus retained a reputation for being able to hold his drink. The irony that he didn’t particularly enjoy drinking remained his secret; the further irony that his chosen drinking companion was singularly incapable of any control whatsoever after five pints was no secret to every inhabitant of Aldershot except Billy ‘Whizz’ Daniels himself.

Two pints of Pils, please.

I’m sorry, sir. We sell Pils in half pint bottles, was the reply. The ‘casual disdain’ was just a little overdone for Blod’s taste.

I do apologize, my good minion. Had I realized you were innumerate I would have ordered four half pints of Pils. Four half pints of Pils, please. Blod glowed with inner pride as the gamble of confronting his lips with the challenge of the word ‘innumerate’ paid off.

There’s no need for that attitude, young man, interposed the customer standing next to Blod at the bar.

Blod’s immediate reaction would have been a further controlled retort, dripping with inebriate Welsh venom. The merest hint of a sideways glance was enough to instil caution, however. The time it took him to turn towards the interruption and muster sufficient control over his focusing mechanism was enough to convince him the caution was justified.

Well?

The woman could have taken on the Pontypool front row! The Pontypool front row, given the option, would probably have declined the pleasure on the grounds of self preservation. She was approximately five feet square, armoured in Harris Tweed, shod in the stoutest Scottish leather and crowned with a cross between a deerstalker and a pith helmet. Her face was as synonymous with ‘square-jawed’ and ‘rugged’ as Noddy was with Big Ears. Her whole countenance was to femininity what Colin Moynihan was to tall.

Uhh. Yes. Well. I’m sorry if I misunderstood you, sir. I’ll just have two halves of Pils if I may, please, sir.

I should think so too. If I were in charge here I’d probably refuse to serve you at all. Her voice reminded Blod of tank tracks crushing empty milk bottles. Not that he’d ever heard tank tracks crushing empty milk bottles but it didn’t take much imagination!

The barman smirked his favourite smirk, deliberately spilled some of the Pils when pouring it, and blatantly overcharged. Thank you, sir, he creamed.

Blod’s inner turmoil was only narrowly suppressed as he took the shortest route back to his table, failing to register the fact that a chair was sent crashing across the floor as he did so.   Its occupier was singularly more aware, but was fortunately rendered speechless as he sprawled on the floor, drenched in his own beer.

Bu . . . . , was all Billy managed as Blod slammed the two glasses down on the table, spilling more of the beer, and immediately about faced and stormed back to the bar.

In those few seconds his inner control had snapped as he refused to accept the humiliation, as the Welsh fire of his ancestors rose to the challenge of this English invasion of his dignity. Another chair went sprawling on his return route, adding injury to the insult of the previous victim as he struggled to his feet, cracking him painfully across his shins and returning him to the floor.

Oy! Mochyn! Two pints of Pils! He slammed his handful of change on the counter as he shouted. His control really was slipping for in doing so he propelled a jug of iced water and the ice cube bucket in the direction of the tweed encrusted brick wall masquerading as a woman. The vigour of his actions and the lack of height of the woman ensured that ice cubes met square jaw in geometric juxtaposition, that iced water met fiery expression but lost an unevenly heated battle.

Serves you right, armadillo features! he blustered, mind your own dogging business next time!

There comes a time in everyone’s life when realization dawns that, just perhaps, things have gone a little too far. Blod recognized that time as now! Custer must have had a similar feeling at the Little Bighorn; Alfred must have known when he burnt the cakes. Blod knew now. The steam generated as the ice water gave up the unequal battle added to the illusion of a rhinoceros on heat. Like some avenging volcano she swept across the floor, scooping Blod up and propelling him through the door in one easy movement.

As he struggled to extricate himself from his head down position in a rhododendron bush, Billy joined him. A little too forcefully for Blod’s liking.

And don’t come back! The words hung like the thunderclap of doom.

We wouldn’t bloody well come back here if....

SPLOOSH

The contents of the slop bucket caught Billy full in the face before he could finish his sentence.

Hhmmmmm! Not bad that, he thought. Pity there was more beer than lager in it, but not bad!

The pub door slammed and they were left alone in the half light of the dusk, scratched, wet and dispirited.

Eight o’clock on a Saturday night and we’ve already been thrown out of two pubs. Literally!

Yeah, not bad for starters. We’ve still got three hours left to beat the record!

That’s all very well but we’re somewhere on the Basingstoke by-pass. There may not be another pub for miles, Bill. And we’re running out of money. I left a handful on the bar but there’s no way I’m going back in there. What was that woman??

Fear not, my little Welsh willy. While you were creating that discrete diversion by getting thrown out, I penetrated the suitcase it used as a handbag to ascertain just that. That woman is known as Olga Thlorsen, comes from Sidcup.

Olga Thlorsen, eh? Sounds Norwegian. A bloody troll, that’s what she is! Explains a lot.

So as long as we keep away from Sidcup, wherever that is, she’ll never see us again.

Not if I see her first!

But that’s the point, young Blodwyn. Whilst delving in her portmanteau, I inadvertently stumbled on something that inadvertently found its way to my pocket. This could just prove our salvation.

Oh yeah! What have you nicked that could help us get away from her? An elephant gun?

Voila, my fine friend, flourished Billy, holding up a set of car keys in one hand and a pair of crisp fivers in the other.

Hey you’ll get us arrested. Take them back!

You’re joking! There’s no way I’m going back in there either. And besides, we’ll be long gone before they discover. If we get a move on.

I suppose she’s got it coming to her. O.K. Let’s get out of here. What kind of car is it?

It’s got an R on the key ring. Perhaps it’s a Rolls.

No way. They have two R’s. I bet it’s a Range Rover. It would take at least that to shift her!

Or a Renault, or a . . . . I can’t think of any others.

It shouldn’t be too difficult to find then. Come on.

A rapid tour of the car park revealed no Rolls Royces, no Rovers of any kind and two Renaults that the key never looked like fitting.

Must be the key to her broomstick, muttered Blod in exasperation. It’s hopeless. We’ve tried every car in the place, R or no R, and none work!

Not quite, smiled Billy. Not quite.

What do you . . . No, you’re joking! R for Reliant! No, it would never move her. No!

But Billy was already half way across the car park to the gap in the hedging where their little yellow friend was parked. It had to be!

No, I’d rather walk. No, Billy. Suppose someone saw us in it?

They wouldn’t know it was stolen.

I don’t mean that. The humiliation! Being seen in a twenty four year old Reliant Robin . . . . . with a tow bar!!

It fits! Come on, hurry up and get in. I’ll drive.

But you can’t drive.

Does it matter in this thing? Besides, I can drive all right. It’s just that the examiners have never really appreciated my cavalier style enough to grant me a license!

Don't distort the truth. You're the only person in history to have been disqualified before being qualified for being drunk on your driving test.

I was driving perfectly well!

Yes, but the route didn't go through Woolworths!

A technicality. Get in. Now where does the key go? How many gears has this thing got?

Have you seen what's painted on the side? O.T. TRAVEL. What sort of advert for a travel firm is this thing? Blod shot sideways into the door as Billy found ignition, started in gear and turned right simultaneously.

Great! chuckled Billy, and the gears obliged!

Blod righted himself in his seat as Billy straightened up, and his rear end had an unfortunate encounter with a broken spring. Oww!!

I'm getting the hang of this now. Awesome power!! Look, we're doing twenty already! Billy gave the impression of practicing for some motorized slalom competition as he careered along the dual carriageway in completely the wrong direction. Blod was trying to think of a subtle way of pointing this out when Billy solved his problem by crashing into the light bushes on the central reservation, and they immediately emerged on the other carriageway in the path of a twelve wheeler overtaking an ice cream van at considerable speed.

The pantechnicon fortunately already had brown upholstery; the ice cream van wished it could say the same. Both drivers vowed simultaneously to change the colour of their trousers, and almost instantly achieved their purpose. The pantechnicon driver covered his head with his hands, held his breath and prayed. He knew he would get the better of the collision but worried about his no claim bonus. The yellow three wheeler crossed his path in the nick of time, suffering no more damage than the scratch marks made by Blod's finger nails as they sank in his terror into the fascia. The lorry driver opened his eyes, saw the road was clear, decided he'd been dreaming and vowed to stop eating strong cheese. It wouldn't be until he attempted to get out of his seat that the full implication of the incident would sink in.

The ice cream van was not so lucky. With the three wheeler bound for collision the driver swung his wheel over, crashed through the roadside shrubbery, through a flimsy fence and down a steep bank towards a housing estate. In his panic the driver pressed hard on the horn and activated his musical chimes. The courting couple, surprised on the short strokes by this cacophony as it crashed within two feet of their writhing bodies, would always associate their unprecedented ecstasy and the conception of their son with the chimes of 'I'm Popeye the Sailor Man'! The ice cream van had delivered their very own knickerbocker glory! From that time on they could not make love successfully without accompaniment from a tape of the car chase from 'The French Connection' overdubbed with their own glockenspiel version of the Popeye jingle.

The driver and the occupants of number 99 Embankment Close could not share their joy. For Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins the embankment proved much too close, and the association of the number 99 with ice cream would haunt them forever. They would never eat a Cadbury's Flake again. Their dog Spot cushioned the driver's descent as he crashed through the windscreen when the van met the Wilkins' patio doors. The dog would have been more aptly named Splat. As he came to rest the driver saw the surprised look on the face of the beagle, now deceased, decided he was dreaming and went to sleep. A five gallon tub of Strawberry Surprise following him through the windscreen ensured that he stayed that way. Mrs. Wilkins dropped a stitch for the first time in her life and Mr. Wilkins used the remote control to change the TV channel, hoping for something less disturbing. All he could find, unfortunately, was the Jeremy Beadle show.

What a stupid place to overtake! snorted Billy. Some people shouldn't be allowed on the roads.

The only reply was a series of deliberate deep breaths as Blod fought with panic and sphincter muscles. His colour and control slowly returned as Billy's progress became less erratic, was now in the right direction and occupied only one of the two lanes.

We're getting there, Blod. 30, nearly 40 miles per hour! God, the power, the awesome power! Look, 45 miles per hour!

B....B....B....B....B....Billy, stuttered Blod.

Yeah, exciting, huh? Look, 47, 48, 49... Billy's eyes were transfixed. He gazed at the speedometer as if his life depended on it.

50, 51 .... Come on, come on.

B. . .B. . .B. . . .B. . .B. . .Billy ! squeaked Blod.

52, 53.

Billy hit the roundabout at 53.5 miles per hour. The Reliant bounded into the air as it hit the curb of the central island, bounced twice through the flower beds, ruining Basingstoke's chances in the 'Best Tended Verges' competition, and relocated on the road on the far side.

47, 46, 47 . . . Bloody roundabout slowed us down! I remember now. Basingstoke's all bloody roundabouts! 48, 49....

B...B...B...B...B...Bugger! sniveled Blod.

50, 51 .

The next roundabout was encountered in much the same fashion, again slowing Billy in his attempt to break the land speed record.

Bloody roundabouts! Slow us down. I'm going to drive on the road around the next one. See if I can avoid losing speed that way. 56, 57, 58, 59...

B...B...B...B...B...B... blubbered Blod.

The downhill approach to the next roundabout accounted for the increase in speed. They hit it at sixty miles per hour and Billy threw the wheel into the curve.

60 . . . . . . Yippee!!

B...B...B...B.. Oh, shiiiiiiiittt!! screamed Blod, matching action to words.

Reliant Robins, having just one front wheel, have a tendency to over-steer, especially when piloted over enthusiastically. Billy's steering adjustment was nothing if not overenthusiastic.

The three wheeler performed a most graceful pirouette, what would have appeared to any passing skating enthusiast to be a perfect triple salchow, and an impressive cartwheel before regaining contact with the ground, crashing through the barrier and launching itself effortlessly into the blackness of the night.

4

Which way did they go? screamed the mountain Blod had referred to

as armadillo features. I'll tear them limb from limb, I'll peel the bastards' skin from their bodies, I'll …."

Steady Olga, steady now. We'll call the police; they won't get far in that hea... They won't get far, hastily corrected the barman.

Sod the police! Which way did they go? I'm going after them. If they get above sixty they'll jump! She tailed off quickly, biting back her words.

They'll what? inquired a bearded man emerging from the outside loo, adjusting his 'dress' a little later than was decent.

They'll, they'll..., they'll jolly well fall to pieces in that heap, faltered the fearsome Olga. Which way did they go? Did anyone see them?

See who? inquired the bearded man again, now decently attired. Not those two in that little yellow three wheeled wreck? The one that went up the by-pass the wrong way?

That's it, that's it! roared Olga, grasping the man by his beard and slamming him, against the wall. Which way, goat face? The menace in her voice could have stripped pine.

Oh, I love powerful women, cooed goat face. More! Beat me some more! He had dreamed of such an encounter. All those years as a boy, mooning over pictures of Russian shot putters and now, such a woman in the flesh! And the barman had called her Olga. She could even be Russian! Her accent was certainly foreign. More, more! Beat me some more, you magnificent woman!

Which way did they go? Olga spat the words from within an inch of his face, twisting his beard as she did so. Which way? ramming her knee into his groin. She was in a hurry.

Oh, yes! Don't stop! Cause me pain!

Olga hesitated. She had never met this reaction before, and had manhandled more than her fair share of men in her time. This woolhead was enjoying it! She was totally non-plussed.

Come on, my lovely Olga. Please. You're magnificent. I bet you don't shave your armpits. Please tell me you don't, please. Talk dirty!

She broke three of his fingers.

Which way?

Ecstasy! Hurt me more, more!

Only if you tell me which way. Otherwise I'll stop. The light was dawning.

No! Don't stop. I'll tell, I'll tell.

Tell, then.

More pain first, pieeeeeeeease!

Olga broke two of his ribs with a deft movement of her elbow. That's it. Absolutely no more until you tell me.

That way, they went that way. Down the dual carriageway the wrong way and then they crossed the reservation and drove off.

Olga casually flicked the man aside, dislocating his shoulder as he crashed against a dying elm tree.

Oh, heaven, he drooled. Come back, take me with you.

She crossed the car park with devastating speed, leapt astride an ancient Triumph automatic scooter, which she appeared to produce by magic from within the privet hedge, and puttered off down the road in what can only be described as lukewarm pursuit.

What a woman! What a woman! drooled goat face as he lapsed into painless oblivion to dream blissfully of pain.

Olga had no problem following the trail of the Reliant. She wondered briefly about the strains of 'Popeye the Sailor Man' coming from the road embankment, and the naked couple smoking a shared cigarette and grinning inanely, but merely shrugged and hurtled in pursuit.

By the third roundabout she had gathered considerable speed and, seeing the hole in the barrier had no hesitation in heading straight towards it. She hit the curb and was launched into the blackness of the void at exactly sixty miles per hour.

5

Phew!! I can't wear that again! Mum! Mum. Why haven't I got any clean socks?"

Billy groped blindly at his other foot, acrobatically pulling it in the general direction of his nostrils.

Phew!! That one's just as bad. Mum! Where are you?

Billy performed this ritual on most Sunday mornings. He rarely removed any of his clothes after a Saturday night, merely collapsing on the bed. The miracle was that he actually got as far as his bed at all, but this he invariably did, although without the faintest idea how.

Mum!

His early moments of rising were always in the dark. The Sabbath would be in full swing and in blazing daylight, but Billy's eyes had long since learned that opening would rudely awaken the excruciating, lager laden pain behind his brain. This pain, like some psychic Domestos, would penetrate every nook and cranny of his consciousness and send him screaming round the bend.

Aahhhgghhhgghhgg hh …!!

His eyes hadn't waited long enough!

God, God, God in a side-car! No more! Never again!

What?

No more drink. Aaggghhhggghhhh! I'm dead! Goddddd!

What?

Hey, mum, what's wrong? You sound funny. Have you got a cold? God, God, Goddddddddddddddddddddd!

What?

Hey, you're not mum! You're not God either. You don't sound like God!

God? Blod!

Blod? Blod? What?

What?

God?

Blod.

Aagghhgghhghh! Billy had tried the eye opening trick again, with similar results. Never again! Never again!

Billy? Billy? Is that you? Who are you talking to, Billy?

Godddddd!

I knew it! It is heaven. You killed us! You killed us, you bastard!

God?

I knew I should have driven. You crazy English bastard!

God? You're God?

God? I'm not God. You're God!

God? I'm God? I'm God! I'm GOD!! God!

You crazy God bastard! You must be crazy, letting us into heaven!

Heaven? AAgghhgghhh!! His eyes went for the hat trick! Godddd!!!

"I'm dead!