The Time Machine Of Terror – Starring Sir Jim ‘Nick Nick’ Davidson

“And the funny thing is,” guffawed Sir Jim ‘Nick Nick’ Davidson, “is that they’ve got these big dicks and none of them have jobs!”

The assembled guests at Lord Manning’s table laughed heartily at Sir Jim’s racist joke.

“He’s right, you know,” chirped up Baron Nicholas Griffin, the leader of the British National Party. “If you examine the shape of their heads, they have more in common with apes than civilised man!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” laughed everybody.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Jim said, rising from the table and landing a smack across his third wife’s chops. “I’m afraid I must take my leave.”

“For shame!” Lord Manning cried. “Surely you can stay a while, Sir Jim? I was hoping you’d tell us that story of yours about how all Pakistanis stink because of that shit they eat.”

“I’d love to, Lord Bernard,” Sir Jim replied. “But I’m afraid I must away because I’ve invented a time machine, you see?”

“A time machine!” gasped the assembled throng.

“That’s right!” Sir Jim exclaimed, taking his belt to his wife and giving her a right royal seeing-to. “I plan to go forward in time, you see, to see what’s what in the year 1980! Take THAT, you fucking BITCH!”

And with that, Sir Jim left Lord Manning’s gathering, dragging his screaming wife behind him by her hair.

* * *

“Fire up the cylinders, Sambo!” shouted Sir Jim Davidson to his black slave Sambo over the roar of the time machine’s engines.

Sambo threw the switch and the cylinders thrummed into life.

“I’s not sure they’s gonna hold, Massa Jim!” Sambo cried.

“Nonsense,” laughed Sir Jim. “This time machine’s been calibrated by the finest minds in all of England! The cylinders’ll hold, don’t you worry about that!”

“You black bastard,” he added, before disappearing in a big flash.

* * *

Leicester 1980

“Good fucking God!” Sir Jim Davidson stepped down from his time machine and looked around. There were Pakistanis and Bangladeshis bloody everywhere.

“Where in the name of blue-blazes have I ended up?” Sir Jim asked a passing Asian. “It looks like wog-central.”

“You’re in Leicester,” replied the man. “And less of the wog talk, thanks very much. It’s not the ’70s any more.”

Sir Jim Davidson was furious. He’d never been spoken to like that; certainly not by a chimpanzee.

“If you were my wife,” he roared, “I’d take the skin off your damned arse!”

“Yes, well I’m not your bloody wife, am I?” the man pointed out. “So up fucking yours!”

Sir Jim Davidson was lost for words.

* * *

“So how was it, Sir Jim?” Lord Manning asked, as the two sat smoking cigars in their London club the following week.

“The future?” Sir Jim shuddered. “It’s a nightmare place, Sir Bernard. There’s coons everywhere, poofters aren’t shot on sight and women have jobs.”

“Women have jobs! Dear God! What next? Tell me they still think Jews eat babies?”

“I’m afraid not,” Sir Jim replied, visibly shaken by the nightmare future he had seen. “And it’s not even all right to say nig-nogs rape white women with their big cocks any more.”

“Good lord!” exclaimed Lord Manning. “What on earth are you going to do about all this, Sir Jim?”

Sir Jim Davidson’s face clouded with rage.

“I’m going to go home and beat the shit out of my wife!”

THE END

Steven Seagal And The Kung-Fu Zombies

“I’m buggered if I’m dying in a Kung-Fu zombie outbreak,” Steven Seagal told Tojo, his manservant. “Hand me my fucking nunchucks, Tojo. It’s time to kick some Kung-Fu zombie arse.”

Tojo passed Steven Seagal the nunchucks. Seagal – who is a master of nunchucks – did some nunchucks moves he’d learnt off of a little Chinese fella.

“I’m ready,” Steven Seagal whispered. “Open the doors, Tojo.”

Tojo opened the front door of Steven Seagal’s secret fortress and Steven Seagal stepped out to face the Kung-Fu zombies.

“WUUUUUUURRRGGH!” wailed a Kung-Fu zombie, limbering up to do some Kung-Fu at Steven Seagal from beyond the grave.

“You can fuck off for a start,” replied Steven Seagal, smacking the Kung-Fu zombie across the side of its head with his nunchucks. The Kung-Fu zombie’s head came off and he collapsed on the floor, like.

“Master!” Tojo shouted at Steven Seagal. “Watch out for that Kung-Fu zombie to your left!”

“I’m on it, Tojo,” replied Steven Seagal, spinning around and whacking another Kung-Fu zombie across the side of its head. The Kung-Fu zombie’s head came off just like the last one’s did.

“That’s enough of that, Tojo,” said Steven Seagal. “I’ve proved that no amount of Kung-Fu will save these undead types from getting their arses handed to ‘em at the end of my nunchucks. Let’s have some smoky bacon crisps in the throne room of my secret fortress.”

And so, thanks to Steven Seagal and his loyal Asian sidekick, the world was saved from the horrific and terrifying plague of Kung-Fu zombies.

THE END.

The Cannibals Of Mablethorpe – Part Five

The story so far …

After a spate of cannibalistic killings, maverick, alcoholic policeman Detective Inspector Snake Wolfbane has woken from a booze-stupor to find gnawed human remains on his own doorstep. Coming hot on the heels of discovering his wife’s head in a box in the car park of Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary HQ, could things possibly get any worse for the small Lincolnshire seaside town and its most drunken police detective? Well yes, because after a furious row with his landlady, Snake’s driven onto the Parade only to find that the Dunes Family Leisure Complex is on fire. This surely dashes all hopes of rescuing the all-you-can-eat £8.99 over-fifties buffet AND the Jim Davidson Comeback Jamboree.

* * *

“Fuck a duck!”

I was speechless.

Well … I wasn’t speechless, obviously. I’d just shouted, ‘Fuck a duck!’

I surveyed the smouldering ruins of the Dunes Family Leisure Complex, anger rising from deep within me. This place held so many happy memories for the townsfolk of Mablethorpe: the night Roy Walker told that joke about peanuts that got him in trouble with the PC Brigade; Bernard Manning’s legendary gig where he put forth the theory that the Jews have stolen all the world’s money; Cat Stevens’s sudden conversion to Islam half way through Morning Has Broken; Gimon & Sarfunkel – East Yorkshire’s premier Simon & Garfunkel tribute act; Lenny Bennet shitting himself when a live bear got in through the emergency exit and jumped on stage, looking for bee hives …

Gone, all gone.

“I’m ruined, Snake,” wailed Vern Bottoms, head honcho of the (former) Dunes Family Leisure Complex. “Jim Davidson’s never going to agree to play here now.”

I surveyed the wreckage. He was right. It was going to take more than a lick of paint to sort this little lot out. Even a seasoned builder would be hard pressed to erect some sort of rudimentary stage, orchestra pit, lighting rig, seating for six hundred diners and a Copacabana Midnight Bar out of this twisted, mangled mess.

I moved some ashes aside with my foot. Miraculously, a 1985 poster for Keith Harris and Friends had survived almost intact.

This didn’t sit right with me.

“Vern,” I asked. “How come this Keith Harris poster’s not burnt to cinders?”

“Keith Harris poster? Erm …”

Vern looked shifty. Why did Vern look shifty?

“Why do look shifty, Vern?” I asked Vern.

“Shifty? I’m not looking shifty,” he protested, still looking really shifty.

“Hmmm,” I answered. I bent down and plucked the poster out of the ashes. “So you won’t mind if I take this poster in for testing, then?”

“Testing?” Vern’s face fell. “Why would you need to take it in for testing?”

“Police things, Vern,” I replied. “Police things.”

I left him looking worried in the ruins of his leisure complex. Something was stirring in my policeman’s mind. Something that would take a visit to Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary’s glamorous forensic scientist, Tits O’Leary.

I wasn’t relishing the prospect.

* * *

“Snake, you son of a bitch!” Tits slapped me hard across the face.

We’d enjoyed a passionate, six week affair back in 2007. She’d transferred from Skegness Holiday Police Constabulary’s forensics lab and instantly fallen for my rugged, manly charms. I, in turn, had fallen for her great big tits and pert arse.

“I guess I deserved that,” I muttered.

I’d chosen to break up with her when she’d suggested I lay off the booze for one night so we could go to the cinema. After much soul-searching, I’d chosen the booze.

“You broke my heart, Snake,” Tits said.

“Save it for someone who cares, sweetcheeks,” I replied, considering landing a slap on her backside as she bent to pick up some forensic things off of the floor of the forensics lab. I thought better of it because you can’t slap women on the arse nowadays without being brought up before a bloody tribunal.

I’d learnt that lesson the hard way when Labour MP Harriet Harmon had made a visit to Mablethorpe during the run-up to the 2010 General Election.

“What do you want, Snake?” she spat back at me.

“Look,” I replied. “I know I broke your heart, Tits, but there’s no time for recriminations now. I need you to do your god damn job and test this Keith Harris poster for me.”

She took the poster from me with the same hand she’d used to fiddle about with my bollocks on a day trip to Beverley Minster.

“It looks clean to me,” she said.

“I know it looks clean,” I agreed. “But I reckon there’s something fishy about this poster and I want you to use all your forensics to find out what’s fishy about it.”

“Even though I hate your guts, Snake,” she screeched, shaking with rage, “I’ll use all the forensics at my disposal if it saves this town from financial ruin.”

I left her laboratory and climbed into the Lagonda. You may hate my guts, Tits, I thought, but I don’t care because I once shoved a whole banana up your arse during one of our ferociously dangerous sex games.

I’m the winner here, I added, in my mind.

* * *

I was back in Eric’s All Day Every Day, eating a plate of egg, chips and beans. It had been five hours since I’d left the poster with Tits.

My mobile telephone rang. It was her.

“Uh-huh?” I answered, when Tits told me her findings. “I thought as much.”

“What?” I continued, when she then went on to say something else. “Of course you can’t get AIDS off of a banana. Anyway, only poofters get AIDS, everyone knows this.”

I ended the call and poked at a chip.

“Anything wrong, Snake?” Eric asked.

I stared moodily out of the window for a minute.

“I think I’ve just caught the cannibals of Mablethorpe, Eric,” I replied.

I finished off my egg, chips and beans, drained my tea, ordered a raspberry jam tart, ate the jam tart, picked up my keys and my filofax and my signed photograph of Martin Shaw, handed Eric a ten pound note, waited for my change, got my change, left the cafe and climbed into my car.

It was time for a reckoning.

* * *

To be concluded …

The Lighthouse Family And The Riddle Of The Yorkshire Ripper

Yorkshire. 1979.

The Yorkshire Ripper’s reign of terror continues, bringing fear to the hearts of women across West Yorkshire (and parts of South Yorkshire). In a desperate attempt to claw back some credibility for his much-criticised West Yorkshire Constabulary, Detective Chief Superintendent George Bo’nangus calls in mid-90s easy listening pop duo, the Lighthouse Family, to ‘lift’ the case ‘from the shadows’ of the shit it’s got itself into …

* * *

“Now look here, the Lighthouse Family,” George Bo’nangus said to the Lighthouse Family. “I don’t want any of your fancy Newcastle ways down here. You’re in West Yorkshire, do you hear? We call a spade a spade down here, and we call a murdered prostitute a dead whore. You got that, the Lighthouse Family?”

The Lighthouse Family both nodded their heads.

“Right,” continued George. “Now that’s off my chest, what are your thoughts on the Ripper case?”

“I’ll take this,” said Paul Tucker, the keyboardist from off of the Lighthouse Family. “We’ve looked at the previous Ripper murders, guv, and we reckon it’s a lorry driver what’s killing these women.”

“A lorry driver, you say?” George rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “What makes you think that?”

“If I may, chief,” said the other one from off of the Lighthouse Family with the funny name nobody can pronounce. “I’ll take this one. You’ll note in this photograph of this murdered prostitute …”

“Dead whore,” George interrupted, irritably.

“Sorry, dead whore … you’ll see that there’s a discarded flask of tea near the body.”

George squinted at the photo.

“By God, you’re right, Tunde Bayi .. Tunde Baywye … Tunde Byli … him off of the Lighthouse Family!”

“Now in this photo,” Tunde Bayamara … erm … said, “there’s a copy of Razzle next to the murdered pros …”

“DEAD WHORE!”

“… next to the dead whore’s head.”

“Add that to this picture,” said Paul Tucker, laying a third photo in front of the chief, “of a discarded enormous Red Nose from off of the front of a lorry radiator grill and you’ve got a lorry driver’s four most favouritist things – pornography, murdering whores, mugs of tea and hilarious novelty charity items.”

“Isn’t 1979 a bit early for Red Nose Day?”

“That’s not relevant to our findings,” replied the Lighthouse Family, putting their foot down.

George leaned back in his chair.

“Good work, the Lighthouse Family,” he conceded. “It looks like you’ve ‘lifted’ this investigation ‘from the shadows’. I wouldn’t be surprised if we haven’t cracked this case by the Ripper getting accidentally caught by a passing South Yorkshire traffic policeman by at least 1981.”

“Glad to be of service, chief,” replied the Lighthouse Family.

“And remember,” added the Lighthouse Family, turning to face you, the person what’s reading this. “Whenever there’s a crime you can’t solve, whenever you’re at your lowest ebb, the Lighthouse Family will be there to ‘lift’ you ‘from the shadows’ ‘all the way’ into the light of solving the crime you’re having trouble solving.”

THE END

The Cannibals Of Mablethorpe – Part Four

The story so far …

Summer season’s turned into a season of unimaginable horrors as a cabal of evil cannibals terrorises the vibrant Lincolnshire holiday town of Mablethorpe. Detective Inspector Snake Wolfbane is hot on their trail, despite being an alcoholic with crippling flashbacks to his days in the SAS. After striking terror into the hearts of the Mablethorpe holiday community with gruesome remains being found at both the Dunes Family leisure Complex and the offices of the Skegness, Ingoldmells and Mablethorpe Mercury, the cannibals have made it personal by cutting off the head of Snake’s ex-wife and leaving it in a box in the car park of the Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary HQ. With the Jim Davidson Comeback Jamboree AND the future of the Dunes’s all-you-can-eat buffet hanging by a thread, time is running out for Mablethorpe’s greatest drunken policeman.

* * *

I awoke in my armchair, as per usual. I’d had a heavy session on the booze the night before, drowning my sorrows with some cheap bottles of vermouth I’d got from the Co-Op discount bin.

“Carry on like this, Snake,” my doctor had recently advised me, “and you’ll be dead in a year.”

What the hell did he know? My father had drank like a fish and he’d lived to the ripe old age of forty eight. I had plenty of years left in me, I reckoned, and anyway, all doctors are Nazis.

I looked at my watch. Nine thirty. Shit. I was due at the station at nine to report to my boss, Dagger Harrington.

Fuck him, I thought. I needed some bacon to clear away my hangover first. And a cigar. And a moody drive around the outer Mablethorpe area in my Lagonda.

And some booze.

My doorbell rang.

“Mr. Wolfbane?”

It was my landlady, Doris.

“What do you want, Doris?” I shouted at the door.

“There’s all human bones outside your door, Mr. Wolfbane,” she shouted through the letter box.

I shot out of the chair and wrenched open the door. Doris stood before a pile of all skulls and legs and what-have-you. She didn’t look pleased.

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted.

“Now look here,” Doris said, pointing at the pile of bones. “I know you’re a policeman, Mr. Wolfbane, but this really won’t do. You can’t go leaving stuff like this outside your front door because it’s going to put my other residents off their breakfast.”

It was a hell of a breakfast: Two bacon, two sausages, two eggs, beans, grilled tomatoes, black pudding, mushrooms, a fried slice and a mug of tea, coffee or grapefruit juice all included in the price of my penthouse suite at the B&B.

“I’ve already had complaints from Mr. Gumpshee in room twelve,” she continued. “He said it brought on one of his turns. I hate to think what would happen if one of the Stimpson sisters caught sight of this mess. You know how Dolly’s had trouble with her insides since the hospital took her vagina out.”

“Hold on a minute,” I said. I’d had enough of this woman’s rubbish. “You don’t think I dumped this shit out here, do you? Why the hell would I do that?”

Doris screwed up her ugly old face in thought.

“Well,” she replied, “I assumed it was evidence.”

“Evidence?” I spluttered.

“Yes, you know? From this cannibals thing that’s been all over the news …”

“It’s been on the news!” I exclaimed, running back into my room and grabbing my car keys, my mobile phone, my wallet, my filofax and my Bulgarian Drylite© grey sports jackettelle with the red power stripes running down the sleeves.

I’d bought the jacket whilst on a police exchange program with the Italians. They’d sent two of their boys over to Mablethorpe to learn holiday policing techniques, and Chips and I had spent two weeks in Rome learning how to slouch against the bonnet of a Fiat, chatting up teenagers.

A prostitute I’d had bitter, half-drunken sex with had said the jacket made me look like Lewis Collins. Nobody had ever paid me a compliment before, so I’d let her off with an £80 fixed penalty notice instead of arresting her for solicitation.

“Doris,” I shouted, hastily locking the door. “Get on to Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary HQ and report these bones. Don’t try cleaning ‘em up because it’s evidence …”

“But what about Dolly’s vagina?” she protested.

“To hell with Dolly’s vagina!” I roared, pushing her out of my way. “You think I’ve got the time to worry about some old bag’s mangled fanny when the fucking news has got hold of the cannibal case? You’re over fifty! Don’t you even care about the all-you-can-eat buffet?”

She gave me a look of puzzlement.

“Oh never mind, you stupid old bitch,” I huffed as I raced down the stairs.

* * *

This was disastrous. With the story out there, what chance did we have of saving the buffet or the Jim Davidson gig? I got my answer as I was firing up the Lagonda.

“Snake?” it was Vern Bottoms from the Dunes ringing me on my mobile.

“Talk to me, Vern,” I answered, lurching hell-for-leather from the car park of the Time-A-While B&B and out onto Garfunkel Street with my foot jammed on the accelerator.

“It’s all gone wrong, Snake,” Vern wailed. “It’s all gone wrong!”

“What’s gone wrong, Vern?”

“It’s all gone, Snake!”

“What’s all gone? Vern? Vern? You need to calm the hell down and talk to me, Vern!”

I swerved on to the parade and nearly crashed the Lagonda when I saw the huge plume of smoke in the distance.

“Oh, Jesus …”

“The Dunes, Snake!” Vern screamed. “The Dunes is on fire!”

“GOD DAMN YOU, YOU BASTARDS!” I roared, slamming my fist into the steering wheel. “YOU’VE KILLED THE ALL-YOU-CAN EAT OVER-FIFTIES BUFFET!”

“AND ANY POSSIBILITY OF MABLETHORPE HOSTING THE JIM DAVIDSON COMEBACK JAMBOREE!” I added, still shouting really loudly.

* * *

To be continued …

The Cannibals Of Mablethorpe – Part Three

The story so far …

Detective Inspector Snake Wolfbane is on the hunt for a nest of cannibals that have set up shop on his Mablethorpe manor. First they left human remains at the Dunes Family Leisure Complex – putting in jeapordy both the Jim Davidson Comeback Jamboree AND the all-you-can-eat £8.99 over-fifties buffet – and now they’ve struck again, killing several members of staff over at the Skegness, Ingoldmells and Mablethorpe Mercury. As Snake and Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary’s chief medical officer, Doctor Bones McClackers, survey the carnage, has this case become too big even for east Lincolnshire’s most maverickist, alcoholiciest cop to tackle alone? Skegness Holiday Police Constabulary’s Viper Malone certainly thinks so, the arsehole.

* * *

“God damn them all to hell, Snake,” Bones McClackers spat angrily, as he shoved some ribs and the remains of a pair of bollocks into an evidence bag. “It’s the senselessness of it all I can’t stand. I mean, it’s not like there aren’t perfectly good alternatives to human flesh.”

I sat down in a plastic chair underneath a ‘No Smoking’ sign and lit a cigar.

“What makes ‘em do it, Doc?” I asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the Doc replied, shovelling bits of tits and eyelids into a tub. “Who knows what drives a man to such depths? A bad childhood, perhaps?”

I blew smoke rings towards the ceiling and shook my head dismissively.

“Bad childhood, my arse,” I sneered. “I had a bad childhood, Doc, and it didn’t make me eat other people when I grew up.”

I narrowed my eyes as the memories came flooding back …

The rug carelessly left on the polished wooden floor; the kite I flew too close to the electricity substation; the matches I’d been careless around that led to the family losing the bungalow; the scars I still bear to this day from the Bonfire Night when I picked up that red-hot sparkler; something to do with Jimmy Savile and an appearance on Jim’ll Fix It that was never aired and that I cannot, for the life of me, recall.

“They even eat the cocks, it’s disgusting.”

“God knows what this is going to do to the summer season, Bones,” I muttered, chomping disconsolately on my cigar. I reminded myself of Hannibal from off of The A-Team, only more miserable. “It could be 1975 all over again.”

1975 was Mablethorpe’s annus horribilis. It had started off so well, with sell-out shows for both The Barron Knights and Bernard Manning. But then, during a packed Friday night performance by The Grumbleweeds at the very top of their game, disaster struck when the IRA set a bomb off in the auditorium of the Horseshoe Hideaway Theatre and Fish Restaurant. Forty patrons had been killed or seriously injured, and Maurice had to be pulled out of Robin’s arse by the fire brigade.

Following the explosion, takings had plummeted to 35% on the previous year. Nothing like that had happened since the Nazis invaded in 1940.

So that’s two annuses horribilises. It gets a bit confusing, does this.

* * *

Back at Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary HQ, I sat at my desk, looking at videos of cats falling into toilets on YouTube.

“Message for you, chief,” a young Detective Constable said, making me miss the bit where the cat falls in. I made a mental note to rewind the video and watch it later. Probably when I was half-cut on the booze, drowning my sorrows at my local. I’d no doubt go home after that and sit in a chair, listening to jazz records, cursing my ex-wife and having flashbacks to my days in the SAS (which I was in).

“Message?” I asked.

I took the note the DC passed me and scanned it with my eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” I shouted. “It’s from the cannibals!”

“What’s it say, chief?”

“Dear Detective Inspector Snake Wolfbane,” I read. “By now you’ll have found them bones what we left for you at the offices of the Mercury. Rest assured, Inspector, that they was very tasy people what we done ate. But they wasn’t as tasty as what we’ve done and left for you in a box round the back of the station. You’ll never catch us, you fat bastard. Yours, the cannibals.”

“Blimey!”

“I’m not fat!” I roared, furious. It’s genetic, is this stomach.

“You are a bit of a bastard, mind,” the DC replied.

“Watch it!”

* * *

In the car park behind the back of the police station sat a blood-soaked box. I inched towards it carefully, worried that it might have a bomb in it and it would go off or -worse – leak blood all over my white leatherette safari shoes.

They’d cost me £35.99 – a king’s ransom in anyone’s book.

“What do you reckon it is, Snake?” Chips, who had joined me on my way outside, asked.

“Could be anything,” I growled, pulling a biro from my pocket, inching it under the lid of the box and slowly opening it up.

Inside was the severed head of my ex-wife, Maureen.

“It’s my ex-wife!” I cried, stepping back. Chips gasped at the horror of it all.

“Those bastards!” Chips howled. He’d always been a fan of Maureen’s home baking. You could see the realisation of a life without her legendary Raspberry Half-Nelsons dawning in his eyes, the poor sod.

“Well, well, well,” I smirked.

“What is it, Snake?”

“Looks like the cannibals have made their first mistake …”

And they had. Because I fucking hated my ex-wife.

* * *

To be continued …