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.

Blown

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

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

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

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

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.