Short Tony's Secret Private Diary

Belt. Braces.

2011-06-13T13:01:00.000-07:00

I'll admit, it was quite novel when he turned up in the village.

It wasn't the London thing. We get folk coming up from down that way all the time. It wasn't the writer thing either, as after all, he was just a wannabe back then. It wasn't the craziness; we're quite used to that, (this is Norfolk after all). It was the blackness that did it.

I mean, young black guy playing bowls with octogenarian Tory voters. There's a certain humour there. Young black guy keeping chickens and perving over vegetable delivery ladies. It's funny. I would read about it, for a while, and maybe you'd hear about it on the radio. Like in that slot before six o'clock on Radio Five with that grumpy old bastard Peter Allen. No, second thoughts, that's too popular. It would probably turn up on Radio 4, after Farming Today, at 5.45 AM.

But the point is that "black guy in white world doing strange things" is inherently funnier than "just another white guy playing bowls for a bit". Call it a commentary on modern society, if you wish.

But, over the years, people around here have come to accept him. He is now a part of the scenery. Accepted, if not loved.

Which is why I was surprised to see Jonny B at the village pub, wearing a pair of braces he claimed were from the Black and White Minstrel Show. When it was pointed out to him that this show was a bastion of the kind of racism he has fought all of his life to overcome, he just smiled, and muttered something about it being post-ironic.

Perhaps, we will never truely understand him.

Deja vu. Again.

2011-03-08T09:20:00.000-08:00

Close-contact observation can be a risky and often dangerous business. It can be tiring, it can be laborious, and, as I have just discovered, it can be demeaning.

I have donned a new costume in my pursuit of the nefarious Jonny B. Thanks to the boffins at MI5, and in no small part to the action blockbuster Face/Off, (Cage, Travolta, et al), I have managed to swap both my face and my body with that of a small child. I have kidnapped the second spawn of the target, and am now deep undercover in the lion's den.

The surgery was not without its failings. The drugs they have given me do not even scratch the surface of the pain. In addition, I appear to have lost many of my fine motor skills. I am screaming for most of the night, and pooing my diaper in the day. Mine is not a comfortable existence, although the poo does go squish when I sit down, which can be comforting. I am forced to play with a multitude of children's toys. There are trucks and swords and guns, but I am keen to play with the dollys, just to annoy Jonny.

There is endless Peppa Pig. I am George. My sister is Peppa. My daddy is Daddy Pig. There is an uncanny resemblance, both phsyical and mental.

I am afraid I am losing my ability to think like a grown-up. It is a bit like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, (Pitt, et al). The more I poo and eat and poo and play and eat and poo and play and scream and eat and poo and poo and scream, the more I forget how to form those things that you use to talk with, you know, the things that come out of that thing that is in the middle of your face. I will count to ten to get my bearings.

One, two, three, four, three, four, two, three.

I must get out, make a break for that thing over there that leads to the outside world. The thing that is made of the same stuff as my train. It is hard. I banged my head on it the other day. It hurt. I screamed.

I have pooed again.

I am me, I am not George. Am I George?

I am George.

Oink. Dinosaur.

Alive

2010-12-13T23:53:00.000-08:00

As part of my selfless espionage, I am forced into attending many social outings with the heinous Jonny B.

One such ritual humiliation is the weekly snooker match. As it has been since the dawn of time, we are left cursing our general lack of skill and manliness, as we succumb to a 25-0 beating. Fast forward several hours, (and several pints), and we are travelling at breakneck speed along a small country road in the middle of nowhere. Jonny is driving. He has been drinking again. He's always drinking these days. I beseech him to slow down, but he just stares into the gloom ahead and ignores my cries.

We round a tight corner at high speed, the car tilts, leaves the ground for several minutes, and executes a mid-air triple-salko. The next thing I know I am flying through the air, like a beautiful angel, down from Heaven for the weekend, before thumping face-down into the snow, head ringing and balls aching. The Firm trains you to be calm in these situations, but I am shaking with fury and fear as I struggle to my feet.

The car is laying upside-down in a ditch. It looks like it has been through one of those compactors you get at the breakers. You know, I think they had one in Superman. Or like Luke Skywalker would have looked like if he had actually got crushed in that room that he was stuck in with Princess Leia. I am babbling incoherently, and struggling to think of a half-decent metaphor, but hopefully you get the picture.

I fall to my knees and look inside. John Twonill is out cold and bleeding from a nasty gash to his temple. Len the Fish is conscious, but has a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. I think he might be dead, before he coughs bright red blood all over the back seat. The Chipper Barman is upside down with his head in Len's lap. (I don't know whether he was like that before the crash, I was in the front.) Jonny B is strangely unharmed, and busy crawling out of the driver's door.

"Hit some black ice", he explains. The man's audacity knows no bounds.

We set about pulling the others from the wreckage. John appears to have broken some ribs, and Len has to forcibly extricate a rogue snooker cue which appears to have lodged itself in his arse, but otherwise we are remarkably unharmed.

We assess our situation. The country road we had been travelling down is deathly quiet. The snow is falling heavily now. I can barely see ten yards in front of me.

"We must find some shelter", says Len the Fish, to which there is general assent. We do not know which way to proceed. Jonny B says that he did some orienteering when he was in the third year, and says that you can find north by sticking your tongue out and seeing how many flakes you can catch standing in different directions.

It sounds like bollocks to me, but I’m still reeling from the crunching ball-ache, so I nod and tell him to lead the way.

Hours later we are still making away across snow-covered fields. Visibility has dropped to nothing. John has turned slightly blue and can only walk for short periods before he has to be given a piggyback by Len, who has kept the snooker cue, ostensibly to ward off any bears, wolves, etc. I think he might just be a bit fond of it.

The Chipper Barman wails "I don't want to die out here" from time to time. Chipper no more, the poor man.

We make camp under some old bits of wood that have been put together in a seemingly haphazard fashion. It is not much of a shelter, but it will do until the snow subsides. We swallow our pride and cling to each other for warmth.

I awake during the night to find Jonny B gnawing on my buttocks. Whether this is a sign of affection or hunger I am not quite sure, and I am too tired to make a big issue of it. I tell him to bugger off and roll over, and try and get some sleep.

Morning comes, finally, and we wake to find the world covered in snow. We survey our surroundings, and find that we are in the Chipper Barman's garden. We have been sleeping in the shed we helped move, back in September 2005, if memory serves.

Lucky.

Despair, hope, etc.

2010-11-10T02:45:00.000-08:00

The cold northerly wind whistles through the Village, scattering leaves hither and thither, like so many broken dreams.

In the village pub, a lone patron hunches over the remnants of a beer that has long warmed in his hand.

The village shop is closed, as it is closed on every Wednesday at this time of the year. Business is not what is used to be. Up the stairs, the shopkeeper sobs quietly into her Tesco Value porridge, and wonders what will happen to her once the shutters come down, for the final time.

The bowls club is silent, (except for the distant howls of a 75 year-old grandma being tag-teamed by a roaming pair of itinerant fencers, down for the weekend from Glasgow, but that is not the point of this story). The turf is frozen over. Summer is a distant memory, as far away as the bright lights of London are from this dour, terminally ill place. The remnants of a society long cast-adrift from the outside world huddle inside their faux-period cottages, heating one room at a time. This is how the Eskimos feel, looking out from their igloos over miles and miles of cold, unrelenting bleakness.

Here comes the man now, shuffling, hunched-over, up the hill from his house. Face buried inside his coat, against the sub-zero temperatures that have befallen this outcast community. Who is this man? What is he doing, out alone, struggling up the road on this wretched day? He stumbles towards the village pub, almost falls through the door, and shakes off his dreary garb.

It is him.

The bartender wakes from his half-sleep, face brightening like the dawn of a summer's day. Legend has arrived in his pub, and he feels proud.

It is The Author, (from down the hill).

The man who has shown that something good can come from this desolate wilderness. That there is hope! Yes, hope! There is hope for us all. For if one man can become a published author, then perhaps we can all fulfill our dreams, our loves, our deepest longings. A shout goes up from the figure in the corner, a mangled kind of "hooray"! The barman turns on the jukebox, and from across the village they come, to wallow in the pool of brilliance that emanates from this man. In the village shop, the shopkeeper removes the shotgun from her mouth and turns toward the sounds of the gathering. She wipes a tear from her eye, and knows that everything, everything, everything will be OK.

The party will last long into the night. The wine will flow, the people will laugh and when it ends, they will embrace, and they will look into each other's eyes and say, yes, this is a good life, this is worth living, for the small moments, if nothing else. When they wake in the morning, they will smile and go about their business, refreshed, with a spring in their step, and a reserve of joy in their hearts.

The Author returns to his cottage, kisses his family as they lay sleeping, and sits, thinking.

Boom!

2010-03-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

The interesting thing about the Terrorist's Handbook is that it's really, really badly named. I mean, if you had called it something crap like "Musings on the etymology of gardening-related terminology, 1912-1915", you'd probably be able to sell it on the high-street without anyone blinking an eye. But call it the Terrorist's Handbook and we here at the MI5 can easily track any nutcase who types the words into Google. And then catch them and give them a good shoeing.

Furthermore, if you were to take the important bits - like how to blow people up - then you could take each letter, put it at the start of each sentence, and have a really clever way of disseminating Jihad information to the sleeper-cell community.

Note to self: keep a keen eye out for Jonny B attempting to release any innocuous-looking publications.

Busted

2009-11-09T14:45:00.000-08:00

Our eyes meet from across the breakfast hall, and I realise that of all the hotels in all of America, I chose the one that Jonny B and his freakish clan are staying in. A mistake, a mistake, a foolish mistake.

"You!" he shouts, charging at me from across the room.

"Arrrrghhhh," he bellows, launching himself headlong at my midriff. We crash into a unusually positioned lorry of grit, he gets up and, showing inhuman strength, picks me up by the throat and shakes me like a naughty baby.

"I feel a little violated," I say, as he slams me down directly on to a salt shaker.

"Damn your violation," he says, "you have been stalking me! Via the internet!"

It appears I have been busted. I decide to plead ignorance. He has long believed me to be unskilled in the ways of technology - little does he know I have a CSE in the use of the ZX Spectrum.

"What? I don't even know what the internet is! I booked this holiday on Ceefax! You know that that is as close to modern technology as I get? I'm just here, minding my own business, eating these waffles and syrup, consuming over 2000 calories before 9am. This is surely why America is so great?"

"And the free coffee," he says.

"Yes, that too. The free coffee is a bonus. But I don't know what you're talking about with all this internet business. Remember you showed me that video of that fat kid on that rollercoaster, and I didn't like it because I thought it was like, cruel, and you said I didn't understand the internet, and I said 'you're right', and you said 'you must never use the internet again,' and I said, 'yes, you are right, I will never use the internet again'?"

He pauses momentarily.

"It wasn't you then? It definitely wasn’t you?”

“No. I’d have needed to ask what buttons to press and all that.”

This seems to appease him. He settles like a silverback after a good dump.

"Oh. What are you doing here then?"

"I came to see Graceland," I say. "Uh huh." (This was my impression of Elvis. It was the best I could do at short notice.)

"Oh. I have come to see Dollywood, and see if I could find some good banjo music."

"Yes. You like banjo music. Banjo music makes you happy. You will be happy if you find some good banjo music. I guess I'll see you back in England then."

"Right."

He wanders off, looking slightly dazed, surely with a very suspicious mind. I throw my gear in the Hummer and burn out of town.

Cherokee

2009-11-06T12:26:00.000-08:00

Tennessee turns out to be a lot like Norfolk, only with bigger hills, and sillier place names.

We were given a full security briefing at the airport, by a friendly trooper in a big hat. He told us to look out for the Sugarland Mountain Massive, but there is no sign of them as we pass through Grandfather, no clues in Boone, and no redemption in Bethlehem. Gang activity is relatively light back home in rural Norfolk - although you do get the occasional defacement of the wall behind the Village Pub - so maybe I am just not looking in the right places. We move on to Cherokee, (named after the Jeep), and settle down for the night.

I do not know why Jonny has led us to this place. What is there in Tennessee? To our West lies Memphis, the home of the King (Elvis). For those of you unfamiliar with his work, he was the one who inspired the costumes in the late-seventies science fiction programme Blake's Seven. I learnt about Graceland from Paul Simon - who was the fellow from Simon and Garfunkel who did not have the big hair. I am not sure quite where Art Garfunkel is involved in all this, but he has always struck me as a bit of a strange character. I will keep him at the back of my mind for now.

Maybe tomorrow we will make the pilgrimage to Graceland. Maybe we will be forced to track Jonny as he scouts potential terrorist targets. Whatever. As the sun goes down over the beautiful Smoky Mountains, I fall asleep listening to the sounds of silence.

Tennessee

2009-11-02T09:54:00.000-08:00

As the old saying goes, boys go for looks, girls go for status. I flash my badge at the dolly behind the check-in desk, and bingo, I'm upgraded to first-class. It's the only way to fly. Champagne on boarding, spacious legroom, food and snacks all the way to America.

Later, as the stewardess delicately fondles my nuts, I stretch out in the full-reclining chair and ponder the perils that lie ahead. What nefarious activities does Jonny have planned for our trip the States? We have alerted the ground crew to his presence, and they have delayed the plane long enough to search the baggage hold for explosive materials. Apart from some dubious-looking pants, which may form the basis of a targeted chemical strike, Jonny B's luggage is clean.

I take another sip of champagne and regard my fellow passengers. Kirsty Allsopp is touching up her make-up in the seat to my right, whilst the entire cast of the Leningrad Cowboys are discussing their favourite tractors to my rear. I close my eyes and settle down for a few hours shut-eye, and before I know it we are touching down. I awake feeling refreshed, ready for the challenges before me.

Those good sorts at the FBI have layed on a top-of-the-range Hummer for us. This thing is so good it pretty much drives itself. I watch from my leather-clad nest as Jonny B enters his Kia Dinky Donk - a nondescript car if there ever was one. Thankfully, we have managed to delay him long enough at the car-hire desk to plant a microphone in the Kia, and we can hear every word he utters. We follow him at a safe distance, the sounds of a deeply discontented man ringing in our ears.

Tongue

2009-07-24T14:39:00.000-07:00

We spend Father's Day together.

It's nice to spend some quality time with Jonny B. Even though I know he is a maniacal killing machine, hell-bent on the destruction of the civilized world as we know it, I guess I've developed a certain fondness for him over the years.

There is a certain joy de vrie in the air, mixed with a small but unmistakable amount of bonhomie. Despite the French flavour to the afternoon, I stop short at rolling Len the Fish's tongue around my mouth, however velvety and succulent it may appear. Jonny doesn't share my apprehension however, and he and Len go at it like Labradors on a bone, chewing and sucking until they both collapse, exhausted, but happy.

Later, when Len shows us his molotov cocktails, there is nearly a mishap as one partially detonates in Jonny's face. We all smile. It has just been that kind of day.

Center Parks

2009-06-18T14:14:00.000-07:00

Jonny is off on one of his numerous holidays again. For someone who prides himself on never leaving the confines of a small Norfolk village, Jonny B is a suprisingly active traveller.

This time around we are off to Center Parks. For the benefit of our CIA friends, Centre Parks is an English holiday resort, a bit like Disneyland, but crapper. Instead of actual rides, they have "activities", instead of a hotel, they have "chalets", and instead of teenagers dressed up as cartoon characters, they have teenagers whose sole role in life is to pretend to be busy doing other things. There are several of these resorts dotted around the UK, but curiously, whichever one you go to, it never quite ends up looking like the one that is on the TV.

If you pay lots of money (which our subject has, of course, as all of his trips are part-funded by "Big" Al Qaeda), then you get to stay in a nice log cabin with a suana, flat-screen TV, and wifi. If you go for the entry model, you get an old wooden shed with an outside bog. The corrugated iron roof is liable to fall off in a strong breeze, they collect their matresses from the front gardens of inner-city houses, and you must feed yourself by catching and killing wildlife from the surrounding woods.

Regardless of what time of year you go, it will always be raining. They pay evil scientists to persist their own micro-climate. This is a ploy they use so they do not have to resource their numerous outside activities, like boating and tree-walking. You can look at these things through handy viewing portals (disguised as windows), but you are never actually allowed to use them. Instead, you must visit the swimming pool, where children are piled on top of one another, sometimes four or five deep.

This is what the English refer to as "a nice break".

Jonny is seemingly happy in this purgatory. There is a minor incident in one of the whirlpools when Jonny attempts to murder his in-laws, but thankfully I have disguised myself as a lifeguard, and I plunge in Hoff-style to their rescue.

Steerpike

2009-05-08T14:52:00.000-07:00

I'm looking at Jonny through my Praktica 9-40x21 standard-issue long-range binoculars. Nestled in a tree twenty feet from the floor, I watch a man nestled in an armchair, never more than twenty feet from the fridge.

As I sit, and he sits, and I sit, and he sits, and I sit, and he gets up and checks the washing machine, and I sit some more, and he picks his nose and flicks it across the room, I wonder where my life has gone so wrong that I am reduced to this. I think back to the time when I was young, the girls, the booze, the feeling that your life could take you anywhere. And then it hits me. I've seen this punk before.

Early 1990s. Some dive in the East End. I'm drafted in to play bass with some below-average pseudo-clever rock outfit called the Sultans of Ping. Something about the bassist they'd had lined up - the next big thing in bass playing apparently - being ran over by a clown in a Reliant. That guy never did get his shot.

But I digress. I remember a band on the undercard that night. 'Steerpike' they called themselves I think, after some shoddy Lord of the Rings rip-off. I remember the lead singer was ok, the drummer not too bad (maybe lacking in practice), but the lead guitarist had a miserable time of it. I peer at Jonny through the binoculars and try and think of him as he was then...dyed green hair...no belly...retro Filas and Adidas tracksuit...and yes, it's him alright.

Him of the snapped string.

Him of the missed intro.

Him of the farcical attempt at a guitar solo, which I seem to remember sounded a lot like the opening sequence of 'Minder'.

Maybe that experience - being booed-off with no more than a minute of the opening song played - maybe that was what turned him against society. Maybe he saw then that he would never experience fame, or success, or even the simple adulation of pubescant schoolgirls, and maybe right then was when he decided to side with the looneys, the fanatics, the classical-music lovers.

It all makes sense now.

Steerpike.

The Piano Tuner

2008-11-10T15:39:00.000-08:00

Jonny is all in a flap, like a chicken on acid. The Piano Tuner is coming.

The Piano Tuner last visited just over two years ago. At the time I dismissed him as just another crazy loon, intent on parting Jonny B from the LTLP's hard-earned money. But this time, there is something in his manner that makes me think of doom and destruction. Could this be the Big Boss. Could this be the man who controls The Man.

Even with the kind of advanced sound amplifiers that the government supplies to its agents these days, I can make out little of their conversation over the god-awful racket of some 18th century Communist. The Tuner complements Jonny on his instrument, they discuss some dates that I don't quite hear clearly, and before I know it, the Tuner is making for the exit. I put down my glass tumbler and watch him drive away.

Just like two years past, I can hear a muffled (but clearly poor quality) rendition of the theme-tune to Minder from the other side of the wall. I had previously considered this to be just another anti-establishment ditty, a light-hearted call-to-arms for the criminal underworld. Now I consider the terrible lyrics with a new trepidation:

If you want to, I'll change the situation.
Right people, right time - just the wrong location.
Sometime when you're feeling like a poor relation, call on me.
I'll give you more than conversation.
Take them. Shaking hands.
A deal.
Move it brother. I'll make you heal.

Oxford

2008-08-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

I track the subject through the stark beauty of Northampton, and then on to drearily old-fashioned Oxford. The LTLP is addressing high-powered industry leaders today, Jonny B is clinging on to her coat-tails like a bird on an elephant.

His behaviour is perplexing. He stands for long periods, motionless, staring at the sky. There are other people doing much the same - most of them look vaguely foreign. At first, I believe this to be some kind of extremist mass worship. All that is missing is the chanting. Eventually I realise that this is not the case - these people are scouting for potential kamikaze airplane routes. They plan to attack Oxford, one of the major seats of learning in our fine country, with a fiery rain of terror from the skies.

Later, JB purchases a raw pork and leek pie from a vendor in the market square, and hastily evacuates into a local retailer. Perhaps he is purging his system of impurities before the final attack.

Chicken Four

2008-04-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

I may have been wrong about the drugs.

Chicken Four has been sick for some time. I fear he may have been experimented on by JB. Chicken Four was always smaller than his brethren. Perhaps JB has been feeding him some kind of anti-growth hormone, which he plans to release into the water supply.

Chicken Four is not a well bunny.

Chicken Four shits on my floor.

Chicken Four is savagely murdered by Jonny B.

Of Chicken Four, there is no more.

Maybe he had to kill Chicken Four before his genes mutated.

Piff Paff Poof!

2008-04-16T14:59:00.000-07:00

It's funny how sometimes you think you know someone, and then, poof, out of the blue, you learn something that completely changes your perception of them.

Listen, avid reader. Jonny B can do magic. I jest you not.

I'd popped around to have a talk about the curious disease that has been affecting Chicken Four of late. Jonny B is standing there, holding Chicken Five at about waste level. Jonny B appears to be a bit naked, as in he's not wearing any clothes, at all. I consider this for a moment, as I have been trained to avoid making snap judgements. I decide to garner more knowledge of the situation.

"Jonny? Why are you holding Chicken Five at about waste level, with more than the normal level of undress common in these parts?"

Jonny appears to be a bit stumped by this line of questioning.

"Umm," he says. "Umm. Because...I am practicing my magic? Yes. I am practicing my magic. That is what I am doing."

"Oh," says I. "You can do magic? May I see some?"

"Of course", says Jonny, more confident now. "Observe."

And sure enough, before my very eyes, Jonny removes first one, and then the second, hand from Chicken Five.

Chicken Five does not fall to the ground in the normal chickenny manner. Chicken Five is floating in mid-air! Chicken Five looks as surprised as anyone about this turn of events.

I return to my house with a new respect for Jonny B. If he can manage to levitate the whole chicken brood is this manner, there may be a new David Blaine in town.

I stare at Chicken Four, who is taking refuge in my conservatory. Chicken Four is looking introspective. It is a shame that he will never experience the sensation of floating before Jonny B's navel. I would have thought that would be the highlight of any chicken's career.

I get the olive oil out of the cupboard, and prepare to stick my finger up his arse.

Chickens

2008-03-25T13:19:00.000-07:00

We go through the charade of purchasing chickens together.

There has been a lot of talk about high-quality chickens. Jonny apparently wants to buy the "Rolls-Royce" of the chicken world. Yet, by the time our chicken-perusal is complete, Jonny has settled on the chickens who reside closer to the Kia end of the market. These chickens cost barely more than a family-size bucket from KFC, and some of them wouldn't look out of place there.

Clearly, JB has realised that the sham of actually keeping chickens is going to eat into his skunk profit-margin.

Coup

2008-03-10T13:11:00.000-07:00

Len the Fish toils on a wooden structure in Jonny's garden. For hour after hour, he nails, saws, hacks and tacks. Jonny makes him a cup of tea from time to time.

Len is very good with his hands, particularly when it comes to cultivating the 'erb. This structure appears to be some kind of advanced marijuana production facility. I wonder what kind of cut JB is going to give the Fish. I'm surprised he would let Jonny move into production - there must be a healthy sweetner involved.

Later in the day, JB asks me if I had ever considered keeping chickens. I play him for a while, and eventually he asks if I would like to share his new coup. This is a subtle strategy, I must say. Get me on side, then grow the skunk right under my nose. It reeks so bad I can almost smell it.

Urdu

2007-09-21T15:06:00.000-07:00

Staring at Jonny through his kitchen window is a worrying sight.

He is wearing only his pants.

He is watching the cricket.

He is chortling at the intense physical pain another human being is experiencing after being struck in the testicles with a very hard ball.

He is tuned to the Urdu channel.

I am acutely disturbed by the pants. The pants are, in themselves, disturbing. But, sporting as they are one Jonny Billericay, they are doubly so.

I am disturbed that he seems to be enjoying cricket. Surely only half-crazed lunatics actually enjoy cricket.

The fact he is taking pleasure in the torture of a fellow human should not come as a surprise. Yet disturbed I remain.

But most of all, I am disturbed by the apparent ease with which he is understanding the commentary. I had previously thought that Jonny had been radicalised after a Western upbringing. Now I may have to reassess this view - perhaps he was born and raised in the developing world, and has since contracted some kind of weird skin pigmentation disease, like Michael Jackson.

Quid Pro Quo

2007-05-16T15:16:00.000-07:00

From the chatter that we have to wade through on a daily basis, I get wind of a possible attack. Maybe I'm feeling paranoid today, but my gut tells me that Jonny B is going to be involved.

I think back to anti-terrorism 101, the heart of which seemed to be:

1) Don't shoot anyone unless you are really, really sure they are almost definately a terrorist.
2) If you have to shoot someone, try and do it in a third-world country, as you can get away with practically anything there.
3) Don't let the target get near a large crowd.

So I make a pre-emptive strike, and get the agency to arrange a little "accident" for Jonny's car.

A little while later, I'm coming back from the shops when I'm rear-ended by a white van. Coincidence? Or retribution?

Middle Ages

2007-03-06T13:59:00.000-08:00

An air of depression hangs over our houses.

My 40th birthday has come and gone. Being forty is no fun at all. It's bad enough in the months leading up to being forty. It occupies your thoughts, clouds your judgements, pops into your head as you're trying to be charming to sales assistants. But the time after being 40 is the worst. You realise that life hasn't come to an end, that you have more of the same old shit to deal with, that with every day that goes by you're just another step closer to 50. Half a century.

Jonny has kept a low profile for a spell. The LTLP has been ordering him around - she at least has bounced back well from her near-death experience. Some months have passed since the bodged attempt on her life. Jonny has been unwell. Whether he has been simply feigning sickness, or whether he has actually been ill, I do not know.

Tonight I found him in his bathroom covered in his own puke. He was half-crazed on mesc or crack or whatever it is the cool kids are taking these days. Was this an attempt on his own life? Again, I neither know nor care. I stood over him, one part of me in disgust at what has become of him. But there was another part, a not insignificant part, that just wanted to lay down next to him, close my eyes, and swallow the bottle of pills that were on the sink.

I am at a low.

I strip Jonny naked and hose him down in the shower. Then I pull him into the bedroom and lift him onto the bed. I think he might just get through this one.

Me?

I'm not so sure.

Jonny and the Foreigner

2006-12-13T12:59:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-07T13:51:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-16T13:36:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-18T13:24:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-29T14:40:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-09T11:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-07T14:31:00.000-07:00

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

On Narcoleptic Dave

2006-04-12T16:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-03-28T07:34:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-13T07:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Blown

2005-12-12T13:48:00.000-08:00

Short Andy has reported on a tip-off he recieved from Mr. Charrington at the Village Shop. Charrington notes that Jonny B visited him on the day of the Buncefield explosion, and he suspects that this was merely aimed at establishing an alibi. When Charrington subtely dropped in a reference to the attack, story goes that JB looked awkward for a second, before quickly changing the subject.

I suspect that JB has had his hands all over this dirty plot.

A surprising visitor

2005-12-06T06:56:00.000-08:00

I spot ex-village resident Jonny B entering the Village Pub. I creep in behind him, closing the door quietly. The bar is busier than usual. Jonny and the LTLP slide into a booth.

I attract the Chipper Barman's attention with a conspirital wink.

"Busy today," I enquire.

"Oh yes", says the Chipper Barman, "we have a VIP visiting. Anne Widdicombe. You know, from Celebrity Fit Club."

This news shocks me to the very core. I glance at Jonny and see him fidgeting nervously in his seat. On the seat beside him, sits a snooker-cue case, latches already open.

I bolt for the door, dart round the back, crash through the kitchen and fling myself into the Private Lounge. Widders is there, apparently not yet dead, tucking heartily into a rack of ribs. I consider telling her that the Ceasar Salad is a better option for those looking to lose a few pounds, but think better of it. I throw my arm around her and we dash from the Lounge. Outside her limo driver sees my signal, I throw her into the back of the car, and they scream away.

I hurry back into the pub.

Jonny and the LTLP have vanished.

Gone

2005-12-02T14:34:00.000-08:00

We only had a couple of hours notice.

One day he was busy catching and dismembering rodents, the next he decides that his house is not up to scratch, and he must move out whilst repairs are made. He crashes around the house like a hurricane, throwing possessions into boxes with a gay abandon. He says that he will come back for the grand piano...I tell him I will look after it whilst he is gone.

"When will you be back?" I ask.

"Next year," he mutters. "Some time next year."

Thankfully my quick-wittedness has saved the day. I am able to pass surveillance onto another agent, codename "Short Andy". He will file regular reports whilst the subject is out-of-village.

On Len the Fish

2005-11-02T14:58:00.000-08:00

Len the Fish has been supplying the Kings Lynn area with high-class illegal substances for nigh on fifteen years.

Whatever you want, crack, smack, cake, amphetemines, pot: Len the Fish is your man. We first became aware of him in the early nineties, when he bumped off Alan "Big Smoke" Smith in a disused swimming pool in downtown Fakenham. Rumour goes, they were under the surface of that pool for three whole minutes trying to get the better of one another. Only one man came to the surface that day, and that's how Len came by his empire, and his nickname.

Since then, Len has expanded his operations and is now a major international drugs baron. Shipments arrive regularly at his base in Cromer, from where they're disseminated all over the UK. The government has never been able to nail Len. His web of lies is tangled so deep that no-one has ever been able to find the bottom.

I spot him handing JB a massive reefer under the counter at the village pub. The thought of busting the biggest dealer this side of Peterbrough is appealing, but I can't afford to blow my cover. "No charge", Len announces, smiling.

Yep, the first one is always free, isn't it.

On JB's arrival

2005-07-20T06:52:00.000-07:00

JB has a bonfire (a small, city-type bonfire without any petrol to really get the thing going), and it got me thinking about when he arrived in the village.

The LTLP arrived first, a kind of advance-party to check us all out, I guess. It's fair to say we hit it off straight away. Within two hours of her moving in she had got me horribly, incapably drunk. I was naked, smeared with chocolate sauce, thinking in what a strange direction life can sometimes take you, when she told me that she's not a naturally outgoing sort of woman. I could see that. Behind her Dominatrix personna she had the kind of quiet, dimunitive nature that .

Jonny arrived the next day, all bumbling Fawlty-esque mannerisms.

"Hello," I say, "you'll be the new neighbour then".

"Yes, that's me. Billericay. That's my name. Not where I'm from. I'm not from Billericay. Although I have been there once or twice. It's quite pleasant really and has a good Conservative MP. What was I saying? Ah yes. Jonny, you can call me Jonny. That's not really my name though. But, new start and all that. Toodlepip."

He really does play the part of socially-awkward eccentric very well.

With a final flourish he turns and saunters into the cottage. It was only later I found out he was a highly-dangerous international terrorist.

Action (Jackson)

2005-04-30T15:22:00.000-07:00

I am getting thoroughly pissed off with this whole "wait and see what Jonny does" approach that Those In Charge keep foisting on me. I could be here for years. I don't want to be here for years, I want to be back in the big time, back in the City, back in amongst the murder and drugs and prostitution and vice and dirt and grime and I want to FINISH this crappy assignment in the backend of nowhere and get back to the real job of fighting crime like they do on The Bill.

Positive action is what is required.

I concoct a honey-trap. A sting. A foolproof way of getting Jonny to reveal his criminal leanings.

Unfortunately my plan involves offing an old man, but we must regard this as collateral damage. After I have horribly slaughtered an old chap I follow home from the Post Office, I employ my skills for disguise to rustle up a convincing replica of his face. I take his cash card and withdraw the paltry sum he has saved, drive his Nissan Micra to Jonny's house and settle down to wait. Not long has passed before Jonny departs, scratching his private parts like a common baboon. I follow him into town, stay at a safe distance until he enters the chemist, and then I'm out and into the street, sporting a limp and a bent back in what is a downright brilliant Kaiser Soze impression.

Jonny is at the counter, dribbling over a semi-attractive checkout girl. I prod him with my walking stick, loudly mention the old fart's PIN code, then pull him close and say, "it's a beautiful day today, sonny. Such a beautiful day. You look after yourself now. I fought during the war for you." But my ruse fails. I fumble the cash card just as I'm about to tuck it in his back pocket. It lays on the chemist floor, staring up at me, mocking me, just sitting there with my hopes and dreams of getting out of here all wrapped up in it.

I shuffle out. I do not need to put on the hobble this time, I feel like a broken man.

Wibble

2005-04-08T15:19:00.000-07:00

I fear that Jonny has finally lost it.

For two days I've been watching him. Most of that time he has been sitting on the toilet, dressed in only his pants, with a loaded rifle by his side. He looks increasingly gaunt, he's grown a small beard, and he seems to be mumbling about killer rabbits.

One thing is for sure, that gun will be either turned on himself, or the next person to turn up at his house. There is only one thing to do.

I send Mrs Short Tony around for a cup of sugar.

Surveillance report

2005-02-21T14:16:00.000-08:00

It's been some months now since I rigged Jonny's house up to record his every move. There's been some very suspicious activity in that house, oh yes.

First on the list is the peculiar cast of characters that Jonny keeps close to him at night. There seem to be three of these furry beasts:

Mister Mitt - an obvious anagram of Tits Met Rim.
Peter the Hanging Monkey - A clear reference to Hartlepool, is this where the terrorist attack is planned for?
Honey Bear - probably nothing more than a sex toy; clear anagram of Boner, Yeah.

What's so valuable about these cuddly toys that he has to keep them within arms reach at all times? More observation is required.

The camera in the kitchen has yielded even stranger results. Last week I captured him having sex with what appeared to be the remains of a stuffed sheep's heart. I couldn't help drop into conversation the fact that I have a camera in there. You should have seen that little sucker scouring his kitchen trying to find it! Second light-fitting from the door, Jonny, have a look there and you might get more success.

Unfortunately I have no hard proof of what Jonny may be planning.

Wall

2004-10-21T14:06:00.000-07:00

Jonny tells me that he's asked the Friendly Builder to put a dividing wall in the attic. This is something of a blow, as the attic provides easy access to JB's house when he's out and about. Even at night time I've been known to venture into the enemies' lair. The LTLP snores like a passing freight train, so the odd creak here and there doesn't present a problem.

Why does Jonny want the attic to be partitioned? There must be some hidden secrets up there. Dead bodies? Dried blood staines? Crap old records? I'm a bit concerned that the Friendly Builder may discover the small compartment of my own that's home to some nasty secrets, but it's well concealed and he's not likely to spot the opening switch hidden inside JB's old guitar. I watch him as he builds up the wall, stone by stone. It's like he's building his own crypt. I prepare the shovel.

Installation

2004-10-05T13:35:00.000-07:00

I use the free weekend to make some alterations.

Up through the hatch into the loft, over the accumulated detreitus, down through Jonny's trapdoor, and I'm in. I think of rummaging through his belongings for telltail signs of nefarious activities, but time is limited and he's far too clever to leave anything incriminating lying around. So I install secret cameras in the kitchen, the lounge, and above the bedroom. These little beauties will last for years.

Prague

2004-10-04T13:26:00.000-07:00

I wait for him to leave the house. To my surprise, only three days go by before the premises are vacated. Jonny struggles out of the door with several heavy-looking suitcases.

"Going anywhere nice?", I ask. "Spain? Italy? Swaffham?"

"Well," says Jonny, "Prague, actually. You know. Eastern Europe."

I wonder at the audacity of his pronouncement. He must know that I have him under surveillance. This vicious cabaret that we are performing is beginning to affect me, psychologically.

What is there in Prague? Guns. Prostitution. Gambling. Stag parties. Maybe JB is going to smuggle back an armed poker-playing lout dressed in a Borat bikini.

Unlikely, granted.

Risk

2004-03-15T14:32:00.000-08:00

Someone once said that the secret to performing great acts is great preparation.

I have no evidence of which particular time or date this was said, but there are a lot of people in the world, and it seems like something someone - possibly a middle manager - would have said, at some point. It doesn't really matter if it has been said before or not, it is merely by way of introduction.

For the past few weeks I have been observing this preparation occurring right under my nose. The primary target has been attending Big A's house for extensive and rigorous global warfare training. This has taken the form of lengthy games of the popular board game 'Risk' - a long-time favourite with insurgents everywhere. The aim of this game is to recruit as many fanatics as possible, before, slowly but surely, taking over the world. JB plays the game with the studiousness of a professor. It is something of a giveaway that his favourite tactic is the "concurrent attack", which features several cells all hitting their designated targets at the same time.

2004-03-14T14:43:00.000-08:00

I continue my study of Jonny B from afar. His behaviour is certainly peculiar, although not necessary criminal.

He has his cess pit emptied. (There are no bodies currently stashed in there.)
He experiments with home-made explosives in the form of a can of microwaved soup.
He travels to London to meet with some old contacts, consumes a kebab his waist-line can barely afford, talks about bingo and goes home.

I wonder whether I have done the right thing taking this assignment. If the pace of life around here got any slower, it would have to start going backwards.

Rinse. Repeat. Rinse.

2004-02-23T12:54:00.000-08:00

I have been tracking Jonny Billericay since his arrival in the village a short time ago. The firm purchased the house next to the subject's residence, set me up with a ready-made wife and kid, and told me not to let Jonny B out of my sight. I take them literally.

Monday: I follow him to the shop, he buys a paper.

Tuesday: Shop again. A paper, and some milk.

Wednesday: Shop. Paper. Stamps.

Thursday: Shop. Paper.

Friday: It isn't the kind of work that I signed up for. I see precious few signs that this is the international terrorist depicted in the files. Sure, he's stuck two fingers up at capatalism and moved out of the big bad city, but there are bigger fish frying in the local chippy.

Please navigate away from this page immediately...

2004-01-01T08:30:00.000-08:00

...unless you have security clearance level D-503.

This is the secret and private notes of myself, Short Tony, concerning the ongoing surveillance of Subject "Jonny Billericay".

These pages are designated Ultra Top Secret and must not be viewed by members of the public.

If you do not have the requisite security clearance please close your browser window immediately. If you do not do this RIGHT NOW then we will come to your house, possibly with dogs, and certainly flashlights (if it is dark).

Dramatis Persons

Short Tony, I, Short Tony, am the hero of this blog, and Chief Agent in charge of monitoring the above suspect. My background is in Covert Ops, before many years working on project Dessert Chicken.

Jonny B, the subject of this diary, was identified in early 2004 as a major threat to capitalism and the English Way of Life. Shortly after dropping out of mainstream society, Jonny embarked upon a campaign of subterfuge from his base in the heart of rural Norfolk. He has been linked to several major terrorist incidents, drug-trafficking, assassinations and large-scale cruelty to animals. So far we have been unable to provide the CPS with conclusive proof of these crimes.

The LTLP, Jonny B's long-term life partner. At the present time we are unsure of the level of knowledge she has of her partner's subterfuge.

Big A, Narcoleptic Dave, Eddie and Len the Fish, are the remaining members of Jonny's sleeper cell. All are hardened criminals in their own right. More details are contained within the blog.

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Frequently Asked Questions

Is Jonny B actually Chris Evans?
The two have not been seen in the same location at the same time.

Or is he David Baddiel?
Maybe, we'll keep an eye on it.

Is everything true or do you make things up?
The Government never lies. If you believe this to be false, please send your name and address to us in an email, clearly entitled: Potential Terrorist.