Diamonds Are for Heather

By Tony Collins

Life is already difficult for a sixteen year old boy who is at least a lap behind his peers in the 1500 metre event at the Growing Up Olympics. But when his beloved Grandfather passes away, leaving a cryptic clue to the whereabouts of untold riches, the resultant road trip will increase the pace.

Escaping the clutches of an over-protective mother, sexually deprived employer and a furious Asian funeral director, Felix Malholly makes his getaway. What follows is a journey involving diamond theft, grave robbery, surfing, terrifying pensioners, stand-up comedy, torture with a chain-saw and a whole lot of fun in between.

If it happened to you, how rich would you feel?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291846515

Tony Collins

Tony Collins has spent more than fourty years publishing books and magazines, and has started several imprints including Monarch Books. He is the author of Taking My God for a Walk: A publisher on pilgrimage.

Book preview

Diamonds Are for Heather

Diamonds Are for Heather

by Tony Collins

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Before we begin …..

A very warm hello to the infinitesimal and more than likely inappreciable proportion of the planet Earth who decided to read this story. My name is Felix Malholly. I was born on September 11’th, 1998 which means I am sixteen years old and I share a birthday with a series of four coordinated terrorist attacks launched by the Islamic terrorist group al-Qaeda upon the United States in New York City and the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area. The world certainly changed on that day. I’m obviously referring to the tragic day when the iconic Twin Towers were destroyed and the advent of Islamic terrorism meant you could no longer carry deodorant onto a plane in your hand luggage; not the day I first gasped for fresh air from my mother's tunnel of love (not sure if the air would have been that fresh to be frank, but you get where I'm going I assume?). Quite honestly, my impact on the big blue marble we call home can be best illustrated by a rogue baked bean, falling on to the exposed belly of my cousin Ryan Malholly who suffers from Prader-Willi Syndrome (apparently). I researched the condition on the internet recently and I can confirm he does tick most of the symptoms of this subjugating illness. He has a constant and feverish desire to eat food (normally mine during regular visits to our house during school holidays), he has restricted growth (he qualifies as a Borrower or Hobbit), he has reduced muscle tone (legs like a young deer) and he has learning difficulties (he still hasn’t learned that chocolate located in my bedroom, is 'my' chocolate. As an example). Anyway, how can it be genetic when his Mum and Dad would make ideal jockeys? You’d find more fat on a cricket stump. They also have very pale drawn Irish faces. I digress. I live in Aylesbury, which is an expanding market town in Buckinghamshire (or so it says on the official website). Our beautiful little metropolis has a waistband that continues to swell, as it gorges on the influx of East European labour and upwardly mobile middle classes seeking cheap houses along the commuter belt. It’s now a tragic, heartless place, in desperate need of pentobarbital (the vet put our previous dog down with this, which is why I remember it so well).

I’m an only child but not a lonely child. My Mum often says, ‘why pull the handle again when you hit three bells with your first attempt?’ My Grandad says that my parents actually had several tugs on the one-armed bandit known more commonly as sexual intercourse. My Dad was diagnosed with testicular cancer shortly after my birth and couldn’t father again. Mum is a teaching assistant at a local junior school. I assume it fulfills her need to care for children. Or maybe it’s the long holidays. My Dad works in IT, at least that’s what he says when asked at school visits or formal occasions. I have no idea what he actually does, except indulge in Fantasy Football competitions with work mates, that appear to more critical than the Syrian crisis. To be fair, my father constantly encourages and pressurises me to consider my future carefully. Don't end up in IT Felix he often implores, You lose less blood in a serious car accident. Though he obviously loathes his job, Dad was handed an intense work ethic from his father, an Irish immigrant who toiled on the roads until suddenly dropping down dead one day at the age of forty three. It took them four hours to remove him from the wet tarmac apparently. So I don't think my father will  ever leave the riveting and well-paid world of Information Technology. It will eventually leave him of course, and not with a decent pension. I didn’t ever meet Grandad Tom and Dad doesn’t talk about him much. In all the photos I’ve seen, my Irish Grandfather is gripping a glass of whiskey with a steely grip. Dad says it was medically attached to him, when plastic surgery was in its infancy in Dublin.  My other Grandad, from Mum's side, is another matter entirely and you’ll hear much more about him as my story progresses. Safe to say, he’s the straight one in our double act. The straight-talking one actually. But just like Ernie Wise, Bud Abbot and Tommy Cannon, he could play the comic fool brilliantly when required.

My parents proudly publicise the fact that I attend Aylesbury Grammar school. Personally I consider this Victorian throwback to be far more soul destroying than the wonderful world of IT. A tin packed with middle to upper class sardines, all vying for a place in the Civil Service and happy to sacrifice any lingering human traits as they embark on a conveyor belt designed to steer you towards gutting and brining. Let me give you an example for context. In my first ever English lesson as a malleable and impressionable twelve year old who is already fascinated by our language, the class were asked by scary Mr Meadle to compose an essay about anything that took our fancy. Anything! How wonderful I thought. An open house for creative souls. A veritable discotheque for the dancing poet or horny lyricist on the pull. This couldn't be more perfect. I'm going to love it here. But wait! The request came with a warning. Like an evil witch casting what appears to be a good spell, but with a gruesome caveat that could result in an incurable disfigurement or a very long sleep. Never use the word ‘nice’ young men, came the instruction (I forgot to mention that Aylesbury Grammar is an all-boy school, which has hindered my development significantly). Apparently, 'nice' isn’t a word worthy of AGS. So, when I completed my essay entitled ‘Our two week holiday in Nice’, I imagined being crowned with a garland of roses and pronounced as the class humourist by Mr Meadle. Four weeks of detention was my version of the Booker prize for such comedic invention. My days were numbered, or so the vast majority of the teaching staff thought. But I've inherited Grandad Tom's work ethic, and until proven otherwise I’ll work on the assumption that IT is worse than Aylesbury Grammar school, so I better make the most of my early years. Ironically, English has subsequently become, without question, my favourite lesson of the week, and Mr Meadle is a rare ally on the front-line of my educational war. I think he considers me his protégé (well, it keeps me out of detentions)

Sixteen is a difficult age, particularly when you have the mental age of a thirteen year old, which is where I currently position myself on the evolutionary scale.  I still love dice football for God's sake. Many a long evening is spent keying random scores, obtained from the roll of twenty-four-sided dice, into a spreadsheet of football fixtures. Last season, Watford won the premier league. How cool is that! And even cooler, Liverpool are now in the Conference (I have to admit some level of ‘double rolling’ to manufacture that scenario. But that’s the beauty of dice football!!). Overall I consider myself to be a reasonably well-rounded and normal adolescent male. I have discovered my own body and now live in the hope that a girl will too, in the very near future please. But, as Steve Cram might comment in a particularly annoying Geordie accent, Felix Malholly is at least two laps behind the majority of his classmates when it comes to the sexual experience fifteen hundred metres and when you consider what a bunch of freaks they are, it does leave me wondering whether God has him in mind for a different type of calling.

Comedy! comes a lone voice from the back of the room. Indeed, I concur. I like to think I have a way with words. I seem to be able to arrange them in such a way that they appear amusing. All that remains hidden from me is the courage to deliver to an audience, which I'm convinced will come with age (or am I simply avoiding the issue?). It's all very well these budding X-Factor auditionees, standing in front of their mirrors at home, with a hairbrush as a microphone, training to become the next Britney or Miley. It's not that easy for stand-up comics. A reflection of me is a pretty tough crowd. I rarely make myself laugh, and that has got to be a bad sign. In the meantime I watch endless hours of Woody Allen, Harry Hill, Eddy Izzard and countless others in the hope that I suddenly uncover their secret.

I also maintain a website, www.frankanne.com, which has a growing reputation. It's an avenue for expelling my frustration and announcing my strongest opinions to the small world that appears to be willing to listen, but in the form of candid and veracious pensioner, who hides behind a mask of cigarette riddled skin and overworked make-up. Anne is my V for Vendetta. She is Bridlington's jewel in the crown. If there's an opinion to give, Anne is first in the queue. This East Yorkshire lass isn't the type to hide behind a fake bookcase in a secret room. She calls a spade a spade, even if it might re-ignite the London riots. I like to think my website has been developed as a result of public pressure, particularly from Mal at the Fisherman's Scab and Uncle Motty, who believe that Anne's views should be read by world leaders, politicians, doctors, lawyers and even Lenny Henry. Her unique brand of common sense opinion could end wars, save lives, create social harmony and maybe bring Lenny to his senses, check him out of the Premier Inn at Wolverhampton and get him back with Dawn.

So you now know a little more about me, but I'm convinced that the best is yet to come. What you are about to read (if you still consider it a worthwhile exercise and you've got nothing better to do) is a recollection of events that occurred during the summer holidays of 2013. As I walked through the school gates having completed my last GCSE (Physics – no hope at all), I reaffirmed my best intentions to use the following ten weeks wisely and participate in activities other than dice football. Judge for yourselves whether you think I succeeded.

Before we begin however, I've taken some 'legal' advice and would therefore like to insure (cover myself) that you, the reader, are fully aware that this is a story, within which opinions and references to certain celebrities and renowned figures are made. You, the reader, may also recognise traits in some of the characters that could be similar to idiosyncrasies in your own personalities. This is purely coincidental.  I, the author of the content that you're about to read, can assure you, the reader, that any of the opinions expressed here are my own (Felix Malholly) and are a result of the way in which my highly disorganized and somewhat disfunctional mind interprets a person's character, a particular situation and or concept. Please do not associate any of these viewpoints with those that may be held by the author of this work (I used a ghost writer to help me and he would be mortified to think the readers see any similarity between him/her and myself). I would like to expressly convey to you (the reader) that were I to accidentally defame, purge, humiliate and or hurt someone's person or feelings as a result of them reading and or acting upon any or all of the information and or advice found here in this book, it is entirely unintentional of me to do so. Should you (the reader) identify any such content that is harmful, malicious, sensitive or unnecessary; I request that you contact me via email so I may rectify the problem. Failing that you may like to just sit and weep incessantly!

Anyway, now we've cleared that up, I sincerely hope you enjoy the story.

Chapter One - When One Door Opens

Tuesday July 2'nd, 2013

And never darken my door again!!

I was inordinately confused. Mr Rangarajan's rage was unmistakable. His skin colour had reddened so significantly, his face radiated an autumnal glow. On any other occasion I would have been tempted to compliment the aforementioned Funeral Director on this interesting complexion, or even captured the moment on my phone; but this is evidently not the right moment to do so. He is, without doubt, furious. What had me perplexed, however, was the root cause of his umbrage. Mr Rangarajan and I share a long relationship. He is a close and long-standing friend of my Grandad and as a result I've had the honour of performing odd jobs for him and his family for the past five years. The pay is generous and my family receive  a twenty percent discount at 'Balti Towers' (a restaurant that he part-owns in Hemel Hempstead). In all that time I have rarely seen Rajeev Rangarajan reach the dizzy heights of 'slightly vexed', let alone ferocious. There was the time that Channel Four announced they were no longer covering Kabaddi (you'll have to read the rules of this sport for yourselves, because if I wrote them here, you wouldn't believe me).  A second occasion I recall followed victory for Mary Kom (I realise you may not have heard of this courageous lady  but please read on). 'Magnificent Mary' created history by becoming the first Indian woman to win a medal at the first ever Olympic women's boxing event. Unfortunately Mr Rangarajan's views on sexual equality lag behind those of Fred Flintstone and I believe the statement that left his lips that day was, If Shiva had meant Women to box he would have given them a bloody cock, isn't it. But, never before have I seen this calm Indian gentleman exert so much fury and blush with such a ruddy luminosity. Confusion and an ever growing fear prevailed. I often rely on my good friend Mr. Logic to assist in moments of inner storm and like Sherlock Holmes (Benedict Cumbarbatch version this time me thinks) I started to work through the evidence and dismantle the clues. Could Mr Rangarajan be referring to the paint job I had just completed? If so then yes, I had indeed darkened his door; front door to be precise. However, unless I'm mistaken, Rajeev and his good lady wife had specifically requested Dulux hard-waring outdoor glossy black. How could that not darken a door that was previously a nasty shade of Custard Puff? I dug deep and, in amongst several old refresher chew wrappers, fetched the post-it note from my pocket, upon which my employer had noted the desired paint, colour, type and brand (Wow, I really am starting to sound like Sherlock Holmes, bordering now on the Robert Downey Jr interpretation; smug). It therefore seems likely that the reference to a 'darkened door' is symbolic. I've done a cracking job on that door anyway, even if I do say so myself. You can see your face in it, I wanted to insist, but thankfully decided against it on the basis that Mr Rangarajan probably can't see his face in it and he might perceive the comment as some kind of subtle racial slur. Option two then? Perhaps my tee shirt has caused offence? I'm not certain which religious persuasion Ghandi belonged to but surely they could see the funny side of depicting him with Yoda ears? It's a compliment in many ways. I bet if the shoe or sandal were placed on the other foot (ie, Yoda with Ghandi ears), George Lucas wouldn't get all high and mighty. He would probably recognise the commercial viability of such a combination. The internet would be inundated with talking Yoda dolls with tiny brown ears and small round spectacles. With one press on the tummy a half-Indian and half-Jedi Master voice would say, 'Hmmm, Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes'. I remember that Ghandi quote because Grandad used it when I accidentally killed his tomato plants by watering them with lawn mower fuel. I was seven at the time and had no sense of smell. Anyway, I would like to point out that Mr Rangarajan was somewhat guilty of double standards, by virtue of wearing a flat cap. Hardly the traditional headwear of an Asian gentleman, I think you will agree. Gandhi with Yoda ears, Asian Funeral Director with a flat cap. I don't think either inappropriate combination is going to affect world harmony, is it? No, it can't be the tee-shirt. At this point I paused, pondered, considered, almost pretended to smoke an invisible pipe, realised and finally panicked. Option three may well provide the answer. Had Mr Rangarajan somehow discovered that I, Felix Malholly, had answered a call of mercy from his wife earlier that very morning? You see, Mrs Rangarajan is, and these are her words not mine, sexually deprived. Or was it depraved? Maybe both, I'll Google them later. The lady of the house is both significantly younger than her husband and incomparably more attractive. A bit like Sunita from Coronation Street but with a reasonably sized nose. I have heard about these arranged marriages and whoever arranged this one for Rajeev was certainly on his team. Even to a sixteen year old boy, who is light years behind the rest of his school mates in terms of sexual experience, Mrs Rangarajan was clearly a MILF (Mother I Lustily Fancy, apparently. My best friend Justin Timmons had translated the term for me quite recently during a particularly dull RE lesson while we were discussing the merits of the subject teacher Miss Askwith. You'll hear more from Justin later). So when this maiden, locked in a terrible tower (symbolic tower, representing a lack of sexual activity), pleaded for assistance to break free from her erotic shackles, it seemed like the only thing to do was to storm the barricade, ascend the tower and become her knight in shining armour (or tee shirt depicting Ghandi with Yoda ears). Only this rescue didn't involve slaying dragons or slaughtering evil witches (actually having intercourse with Mrs Rangarajan). I should cocoa. No! Basically the erotic lady of the house requested that I merely fondle her breasts, while she pleasured herself downstairs (literally and metaphorically). She performed this masturbatory exercise on the sofa while watching Rang De Besanti, a Bollywood film about some trendy and overly attractive students. During proceedings, I researched the film on my phone using only my left hand, which takes some doing. A reviewer on The Internet Movie Database described it as the best screenplay I have seen thus far in Indian media, but it was no Good Will Hunting I can tell you. Mrs. Rangarajan assured me that there was no way her husband could ever find out and this activity did not constitute infidelity on her part, as long as I didn't visit the downstairs area as well. I was merely a facilitator, creating an ambience. I was the soundtrack in a sort of porn movie. What about the cameras? I pointed out. Mr Rangarajan, despite his advanced years, is a guru in all things of a technical nature. I'm sure he considers himself Delhi's answer to Q. He's converted his garage into a workshop, where I suspect all of the research and development is done. The secret lair has one door and no windows. I often hear the whirring of machines and the odd expletive emanating from within. The workshop is strictly off-limits and even has a fingerprint reader on the door. A few months ago, during one of my regular window cleaning visits, I made the mistake of wiping it with my shammy leather. His voice appeared from nowhere instructing me to 'Move away from the entrance'. I don't know what he does in there but Justin reckons he's