Despair, hope, etc.

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!

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

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

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

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

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.