Tongue

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.