Jonny and the Foreigner

Len the Fish, Jonny B and I sit in the village pub. It's early, seven o'clock or so, and I'm beginning to suspect we may be here for the duration. Jonny is in one of his moods, and Len isn't helping by using filthy language and talking about sex with farmyard animals. Why do I put up with these fools?

“Excuse me yes, I am looking for ze pigfarm?”

It is obvious from the accent that this man is not foreign. His accent is a poor imitation of what an English person thinks a foreigner sounds like. I detect a subtle undertone of West Country in his voice. Bristol, maybe.

“I am looking for ze pigfarm? Apparently it is near here?”

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Jonny stiffen in his seat. Clearly this is some kind of codeword. Perhaps the sleeper cell has just been awakened. The faux-foreigner circulates around the pub, reaches Jonny B and states,

"Ze meeting with the unnamed pig-man may be under the full moon tonight, eh comrade!"

I am shocked by the audacity of this man. I plant a small tracking device in his jacket pocket. Later, I track him down to a farm just outside of the village. I creep up on him and drag him into a deserted barn. Under heavy questioning the guy will not crack. I break near every bone in his body and he still keeps up the ridiculous accent.

He begs for his life until he can beg no more.

Hitman

Despite the electrocution, the ladder-abuse, the stair collapse, and the LPs, I didn't really think Jonny had it in him. I didn't think he was capable of murder.

In the end, maybe he wasn't. He bottled it and got the professionals in. This man is such a low-life that ants look down on him. I am disgusted.

I pull in a few favours and discover that the police have Lenina Crowne in custody. My respect for Jonny increases somewhat, at least he's spared no expense getting the top assassin in Europe to front the job. A little old lady on the outside, a cold-hearted butcher on the inside. This woman is responsible for more deaths in Europe than any other paid contractor - Wimpey Homes included.

Yet the LTLP has been lucky. A badly broken leg is the worst of the physical injuries. Mentally though, I'm not so sure. She looks like a broken woman. Who wouldn't be, living with that monster.

Laddered

For the third time in a month, the LTLP arrives at my door with horrible wounds.

This time he has gone at her with a ladder.

Three days ago, he brutalised her with an old box of LPs. If you're going to get viciously assualted, you'd probably rather it wasn't with old Pretenders albums. That time there was no lasting damage, this time she has a large welt on her forehead, like someone has implanted a golf ball halfway into her skull.

Again it falls to me to calm her down. She talks about going to the police, of leaving this place and Jonny Billericay behind. I tell her she has to stay, to give him a chance, he's not all that bad. I fear she's the last connection Jonny has to the real world, and without her his fragile sanity will snap.

Like a cornflake. Snap.

She says that she knows I'm right. He's not that bad, she says. Just more and more psychotic. We kiss, a long kiss, a good kiss, and part once more.

High voltage

It is late, past midnight, and I pace the house, alone with my thoughts. There is a tap at the back door. The LTLP is in tears. We haven't spoken for a few days, deciding to keep our distance after our joint fall from grace. I comfort her sobs as best I can and usher her into the kitchen. After several moments, she stops crying just long enough to tell me what has happened.

"He has tried...to...electrocute me," she says. "The sink...live...20,000 volts."

It is then she shows me her palms. They are red-raw.

I dress her wounds as gently as I can.

Subject grows a beard

Jonny has grown a beard. I'm afraid he may be gearing up to impersonating a Muslim, in an attempt to incite racial tension in the Kings Lynn area. He's becoming more and more erratic, even going as far as admitting to me that he has bought a spray which eliminates DNA from sperm.

"We don't want another kid at the moment," he says.

I assure him his beard will be a more than adequate deterrent.

The ongoing difficulties with his home seem to be getting him down. I hope his mental state will survive this final period.

On Big A

Big A's criminal empire is focussed on hardcore pornography for a niche market. The GILF fanbase is small but extremely lucrative, if targetted correctly. Operating out of the secretive Village Bowls Club, Big A has produced some of the finest silver-porn on the market, with such classics as Bowling For Concubines 7, Truly Great Head 4 and the interracial gay love classic, White Jack, Black Balls.

Big A coerces unsuspecting pensioners into his sordid movies with a heady blend of free malt-loaf, subsidised travel to and from Kings Lynn, and free annual membership of Knitting World. But most of the people I have talked to say it isn't just the perks on offer. It's the feeling of commarardarie you get whilst being spit-roasted by men with a combined age of over 150. Sometimes, I guess, people just need to feel wanted.

This week I caught wind of fisticuffs at the bowls club, after some over-aggressive fluffing resulted in an unexpected, and off-camera, money-shot. Jonny B was apparently there, as was Len the Fish, although neither seems to have been on the receiving end.

I will, however, keep a keener eye on the bowls club from now on.

Back

Jonny has come back to the village. His house is little more than a building site. My surveilance can resume.

On Narcoleptic Dave

Narcoleptic Dave made his fortune by trafficking boatloads of Eastern Europeans to the UK. Most of these ended up in the sex trade, screwing fat men for loose change. Dave would perform this high-risk smuggling himself, taking his van over the Channel, through to the Eastern Bloc, and back again without stopping for food or sleep. These long trips began taking their toll on Dave, and he developed the disorder which gave him his nickname.

Of course, when these undesirables arrived in the UK, they needed somewhere to stay. So Narcolpetic Dave became an overnight property developer. He would shoehorn 10-20 of them into the smallest properties he could find. Fortunately for Dave, he bought at the right time, and what were hovels of the worse order suddenly became des-res overnight.

I find out that Jonny B's new pad is one of those being presided over by the Slumlord that is Narcoleptic Dave. He threw out the 10 prostitutes who were staying there, scrubbed the matresses clean, and let in Jonny and the LTLP. The lost pimping revenues must be being made up by Jonny in other ways.

Post

For two years we have intercepted and read all of JB's mail, searching in vain for hidden messages to his parent cell. Today we picked up the following communication. I am not quite sure the meaning of it yet, but I am going to work on it for the next few days to decifer the code.


Dear Homebase

I recently visited your Kings Lynn branch to peruse your selection of tiles. Whilst I was there, I was forced to use the toilet. Please note that although I chose not to purchase any tiles on this occassion, I believe I am right in saying that I was still technically 'a customer', so I don't think I broke your rules against non-customers utilising your facilities. (I believe these rules are in place to stop vagrants from soiling the toilets. If you check your CCTV you will see that, although I do appear to have a jizzum stain on my trousers, I am otherwise fairly smart in appearance and, although I am technically without a home at the moment, I don't sleep on the streets or drink Tenant's Super from cans.)

I wanted to write to you about an idea I had whilst pooing in your store. You see, your company sells toilet equipment and new bathrooms and that kind of thing, and yet your toilets are a little, how shall we say, austere. Why not decorate them with your best products, with little labels explaining where you can buy the products that are on show? If I had to do my business on a very comfortable toilet and then unwound the tissue from a flashy dispenser, I might be tempted to buy the lovely things.

Please note that even though I am a famous internet celebrity, and have been recognised in VNU's Web Active magazine, I do not require payment for this idea. It would be nice if you could put a link to my blog on your website though.

Many thanks

Jonny Billericay

Ham

Short Andy has filed a report on Jonny B's increasingly perilous state of mind. Apparently Jonny was seen to examine the same shopping bag for 30 minutes, before shouting, to no-one in particular, "Where is my Ham? I have lost my Ham! I cannot locate my Ham, and I have looked extensively for my Ham in this bag and yet my Ham is not in this bag!"

Jonny was then seen attempting to drive a car whilst sitting in the passenger's seat.

I instruct Short Andy to keep a close eye on the subject, and to attempt to locate the Ham if possible. The Ham could provide a useful clue, should we locate it.