KP’s Cricket Diary– Day 32

Day 32

I watch Belly going into the toilet. This is my chance. In my pocket are my brown, leather driving gloves, like the ones in Drive. I asked Ryan Gosling’s agent to send me his own, but he refused. So I got an imitation pair from Topshop. Viscose.

The sun is setting and the stars are coming out of the sky. Pakistan never looked so beautiful. I give it to the count of 50. Then I get up and ask to be excused.

I walk deliberately to the toilet. Just before I get in I put on my leather driving gloves. Belly is there at the urinal. He is wearing a purple sarong, flip flops and a muscle vest. I am wearing a purple sarong, flip flops and a vest. This must end. Now.

I walk up behind Belly and reach my arms to his neck. I ponder the situation for a second or two. Just as I am about to squeeze, he notices me and turns around. He continues to piss. He’s pissing all over me.



“O God. Finally.”


He moves my arms around him in an embrace and clutches me to him.

“I suspected it. But I never knew for certain. God, Kevin you fool. Why didn’t you tell me before.”

“No. No Belly. This isn’t…”

He tries to kiss me, but I back away. As I am moving back I slip on something liquid. I fall. Belly is still advancing on me. I scramble along the toilet floor. He’s still moving to me. I manage to burst out of the door. The boys look around. I am covered in liquid putrefaction. My sarong is a deeper shade of purple.

There is a gurgling noise from inside the toilet. I do not want to look. I get up and walk grimly out of the restaurant and up to my room. The night is over.


Poem for Poesy


Delectable diaphanous Poesy. The cream of my lions. Fire of my breath. The vowel in my stuttering lisp the completeness of my meandering mind, my world, my six ball over, my clip for four, the medium in which I work, the cream of my loomspun pants, the worm that spins my silkened shirt.


CB Fry and the League of Nations


Part 1

The year is 1898. The place the Congress of the League of Nations, Cairo. The greatest gathering of leaders, princes and kings since the Royal Symposium of Sandwich last May.

I had been asked to attend by my Surrey cricket colleague Prince Ranjitsinhji. Prince, as I call him, posed the delicate matter of me last winter as we batted side by side in the Oval nets.

“CB,” says he.

“Yes,” says I.

“Would you like to attend the Congress of the League of Nations with me.”

“Yes,” says I, before shouting “WATCH THE BALL,” as a delivery from Tyson honed into his most private region (that which you know not off yet P) and shattered it irreversibly.

Two months subsequent and I was in Cairo.

Cairo!! City of thieves, beggars, slaves, vagabonds, mercenaries, pirates, imbeciles, neanderthals, uncultured oafs, sneaky cut-throats, sooty cutpurses, blaggards, viziers, footpads and desolates.

As I leaned out of my window I saw all the sights of the East. The pilgrims walking to mecca, mooselmen bartering in the shadows, the markets cramped with camels and elephants and beyond them the Sphinx, towering in the distance like a shuffling creature laden with gold and other exotic gems. I saw the dust dunes whispering in the wind. I saw the crescent moon newly risen into the sky and heard the yodelling call of the fakir. I saw a wizened brown man climbing up a rope that bent into the sky, as another laid himself upon a bed of nails and promptly screamed in pain.

In among all this hurly burly I almost felt at ease. And then suddenly it hit me. A rock thrown by a street urchin from below had entered the window and struck me a blow on the clavicle. In a state of vengeful anger I rushed to the street ready to slake my ire on this perpetrator. But by the time I reached down, there was no one there. He had disappeared.

I was mad at this trick. But you see this is the foul and pestilent way of the East dear Poesy. One minute she will lull you on the tides of a tranquil sea, the next plunge you into a hotbed of molten anger.

I retired to my chambers once more and comforted myself by smashing the wooden bed into smithereens. A few hours later I had recovered and accompanied Prince to the great congress hall of the fifteenth League of Nations.

O but what a sight it was Poesy! The greatest men of the day in concord. There was Wilhelm II of Schlafenschlaven, Prince of Prussia, Faure the famous pumper of France, Gonzalo of Spain with his frazzled skin, Little Charlemagne and Old Pinky the Bohemian Pumpernickel. There were Americans too, Beaky Jones, their president and Capt Custer, soon to be a great General. Lastly the orientals. Ching Chong Chee and Pee Chung Chang, feudal lords of Wankdon Province.

Behind the great seigneurs stood armies of natives, the hod carriers and food makers. Black African orderlies holding trays of multivarious fruit, moors the colour of nightshade silently manning the atrium, choleric Eskimaux with strange herbs and potions and sooty Hindoos pouring cordials.

Prince was in his element, striding this way and that like the Shah of Shahenshehabad himself. He wore a codpiece of massive girth and had upon his head a towering red turban so large that it seemed it would topple over any second and crush fifteen men in its wash.

I myself bestrode the halls with ease, picking a fruit from the bowl here, taking a drink of foaming sherbet there. How natural ‘twas for me CB Fry to be in this company. Finally in my milieu. With men who were of my ilk. My own standing. Great, wealthy men.

I was just about to place an exotic love apple into my mouth when of a sudden my reverie was shattered. For there peering into a copy of the Times, his two little eyes darting hither and thither, like an otters– it was him. Yes it was that adipose platypus. That foolish, hirsute vole. The bewhiskered buffoon, the very height of pomposity—Grace!

My humeur left me immediately.

“Fry,” he bellowed as he spied me through the folds of the paper, “what on earth are you doing here?”

“Grace,” I replied with some hauter, “I might ask you the same question.”

“As the representative of the Gentlemen of England CC and Marylebone XI I am of course entitled. But I wouldn’t have expected you, unless…ah, oh yes, I see. You come as the servant of that Indian. I see. It all becomes clear.”

“I am no servant Grace. I am here in a consolatory capacity. And it would appease me not to see your face again these days.”

“O come, come Fry,” he retorts. “We must treat each other like civilised Englishmen. I will be lunching in the consulate halls this afternoon should you care to join me.”

“I think not,” I replied curtly. I was about to deliver him an even more cutting thrust of my wit (which that great flaneur of Piccadilly, Fingal O’ Flaherty Wills himself has praised) when my ears were assailed by an infernal screech.

“Awrence!” came the cry.

I looked up to see a black-faced man flying towards me, his white robes billowing behind him like the wings of a gull.

“Awrence, Awrence! ‘Tis you ’tis you, here!!”

“Away with you Jamal,” I screamed, disgusted to my very shoes. “I have no need for manservants.”

“But Awrence tis me. Fawad. Do you not remember me?”

He looked at me through devious, hooded eyes, undoubtedly intoxicated on some Eastern narcotic—baklava, Turkish delight, fondant fancy ‘tis all the same— foul nauseating things unfit for an Englishman. The sight of him sickened me and the rage rose.

“Who are you, you impudent fool?” I cried at him. I could see Grace peering at me.

“I am no manservant Awrence. I am the Fawad of Al Khaleel al Jumeira Sharm el Sheikh, Kasheeef.

“Cover your nose man!”

“No, I am called Kasheef, that is my name. Have you forgotten me so soon?”

Indeed this hooked nose-bonobo was right. I had forgotten him. If I ever knew who he was. Enraged by the man’s contemptible familiarity, the nerve, the sheer unadulterated nerve, I took him by the collar and hauled him firmly over the palace tiles.

With the firm grip I had around his neck, the man started to howl and hurl words into the air.

“No, no ’tis I, ’tis I Kasheef al Fawad. You are mistaken.”

He was chattering like a macaque and just as I prepared to throw him out the door he screeched,

“They want you to be the king, king Awrence!”


“Yes Awrence I speak the truth. By God’s golden eye they want you to be the king!”

I dropped the fakir onto the floor.

“Once more to rule, as once you did. He sent me.”

“Who? What are you jabbering about man.”

“The Emir of Australia!”

I righted the man and looked him in the eye.

“A man of great standing Awrence. He knew of our friendship and sent me to be his emissary. They want to meet you. They want to offer you the kingship!”

“Who, exactly do you think I am?”

“You are Awrence. Our Awrence, of Arabia! You must come with me. You must come to the hotel Dar e Salaam, where the man from Australia awaits you. He told me to bring you this very night!”

I did not dissuade him from this pathetic fallacy, however trite it was. For I wanted to know more Poesy. And I found more. So much, much more.

Part the 2nd 

The man called Fawad arrived on his camel at dusk. Of course I refused this hideous mount and walked. It was a warm evening and the air stirred with the scent of jasmine and lavender. With my noble bearing, my silk shirt and my high moustaches what a sight I looked. The very quintessence of nobility.

Indeed my curiosity had been piqued by this strange and jabbering wretch. From what I could gather the men of Australia had sent out a delegation to appoint me as their king. If this were true then it would indeed be an interesting prospect.

We arrived at the hotel in the winking evening light. A warty faced crone greeted us there. When asked where I could find the Emir of Australia she shook her head and shrieked “Australia no eeey.”

Her strange dialect, which I took to be one of the Haloumi tribe, was one of the few that I was not familiar with (and how could I for it was that of a goatherder’s clan). Even though I took her by the shoulders and repeated very slowly “The Emir of Australia” in the finest Queen’s, it was no good for the crone was insensible.

Fawad started jabbering something. I was about to throw him out of the door when I realised that they were communicating. After an age of alphabetical soup, with much finger pointing and head-shaking, the two sand people arrived at an accord and Fawad led me to the hall, a magnificent ante room outside of which stood two negroid slaves carrying broad camel spears.

At a word from Fawad one of them pulled a long golden cord and the doors fell open to reveal a fabulous room. O but what a sight it was Poesy! Not a room, but an entire theatre! A world within, long as the eye could see. It was filled with the finest antiquities, peacock feathers, jewel-encrusted tortoises and leopard hangings on the wall. Fountains poured purpulus into the air and the ground, sprinkling young vespertines which danced and came to life below. Servants stood here and there, some hunched on their haunches others idly playing musical instruments, harps, lyres, the clavichord. So much life in such exotic form!

At the very end of the room was a golden divan shrouded in a thin drape of silk upon which there lay a supine shape, munching grapes.

I drew closer and saw a small, reedy thing. In good humour I approached and offered a firm English salute.

“CB Fry at your service. Sah!”

“Ah Mr Awrence you have arrived!” it said in a barely audible drawl. “Good. Goooood. We are very glad you could make it.”

It was a man. He had swarthy, sun-tinkled skin, like an African manatee, black hooded-eyes and a round face at once Asiatic and European. He proffered me a lazy wink from his prone position, as if hardly able to draw strength to sit up.

“I am Egalabalus. And you are?”

“I am CB Fry.”

“Ah of course. Mr. Awrence.  Yes you come to answer our invitation. Good, goooood. We are grateful Mr Awrence. Pipo, wine!”

Egalabalus clapped his hands and a manboy slave, the colour of wine himself, brought a carafe over. Now you know I am not one for the evils of drink Poesy so I refused, however Egalabalus was having none of it.

“Come my frieeeend. You must drinkkkk. For we all drink in our country. And if you are to be one of us you must put it to your lips and driiiink.”

Under this duress I broke the vow of a lifetime and imbibed. Bagalagabus continued,

“You answer us in our great time of need for we have gone masterless for too long. The country is in a ruin, the men run wild, the goats run free and the women simply run. It is not gooooood. My people are disunited and divided. Moreover they are disgruntled. They need a figurehead. A man of action. And so dear ‘Awerence we ask you to save us as you have done with the peoples of Fawad. We ask you to come to our country and be our Zod!”

“To be your God you say?”

“No Awrence, there is no such thing. We want you to be our Zod. The ruler of our lands. Our prime potentate. The divine incarnate. We want you to reign with a mighty hand, to sit and prevail over the peoples with a cruel benevolence. We wish for you to be our king. The king of Albania!”

He nodded his assent and I felt a thrill coarse down my aristocratic body. Yes Poesy I was chosen. But wait. Did I hear this oration correct.Good God, Albania? The poorest country in the world? I was nincompooped. I looked at Fawad askance. I would later hand him such a beating that he would remember it for the rest of his life. But, for now, I must be calm.

“You will come and reign in my land. With all the things our lands have of offer. The mountain of Dingo. The river of Dango. The city of Dongo. You will be served goatsmilk every day. And the women. You can take them all. That woman in this hotel! She is one of our countrywomen! Have her Awrence. For is she not a beauty? Have her, she is yours! It will all be yours. You will start immediately that you have passed the challenges.”

“What? What challenges?”

“Yes, but of course ‘Awry. You must pass the five hideous labours of Zog before you can become Zod. You must defeat the other challenger to the throne. For we have two candidates for the position. You and a man of much nobility from the Irish royal family of Donegoon.”

“The Irish royal family?”

“His name is Mr Seamus O’ Seamus, owner of the petroleum lands of Galway. A great white man like yourself. Not like my country where they are all brown, like goats! Yes dear ‘Awrence, win the throne and become the Emir of Albania! What say you?”

The wine hung heavy about my lips and I was unsure on my feet. But then it dawned on me. I must accept the position. I would undertake the challenge and I would prevail. And how could I not. For am I not CB Fry?

“Yes. In the name of Queen Victoria and the Royal consort I accept!”

Begabalus clapped his hands in glee and jumped off the divan.

“Good. Goooood. The procession of labours will begin at 1pm tomorrow. I will be here to crown the new King. One man shall prevail. It is destiny! Grape?”

Part 3

I awoke in the best of humeurs. I’d slept like never before and after feasting on a break fast of kippers and quails followed by a soup of beefy gruel, I felt ready.

A rickshaw arrived to drive me to the appointed place, le bain douche de Cairo, a hammam sauna in the middle of the city. The driver was a small monkey-faced man whom I called Toby. He spoke the whole way down, though for one so small his speech was not offensive.

“In Egypt food is considered a delicacy,” said Toby, his two little feet scurrying forth through the narrow alleys. “Our national dish tis called kikriki dump dump! It is made of dung beetles and asses milk. Ooh Mr Fry you must taste this!”

“Would I were an innocent heathen like you Toby perhaps I would. But tell me, what of the great kings? What of the men who ruled over this impoverished state?”

“Ahhh! Yes. Yes Mr CB sir, we Egyptians are very proud of our rulers. Many a Pharaoh and kings have reigned here. You have no doubt heard of the great dynasty of the Tuts! Tut the first. Tut the second. Tut the third. Tut the fourth. Tut the fifth. Tut the erm….”

“Tut the sixth?”

“Oh so you know themmm Mr CB? Indeed Sir the Tuts: warriors, architects, lovers and erecters.”

“What’s that you say man?”

“Erections Sir erections! Look the pyramids! They erected them. The cold-hearted Sphinx! A Tut erection. The tower of Cock-man-Ra. Erected by Tut the fourth. They erected them all! They erected them and then they died. And after they buried there within their erections. With all their wealth!”

I noticed a dim haze appear in tiny Toby’s visage. His eyes became like two leering moons.

“Ah,” he continued, “silver like you have never seen. Rubies, amethysts and ambergris. But the most greatest of them, Tutankhamun, the boy king! Borne by Cleopatra, fathered by Caesar, grandfathered by Jimborobaman the goatherder! Husband to Tutankhawomun. Father to Tutankhasun. And yet…..and yet….”

I noticed another shudder coarse through Toby’s round gelatinous face.

“Oh but the currrse. I can speak no more.”

After five seconds we continued to chit-chat until at 1pm we arrived at the appointed place, the bain douche le Cairo. As I was leaving I got into a quarrel with young Toby over the fare, but it was settled in the proper English way.

“But where did Tutankahamun die?” I said as he was hobbling off with his broken rickshaw.

“Nobody knows Sireeeee. It is forbidden to speak of this!”

And with that, he was gone. Inside the bains, Egalabalus was awaiting munching on a bunch of grapes.

“Awreennceee. You are ere,” he cried, shifting a half centimetre on his divan. “Gooood. The great challenges must begin precisely on time.”

He pulled on a cord hanging from the ceiling that was connected to a bucket suspended in the air which upended and dropped a cascade of boiling water down onto his sullen slave Pipo, who’d been hiding in the shadows.

Pipo!” exclaimed Egalabalus, “Bring out the challenger. Do it now!”

The boy held aloft a tiny bugle to his lips and blew it with all his might. It produced no more than a peep, but the sound was enough to disturb the peace of the hammam. There among the dim vapours I saw a shape suddenly come to life.

“O God what is this?” I thought. The very carnality made me shudder. Out of the fog emerged a mountainous simian form. Huge towering jowels. A great white paunch. And that beard. I would recognise it anywhere. Yes Poesy! There, stood like the very spirit of turpitude, wearing nothing more than a small towel was W G Grace!

“Grace,” I cried.

“Oh begom an begorrah. Seamus ‘O Seamus of the Amarald Ayle. Pleased ta mayte yer.”

“This is Mr Seamus O Seamus of the Gallway monarchy of Ireland,” said Egalabalus. “And this is Awrence, the conquerer of Arabia.”

Never have I experienced a greater mix of beffudlement and wrath as then. The nerve of the man Poesy. He a charlatan, pretending to be an Irishman.

“But, what, man….”

“Mr… errr Lawrence is it?! Ef Arabia ye say?”

Egalabalus lay there in a state of inviolable ignorance.

“Yes he is I.”

“An so yar my mysterious challenger,” said Grace with a uncanny look in his eye. “Well good luck to youse, may de best man win.”

I shunned his hand, and readied my mind. Yesl Poesy, my destiny had been struck! Through all the quirks of fate, the meandering turns of life I had arrived here. To face my greatest enemy. To beat him. To become king. To destroy Grace!

“Good,” screamed Egalabalus in a state of nervous suspension. “Let us begin! Pipo!”

The wine dark boy tootled his horn once more.

“By God’s Golden eye let our challenges begin.”

Poesy the hour had come. Seamus O Sea, I mean Grace stood there in his tiny little towel smirking at me. This mass had haunted m throughout my life. But for him I would have become the England cricket captain. But now I would beat him and be king. Twas decreed.

“So the first challenge,” announced Pipo.

Egalabalus had a dark wooden box drawn out from within and placed before us. He spoke in barely a whisper.

“Gentlemen. The cigarette is our finest luxury. To be King of the Albans you must smoke than any other man alive. Please begin.”

My stratagem was to put the cigarettes into my mouth all at once and then create a small vacuum in my throat through which I would be able to jettison the smoke upwards and out through my ears and eyes.

I was able to fit in 53 ciggers at once and puffed away like one of Stephenson’s locomotives. They had never seen anything like it and to a man they applauded me in astounded amazement.

But I’d not reckoned with Grace. He comfortably put 245 cigarettes into his mouth and not only did he smoke them with ease, but he actually enjoyed it!

“That is victory to Seamus.”

“Oh begom an begorrah why thankin ye gladly.”

I admitted defeat and the score was one to nothing in his favour.

Next Egalabalus had a gigantic barrel brought out before us.

“And now gentlemen. The second test. Drinking of our wine. We will favour he who drinks the most.”

Grace drank fifteen quarts of wine at once drinking and urinating. I, of course, needed not to do this, being possessed of the strongest bladder in the world. Unfortunately when I came to tasting the wine it was such foul stuff that I might only bring myself to drink a few quarts before I had to stop and retch violently into the steam bucket.

Thus this challenge was won by Grace. I will admit Poesy my heart was beating a trifle faster than it should. Grace meanwhile wore the smug expression that I had seen so often on his face. Egalabalus suddenly arose from his divan and screamed:

“And now for feats of athletic prowess. First, the jumping of the Tiber. Jump the raging torrent and claim victory! Pipo!”

The wine dark slave led us around the back of the Hammam where there trickled a small stream. Well of course you know that no man in Christendom can beat me at the jump. And so it proved. Not only did I beat the man into oblivion with my forwards jump (setting a new world record in the process), but I also entertained the fellows with several instances of my backwards mantel jumps, which threw the crowded masses into a frenzy.

Egalabalus clapped loudly at this entertainment. And then was announced the test of valour and strength—the slaying of the ass. They brought a mule into the arena. In truth the fellow had quite a charming face and an affectionate way about him. Indeed he tried to rub his face against me quite tenderly such that I almost lost the will to battle it.

Try as I may, with buffets and blows to the head and flanks Dobbin would only become more placid, and he continued with his contented mastication. Eventually I decided t’would be best for me to cease. Grace, however, was no better. Indeed his wrestling technique served only to excite the beast who thought it all a game and rose up on his haunches to climb over the back of Grace, like a man embracing his spouse. We all laughed heartily at this and the challenge was called a draw.

As dusk dawned in that fateful place so we began the final challenge—the herding of the goats. Our task was to drive Egalabalus’s goats through a small gate into a pen. And we had to do this challenge in no more than one hundred steps.

It was Grace’s turn first. The bumbling, blundering oaf could barely herd one goat into the pen such was the ineptitude of his footwork, the heavy leadeness of his step. He spent 60 paces just in trying to avoid the manifold goats droppings which lay scattered throughout the maidan. I realised now that all these years of plenty on the pitch had been a lie! Surely he had been playing French cricket! In the end of it he stood there defeated, out of breath as the goats silently bumped their horns into his haunches.

Now t’was my turn. I had to win this Poesy. For God and for country. For the Fry family name. The goats seeing me rise scattered hither and thither. Some ran up trees, while others cowered in ditches. I used my nimble footwork to assail them. Brevity was my soul. One, two-two, one two-two, back, side quick quick. At the same time as moving I issued a murmuring herding call from my lips, such as I had seen from the shepherds in the Northern countries of England (Yorkshire I believe they are called): weiweiweimmmwhawhaweiwei. The goats started to collect into a single file and move to the gate. In they went. 20 steps, 40 steps, 60 steps, more than half in, 72 steps, three-quarters, 95…oh I was nearly there two more to get. 99 steps. But oh there was another goat. It was up the tree Poesy! The crowd looked on awed. Grace sat there smirking with delight.

But no I would not give up. I gathered all my strength and crouched into a ball. With one gigantic thrust I launched myself into the air and onto the very top of the tree appearing directly infront of the goat which shrieked loudly in terror and leapt off straight into the pen.

Huzzah! I had done it! I CB Fry had won!!!!!!!

Grace lay there in the dust gurgling like a disbelieving infant. Egalabalus clapped his hands with delight.

“Awrence! You are won. You are King of the Albans! Come, come the ceremony of king. We must not stop now”

I shot Grace a victor’s glance and kicked a goat dropping in his direction as they led me into the main hall. There I was sat on a throne all bedecked with feathers of pigeons and peahens. Many men came up to offer me tribute. Then Egalabalus announced:

“Thus we have a chosen you Awrence of Arabia to be our king. Take this topax crown and this wooden sceptre for they are thine own. And now all we require is the tribute of 200,000 pounds and the documents shall be signed.”

“Eh,” I cried. “What is this? 200,000 pounds? Whose tribute is this?”

“Yesss Awrence. We need your Majesty to share with us just a meagre portion of his private fortune thus we can live fruitfully, and restore the bounty to our ragged peoples. Of course you were aware of this, no?”

“By God you are mad man!!”

But more to the point I was mad. Mad with rage. I threw off the topax crown and broke the sceptre into smithereens. For I would not share my fortune with anyone! I swept Egalabalus off his divan and threw him onto the floor. Then I took Pipo and raised him unto the dais and placed the crown upon his head.

“Now my good man. I anoint you the King of the Albans. Take this nincompoop outside and shoot him!”

There was a rousing cheer from the gathered masses and on that tidal wave of approvals I CB Fry, strode out of those grounds with my head in the air. I, the man who would be king!

Just as I stepped onto the street it hit me. A missile thrown from the alley across had whistled in the air and struck me on the tibula. Well Poesy. I was mad. But this time I wasn’t going to let the perpetrator escape. There in the shadows he stood– a small tiny thing, like a monkey. Yes, by all that is infernal on this great earth, ’twas Toby!

Toby scurried away on his tiny little feet, dragging the rickshaw behind. I shot out an oath and set off in pursuit. Of course he had the advantage knowing the lay of the land. But my rage was such that I would not let him escape.

Two long hours I ran, bearing hard upon that native cur. Two long hours Toby scurried, turning this way and that, nipping and sliding through the greasy oriental alleyways.

“I see you Toby. You will not escape!!” I shouted. And yet he ran.

Eventually we reached a small sack bottom. His route was blocked by walls on three sides. His rickshaw had fallen apart and I saw my chance. Racing up to him I grabbed his collar and threw him into the wall which collapsed into a pile of bricks on his head. Just as I was about to advance on him and hand him more of vengeance than he had ever known I noticed a golden, glinting thing amongst the rubble. It was a plate Poesy. A golden plate.

I dragged Toby onto his feet and screamed “C’mon man look sharp. Help me clear out these ruins!”

We both began to dig out the dirt and the sand. By and by we uncovered a staircase which led into a dingy vault in the ground.

“Toby, a match.”

Toby handed me a light which I struck on his bristly scalp. Well Poesy even I was taken with surprise. For there, uncovered in glory, was a room full of glinting treasures, like heaven’s own trove.

“‘Tis the tomb of Tutankhamun!” cried Toby as he threw himself in a mound of coins. “Look the Gold, Mr Fry. We are rich!”

“Indeed Toby, indeed,” I said surveying the scene. “Take this gold coin and buy a new rickshaw. I have spent all I wish to here. We must leave now.”

“But Mr Fry the…”

But I preferred to leave this for another man. For I had seen all I wished of Egypt. You see Poesy this is the true trickery of the orient. Bejewelled and yet….nugatory. As the poet quoth neither lustre nor lucre do I love. For my heart is England.

Another letter from Noel Edmonds

Dear Charlie bzzzzzzzzzzzz

Today I realised that I am a c***. It happened as I was making my usual delivery of presents to the orphans of St Barnardos. Well  I was dressed in my Santa suit, my close to the cheek dyed fuzz looking as horribly sombre as ever, my sly ratty eyes peeping this way and that, that horrible mullet which I’ve never been able to carry off but which I persisted with, hoping that it gives me an edge which I think I used to have in the 1980s when I killed a man on my show, scraggling over my neck, unsightly as ever.

The bags under my eyes were worse than usual since I had spent most of yesterday in a vile, drunken stupor telephoning my ex-wife to remind her how much she owed me (in cash and character) while devouring turkey and goose. God my breath stunk– like wolfbane.

As soon as I stepped into the hospice I was overtaken by a delirium tremens. It was as if my heart had just stopped working. I had this same problem in 1972, the year that I sold my soul to the devil, but had managed to bury it under a subterfuge of egomania and self-aggrandisement in the intervening years.  But I always knew that it was there, creeping away in the background, like a child locked in a cabinet.

And now, as I prepared to dole out the first present to the little orphans of Barnardos, it struck me a blow so terrible that all of my facade shattered infront of my eyes instantly. And the child looked to me, stared deeply into my soul, which was full of misery, and said– “Please Mr Edmonds, what’s wrong?” I could only reply, “I am a c*** son, I am a c***.”


Latest News from Downing College Cambridge

Downing College have warned students about the dangers of binge eating tonight after a student came close to DYING earlier this term.

In an email sent to all members of the College, the Master AND Senior Tutor AND Lord of all he surveys, said there had been an “increase in excessive eating” amongst students, and said students were now eating “both before dinner and afterwards.” The email went on to warn that a student, thought to be a fresher, almost died earlier in term after choking on her own hamburger. There are also reports that an ambulance had to be called to attend to a student rolling on the floor.

Master Rupert Everitt and Senior Tutor Graham Gemini-Virgo warned that binge eating could risk not only students’ health but also their future prospects.

The email warned: “excessive eating puts you as individuals at risk of violent toilet in the city, and also at risk of infringing the law; for some of you, such as intending lawyers and doctors, this may prevent you from pursuing your intended career. This should not be a problem for budding restaurant critics and local village policemen. Indeed it probably isn’t such a big problem for lawyers either.”

Second year Drowning student Hamish told The Tab: “I think there’s been a few issues in our year and with the freshers. Its a bit exaggerated though to be honest.

“Although there is definitely a culture of binge eating, the situation seems to have been massively exaggerated by the college. This is understandable given the slim reputation they want to upkeep.”

The Master, last seen in Dr Who, said the college would offer help and counselling to any members of the college struggling with massive food problems.

Downing Bar Manager Becky Powell stressed that the bar tried to keep a lid on the excessive eating, saying: “We encourage responsible eating and do not condone eating to excess. We just want people to have a good time within responsible limits. One time a man came in demanding three packets of crisps. I served him. He ate all three at once (within five minutes) and then proceeded to ask for another three. This time however I refused. He started to threaten me with his finger and so I locked the glass cabinet that we keep all the crisps and nuts in. Eventually he walked off with a nasty look on his face. I was pretty disturbed after that and didn’t come into work the next day. Eventually however (a day later) my crisis passed and I was able to return to work.”

But some students have hit out against the email. Downing third year SOPHIE Thorpe said: “We’re adults, we’re entitled to do what we like. I often eat biscotti while writing my next article on misogyny, sexism, how much I hate men, whether women should be Queen and men dogs, how much I love the army because I have compassion for men who lay down their lives while blasting the heads of some Afghan terrorist etc etc”

The email is the latest attempt by Cambridge colleges to tackle binge eating.

Last year the Bloated Scholars, the Downing College Girl’s Drinking Society, led by SOPHIE Thorpe, were fined (in bold) for bad behaviour, with snacks at college functions being reduced as a result.

St John’s College also introduced a ‘babysitting’ scheme for fat students last term. Student volunteers are paid up to £10 to look after students too engorged to look after themselves.

John’s third year Yosemite Hackett-Offs, who once lusted after a fresher, said: “I think it’s really good, the person I looked after was found on their own in the middle of Cambridge so she wouldn’t have been looked after by friends. I have no idea what I just said, could someone please help me.”

The Judge’s Letter- on race

Hello Gilmor

How goes it? Just sitting here in my shabby old flatdown pondering life’s mysteries. Yet more trouble on the streets. Perhaps you heard about it on the radio.

I suppose it’ll be the blacks again. What a disregard some of these chaps have for civilised society. Many’s the time I’ve had to discipline one of these fellows in court. Staring at me with their beady eyes, the vicious leathery smiles- the arrogance of it. Well I suppose it’s in their nature. Inanition, sloth, a certain listlessness…a bit like you Oxonians.

Actually now I think of it, Oxford did once have a black man in. Brought in to play the role of Othello in that Shakespeare play….good God what is it called?

Anyway Willy St Ives, the Dean of Peterhouse, felt that having a person of colour would be more representative of a character who is, in essence, coloured. While some argued it would’ve been better to use a blacked-up Englishman (a la Olivier, 1956) the chap did a sterling job in my opinion. True his voice had a little too much resonance to it (like  ‘chocolate mousse’ according to one reviewer). But the characterisation was superb, really superb…

Argh, I feel a massive attack of heartburn coming on….better be off


Nick (Brown QC)

Judge Nicholas Brown QC on Sex Texting


…..when we loosen our sheep from the flock, so they are devoured by wolves.” Proverb.

Sitting infront of the radio tonight after a hard day’s judiciary I came across a torrid sex case. It is a case familiar to me. A teacher was sentenced to two years suspended after conducting an affair with a school pupil. Now this was no normal  affair. For this teacher sent this youngish boy of 14, 205 sextual messages of the vilest candour, the dirtiest obscenity, the jiminiest snoffting to ever have crossed the radiographic ocean.

I devoured each line, each smutty innuendo, word by filthy word slumped in my bed one night last week. Line after depraved, like, “I urge you to put your faith in my womb.” “Spill thy blood on my cross Christopher, that I may come into thine holy love.” “My soul rages in the night. I tremble when I feel your mercy.”

The depravity of it. Yesterday I spoke to the officiating judge, a friend of mine, Mr Kenneth Everett, about the case. While he is a noble man, Everett is far too soft for cases like these. Says he to I, “Nick, what could I have done? If I had given her 62 years as you suggest there would have been a public outcry.”

“Nonsense,” says I.“No sentence would have been too lenient for this nymphet. I would have flayed her with the rod of vengeance. Think of the child man! The agonies he must have passed through receiving these messages.  He must’ve been in hell. For God’s sake you yourself told me that one of the messages explicitly exhorted the boy to ‘touch her!”

Now readers know that i am not one to speak out of turn. For as I preach, so I practise. Only last month I put another teacher into the sexual register for peddling filth through text messages.

Kim Philby (we shall call him) a teacher from Windsor, had sent filth of such unavailing scum-diggery that I gave him a life sentence. I extract the passage this man was sexting tudents.

O Rose, thou art sick! (Vile stuff already!)

The invisible worm

That flies in the night, (Dear God has this man no humanity?)

In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed (Oh by God I falter. Give me strength)

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

I choke, I retch! I vomit.

What sadist would teach a child, a mere chit of a child, this lust-filled pornography? My mind fills with great urges, oh oh…..pass me the sexual register, quick, quick!

Letter from Jeremy Kyle

Hi Charlie

I’m writing to you from the green room of my programme, The Jeremy Kyle Show. Its 8.55am, five minutes before I’m due to go on and I don’t know what to do anymore. It happened the other day when I was presenting the show, “I admit there are three possible fathers to my baby- DNA results.”

I was on stage trying my best to look sanctimonious and patronising.

As with most mornings,I was cold, clever, cutting and hard all at the same time. But underneath something just wasn’t right. I was cracking up. God knows I tried, but as nasty and spiteful as I was I just couldn’t bait the filthy, subhuman scum that were on the show to get angry and start a fight.

What’s wrong with me? Really, I tried my best to be charmless, cruel, spiteful, stupid, salacious, crass, devious, weasely, contemptuous, arrogant, boastful, demeaning, lacking in any kind of human feeling whatsoever. I dehumanised them. I treated them like subhuman turds. But would they fight? No!

WHAT is wrong with me? Have I lost it? Is it me?

God knows I’ve got so much to look forward to. Only next week I’ll be presenting “You slept with my cousin—but did you lie about being pregnant?” followed by “I’m pregnant, its YOUR baby, what do I do?” followed by “My mother and father really love each other—there’s nothing wrong with them. Please can you help?!” followed by “I dream about Hitler and hate myself for it.”

Have I lost it Charlie?

I’ve been reading the Daily Mail every day to get some sense of normality back—but naught! You know how insane I am! How depraved in faculties! In form and moving how expressly admirable! Sometimes, in action how like an Angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no…..nor Woman neither; (Though by your smiling you seem to say so).


Letter from John Claude Rogerman III II


Dear Mr Jobs

It is with great world weariness and tears in my eyes that I learn of the mighty fraud you have perpetrated against me and my kin. O Mr Jobs I thought you to be in an honourable man, of lineage Jobs, that I could trust and rely. Why did you not tell me that you are die???!!!

Your death is make me cast aspersiopns on that great and benevolent character that I was told of you Sir, peace be upon our mighty Lord Jesus of Allah. Despite your wilful actus of neglectus and many crazily antics against your remployees I always defended you to the hilt of the knife, and said that you were good man. But Sir I never knew you would do this and be dead!!!!

Yes Sir sometime now I think you are most unworthy suitor for the Rogerman clan it seem for to die is the greatest fraud to perpetrate in this life!

But never mind. In my country we have a words– it say ‘let bygones be a bygone,’ transl. “Mungabapee!!!!”

Therefore, sir, I would like present to you with another (LAST) one final chance for redeem and true– please could you to transfer the sum of 30billion pounds (700 trillion dollar) into the bank account of my wife, Lesley M Rogerman, born Jennifer Alfred Faith Raperman, in that my family is currently reside in a hole in Iraq and are very starving and will soon lose one and only trusting transport of Jeep and gold taps which we are use to run the asses milk. My wife, Barbara, is now reside in the grand state of Texas where she is lay with that filthy devil George Bush Jr who stole all of my monies to the sum of 71 trillion US dollars (61,000) which he invested in propartah.

Thank and kindly sinceritude

Jon Claude Rogersman III, Apple Country

Letter from John Claude Rogerman III


Dear Mr Jobs

It is with heart full of hope and gods wish that I write to seek your help in the context below.

My name is John Claude Rogerman III of Orange County Minessotta, son of John Claude Rogerman II and great-grandson of John Claude Rogerman I, president and founder of Little Chef of Missouri, Illinois, Wisconsin, Nevada (my grandfather died in childbirth and therefore did not assume name Rogerman). As you know my GREAT father died in 2001, in the tragic World Trade Centre disaster which was a heinous plot controlled by Pakis. He was merely having cigarette on very the top of the trade centre, its very top 44th floor, when a plane flew into him and crushed him body into pulp. Unfortunately his injuries were too severe to and he died in hospital.

Having gotten your particulars from my late father’s (John Claude Rogerman II) library, I have no doubt to your capacity and goodwill to assist me in receiving into your custody (for safety) the sum of US$37 million (37,000,000,000) willed and deposited in the favor of myself and my wife who is the second wife of the late president of the Little Chef Union.

This money is currently kept in a trust deposit vault with a Finance and Security company inAlaska. However, the new Government headed by my step brother John George Bush Jr has on assumption of office setup an inquiry to recover all the assets belonging to my late dad including cash and properties with the pretence of safe-keeping, but with actual intention of personal inheritance. All this because we are from a polymorphous family. My step-brother George Bush Jr ordered the invasion of the country because he is jealous of our wealth and how my cosy wife, Barbara, looks in a cowboy suit and Stetson hat.

My lazy wife eventually migrated to the opposition camp to live with the Bush family, which she lay with, including the devil man George Bush Sr, may allah bring pain on her soul.

I managed to escape from the country of the US, and with the help of our lawyer, I am presently living in a small hole in the ground because of my currently situation.

Due to the situation of things our lawyer, Trust Abyssinia, has strictly advised that the willed money be urgently moved into an over-seas account of a Foreign family friend without delay for security reasons. I expect you to be trustworthy and kind enough to respond to this call (SOS) to save my entire family, the Rogerman’s of Baghdad, and me from a suresome death and lawless future.

I hereby agree to compensate your sincere effort in this regard with 20% of the fund, when finally received in your local Bank account. That is the amount of 51,000 (15 billion) pounds.

The attorney here has perfected arrangements with the Bankers to effect complete dislodgment of this money within a week of the receipt of your response through telephone and fax. They have equally guaranteed 100% risk free and smooth transfer. reply me via e-mail: or

Best Wishes
Mr. John Claude Rogernam