Some short stories for short people on short nights.

Cuckoo

Patricia was unwell, that was patently obvious. Since the miscarriage of our child she had stayed in our flat in a state of utter despondence, staring with her back to the windows at the bare walls. I tried as best I could to raise her empty spirits but it was of little use. The child we had for so long yearned for, had alluded us once again, with all its concomitant emotional devastation.

Patricia and I had tried for a child on several occasions, but her pregnancies had never lasted. As far as the doctors could see, there was no medical reason for this, and their only weak advice was that if at first we didn’t succeed, to try and try again. I suppose it was all they could say, but for Patricia each miscarriage, each terminated hope carried her further down the river of despair and I became concerned that one day she might attempt to harm herself.
Before I continue with this story let me tell you something of Patricia. She was a beautiful, gentle creature and as fine a wife as a man could ask for. Her delicate features still inspired awe in me each time I set eyes upon her, and the distress she suffered as a result of our inability to produce a child filled me with the deepest misery. Her eyes were of the subtlest blue, although of late an overcast greyness had invaded their azure splendour. Her hair, once lustrous and blond, hung limply as if the bitter disappointment that dwelt within her had transmitted itself through the very follicles of her scalp.
We had married in our late twenties and had settled into a small but comfortable upper story flat in a block close to Paddington Station. Here we had spent many enjoyable years, entertaining a myriad of friends from all social backgrounds. Of course as happens in later life, our circle of friends receded and dwindled, as each couple drifted into family life and the responsibilities this involved, until Patricia and I were the only childless couple among our old friends, and inevitably we became isolated. We didn’t blame anybody for deserting us; that as they say, is life, but having so little to do in the evenings gave myself, and Patricia in particular, more time to brood. However much a couple burdened with children might protest against the loss of free time and the complete overhaul it brings to their lives, let me tell you that having none and wishing you had is many times worse.

As luck would have it, my manager at the firm was a very sympathetic fellow – Mr Jennings was his name. Perhaps sensing some domestic anguish, he summoned me to his office one Wednesday afternoon and informed me of an elderly and valid client in The Isle Of Man who had some important documents to sign. I was to take them to him, leaving on the Thursday evening, and I would not be required back in the office until the following Tuesday morning. He let it be known that he would not look too closely at my expenses, within reason, and that if I wanted to make a romantic weekend of it and take a partner along, no one would be any the wiser.
Although October was in full swing, I was sure that Patricia would enjoy the excursion. The Isle Of Man has always exerted a mild fascination in me, being a part of the British Isles, but with its own parliament and customs. What the weather lacked in warmth and sunshine we would more than make up for with cycling and sightseeing; and the opportunity of leaving London for a few days could do Patricia and I nothing but good.

It was harder than I’d expected to coax my wife from her torpor – the prospect of Manx kippers did not have the effect on her that I’d imagined, but after some delicate manoeuvring in which I suggested that Mr Jennings might take offence at having his generosity rebuffed, and that with her no longer employed, we certainly needed my income and could not afford to risk biting the hand that fed us, she agreed.

And so it was that on Thursday 13th October, we took off from the London City Airport aboard the seven O’clock flight to Ronaldsway, and by nine forty-five were sitting down for late supper in the little dining room of our excellent hotel, although
Patricia had very little appetite. She was not a good flyer, and the turbulence encountered while crossing the Irish sea had drained every hint of colour from her face, until she was ghostly pale.

Our hotel stood on the seafront and was much to our liking. The beds, when pushed together, made a perfectly acceptable double, and the morning view out to sea through its rain lashed windows was almost breathtaking.

I concluded my business early on Friday morning and returned to our suite with breakfast on a tray for my beloved. Once she’d eaten and abluted, we put on our waterproofs and headed out on our hired bicycles to explore the island.
Now I don’t know if you are familiar with the Isle Of Man, but it is not best suited for bicycles. It is extremely hilly and wild, and is better explored by mountain railway or motorcycle. Still we persevered against the gradients and the weather for as long as our legs and our spirits were able. Finally when we could pedal no more, we padlocked our bikes to the railings of an old house, which the kindly owner told us we were most welcome to do, then set off with the aid of a tourist map and a bus timetable, which he had had handy. Of course the weather did not abate and the buses were far less frequent than in London, but eventually one came along, and we spent a decent afternoon passing through rugged scenery and making a mental note to return one day in the summertime.

The towns of Peel and Ramsay, even on a bleak wild day are well worth visiting, especially if you a fan of the comedian Norman Wisdom – to whom much of the Island seems to be dedicated. I purchased Kippers and arranged for them to be posted back to our London address, secure in the knowledge that we would return in plenty of time for their arrival, and I took the liberty of sending some to Mr Jennings at the office as a thank you for his immense kindness.

We were the only passengers aboard the last bus to Douglas, which left from Ramsay at a quarter past four. We had expected, it being a Friday, that many islanders would be heading into the capital for a night’s entertainment, a thought which I expressed to the driver. He explained that there wasn’t any, at least nothing better than might be found locally. Douglas out of season, was for bankers and high-flyers like us he said, and most of them just wanted a quiet life counting their money.

As we approached a village called Jerby, the bus braked hard then shuddered to a halt. The driver got out to inspect it, then informed us that there would be a delay to the journey as we had hit a cat, which was done for, and would need to be cleaned off, and that there was also the matter of a flat tyre to deal with. He declined my offer of assistance and made a rather unpleasant remark when I enquired if the cat had been of the tailless Manx variety. He replied that it might have been, but now it didn’t have a head either. He told us that he would need half an hour and that if we wanted something to do to pass the time, we should have a look in the village junk shop, which he informed us, was full of every kind of rubbish imaginable.
Having received assurances from him that he would not leave without us, Patricia and I alighted the bus, being careful to avoid seeing what remained of the cat, and proceeded in the direction he had indicated.
The junkshop, far from being a Dickensian style Old Curiosity shop with a bell above the door and a dusty old shopkeeper, turned out to be a world war two aircraft hangar, made from corrugated iron, completely at odds with its rustic surroundings, yet somehow blending in. A crudely hand-painted sign leaning against the side of the building was the only indication of its purpose. What such a vast junkshop was doing in this out of the way place, and how it was managing to trade heaven only knows.
What we encountered on entering this emporium however was nothing short of astonishing. Rows of shelving made from industrial scaffolding, stacked from floor to ceiling – the highest rows accessible only by long ladder, heaved with, quite possibly, everything that had thrown away for the past fifty years. Ancient gramophone records, military uniforms, stuffed animals, Amateur Photographer magazines, cigarette cards, postcards, Charles and Diana dinner services, all manner of knick-knacks, leftovers, gaudy ornaments, job-lots, bankrupt stock; in short, a cornucopia of ephemera, all laid out in no particular order, or so it seemed, and containing no doubt, one or two items of buried treasure – had you had a spare ten years to find them.
While I distracted myself thumbing through some Russ Conway 45’s, an entire box of them actually, with the middles removed, Patricia seemed genuinely galvanized, moving from shelf to shelf, delving through trinkets, trying not to miss a thing, and by the looks of it, hoping for something magical to catch her eye.
The proprietor of the establishment was a plumpish woman of indeterminate middle age, wearing a substantial amount of crimson lipstick and dark mascara, with hair rather like a lavender bird’s nest. Incongruously, I noticed that she was reading the Financial Times, while toasting marshmallows on a fork with a calour gas heater. She paid us no attention at all until Patricia quite uncharacteristically approached her.

“ Looking for something in particular? ”

What Patricia said next came as a great surprise to me.

“ Have you any Cuckoo Clocks?” she asked.
The proprietor thought for several moments, pursing her lips as she did so.

“ Isle J top shelf. It’s in bits but it’s all there. Nice little project to get it working again. Careful on the ladder won’t you?” she said.

How, amongst this plethora of junk, this woman purely from memory was able to pinpoint such a specific item quite alarmed me, and before I could do it myself, Patricia had bounded over to the requisite shelf and scaled the long ladder.

“ Found it.” She cried excitedly.

But as she reached out for her quarry, her twisting motion sent the ladder crashing to the ground, leaving her hanging in mid-air, clinging on for dear life, and the heavy shelf tottering dangerously towards disaster. I, with a sickening knot in my stomach realized that she was going to fall, bringing many tonnes of rubbish down on top of her.
With great presence of mind, the proprietor sprung to her feet and kicked a pile of military great coats directly beneath to break her fall, then threw her weight against the shelving to counterbalance my precariously dangling wife. Before I could get the ladder back in place to rescue her, Patricia’s strength deserted her and she dropped to the ground.
The coats cushioned her fall, and although shaken, she was not hurt. Her only concern was for the clock.

“ I want the clock, I must have that clock.” was all she could say as I tried to calm her.

And so it was that I gingerly ascended the ladder – this time, with the thoughtful proprietor holding it at the bottom, and retrieved the curious timepiece from its perch.

Perhaps out of some sense of responsibility for the potential disaster that had almost taken place, she would take no money for it. Patricia clutched the casing, and the bag of cogs, chains, weights and other workings, and we bade her goodbye and hurried back to the bus, which rather annoyingly, was just about to depart. The driver admitted that he had completely forgotten about us and that in another half a minute would have been gone.

During the remainder of our weekend break, I detected a palpable change in Patricia. Once back in our hotel room she had immediately cleared the small vanity table of our clutter, then methodically spread out the pieces of the clock and set about its reconstruction. The weather remained terrible, so there was precious little else to do, but she became so absorbed in the restoration of her unexpected purchase that I hardly got a look in. The only time she left the room was to accompany me on a small expedition to a hardware shop to purchase a set of small screw drivers, pliers and a tin of three in one oil, all of which would have to be abandoned prior to our return flight to London or risk a charge of air terrorism.

Having acquired the necessary accoutrements we made our way back across the public beaches, pausing briefly to look at rock pools and stare out to sea into the driving rain, at the passing tankers and cargo ships. The wind blew so fiercely that the waves appeared to be going sideways, forgetting to break on the shore altogether.
I told Patricia how much I loved her, although my voice hardly carried the few inches between our anorakked faces. We kissed, but not passionately, and the salt sea air stung my cracked lips. Having savoured the moment – albeit rather too briefly for my liking, we trudged back to our comfy little hotel and got out of our wet things. Patricia got right down to work on the clock, rebuffing my advances, and I judged it best not to press it, but to let her get on with the matter in hand. Not wanting to disturb her too much, I entertained myself as best I could, reading in the lounge, watching the mainland passenger ferries embarking and disembarking, and generally keeping myself to myself. At meal times I forced my company upon her, bringing up plates on a tray and attempting to engage her in trivial conversation, but she was not to be distracted.

Now I have practically no mechanical skills to speak of and I’d assumed Patricia to be the same. I was therefore much surprised by the progress she was making. With no formal training, she seemed to have grasped the concept of horology and was slowly but surely putting the clock back together. Having initially harboured reservations about her mechanical quest, I began to become quite enthusiastic myself. Not being a job for two people, I did not try to interfere or make a nuisance of myself, but offered encouragement and praise where I saw fit, and none too secretly marvelled at her ingenuity. The care and precision of her movements was a wonder to behold, and it did occur to me that perhaps in a past life she had been a clock maker, or that in some strange way, this was some sort of benevolent occult manifestation, perhaps brought about by her fall. The determination in her expression at times caused me a spark of jealousy, but I soon doused these with feelings of admiration and pride, that my beautiful wife, who had of late suffered so much with her own internal workings, was performing nothing short of a small miracle.

When at last she had done all that she could do; oiled every cog, un-jammed the workings, hung the weights and set the pendulum, she removed the reproduction oil painting from the wall – an unremarkable nineteenth century study of Douglas at twilight, and hung on the nail in its place, her precious time keeping machine. With baited breath I waited as she pulled the chains, bringing the weights upwards, set its hands at a minute to twelve then set the pendulum in motion. At first it swung back and forth for a few seconds then halted and I feared that perhaps Patricia’s efforts had been in vain and that another terrible disappointment awaited her. She was not to be so easily defeated however and made some very minor adjustments, altering its weight slightly, before once again setting it in motion. This time seemed more promising but again it stalled. I saw at this moment, a light go out in my wife’s face; her newly recovered self-belief transforming to despair before my very eyes, and I went to her. Then, as I embraced her with all the tender love and consolation a husband can bestow on a disappointed wife, the funniest thing happened – the clock started going by itself. We watched with barely suppressed joy as the pendulum – hesitant at first found its rhythm and fell into a regular motion. My wife – so cheated of the joys of womanhood, at once rejuvenated. I could feel the anxiety lift from her delicate frame as surely as if it had been vapour visible to the naked eye. Her back arched and her breast heaved with anticipation as the minute hand ticked down…and then it happened. The audible slide of the spring mechanism, the opening of the little wooden hatch above the clock’s handsome face, and then in full voice, the cuckoo, this marvel of wood-carving and Swiss precision engineering, for so long silenced, greeted us twelve times.
“ Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo” …and on it went
Patricia groaned, a primal womanly growl, deep from within, and then moaned in ecstasies, cooing and yelping in a most astonishing manner. The force she exerted in her grip upon my hand was enough to tell me that something exceptional and unexpected had occurred, and I held her with all my strength until her tiny body relaxed, and at last, the cuckoo returned to whence it came. We lay without speaking for several minutes, still in one another’s arms, listening to the gentle to-ing and fro-ing of the pendulum, and feeling lighter and more carefree than we had done for many years.

The remainder of our stay in that magical Isle was amongst the pleasantest times I have ever spent. We deemed it wisest to stop the clock for the time being, especially after the hotel owner made a point of mentioning the elderly guests, and referring me to the ‘no pets in the room’ sign, without saying anything more, but coughing rather pointedly.
For the sake of expediency – in the light of the present very sensible in my opinion, terror threats regulations, I parcelled up the clock and arranged for it to be sent to us in London by registered post. It was against Patricia’s wishes that it be out of her sight, but once I pointed out the likelihood of it being confiscated by some over-zealous airline official, fearing it might go off in mid-air – we both laughed at this, she saw sense and relented.

Although it is said to be unwise not to wait until at least three months have elapsed, I could hardly wait to tell my friends and colleagues back at the office that Patricia was expecting our child. Absurd as this sounds it was as if the clock was bringing us luck. I took it upon myself to give the flat a bright new lick of paint, and we hung the miraculous timepiece in pride of place in the wall. Although not to the taste of everybody, having the hours marked by the bright cheerful call of a cuckoo, it brought a gaiety to our previously drab existences. Work became pleasant, knowing that at the end of each day, I would be returning to my darling wife, the baby growing insde her, and our delightful clock, which – with some fear of ridicule, had become almost like a pet to us.
Christmas was a joyous affair, although we stayed put, knowing that quiet Christmases in future would be few and far between. It is fair to say that I doted on my wife during these times, happy was I at the prospect of becoming a father, and of our lives at last, being complete.

The first sign that things were not all they should be occurred late in February. Patricia awoke with severe abdominal pains and bade me call for a doctor at once. Having held her hand while silently praying to God, and everything else I could think of, help finally arrived.
Dr Bird was an almost comical looking man, and rarely can a name have fitted its subject so perfectly. Short and plump, with a nose that would not have looked out of place in an aviary, and a pronounced waddle to his gate. As he attended my wife, stooping over her to do whatever it is that doctors do, I could swear that a feather floated out from the back of his trousers – How it had come to be there I couldn’t begin to speculate, but it was certainly not in our room before his arrival, and it was far too large and coarse to have come from our soft downy bedding.
Dr Bird explained that he rarely made house calls but in this instance, given my wife’s medical history, he had deemed it safer to come at once rather than have her admitted to hospital.
The news was not bad, but rather worrying none the less. Although the baby was still extremely small, he felt that there was a strong possibility of a premature delivery. This he said was not particularly uncommon – especially in women of my wife’s age, and that it should have no adverse long-term effects on our child.

“ Nice to get it out early I should think” he said to me with a conspiratorial wink, which seemed rather an odd thing to say.

At that precise moment, our cuckoo clock sounded from the living room, which was also unusual as it was neither o’clock or half past the hour.

“ Ah yes” said Dr Bird, “ Soon be spring.” And with that, he departed.

Over the coming days it has to be said, the blissful tranquillity of recent times departed and was replaced by something altogether darker. An air of foreboding descended on our little nest, making us feel fractious and ill at ease. Patricia and I argued over trivial matters or sat in the corrosive silence of old, keeping our own counsel, and much troubled by our thoughts. To make matters worse, the clock seemed to be going haywire, cuckooing at the least expected times, as if deliberately mocking us, and causing my wife and I on several occasions to almost jump out of our skins
With neither the time, nor the inclination to repair the thing, we let it disrupt our lives until we could bear it no longer. Patricia became almost hysterical at times, claiming that it was watching her, as though the mechanical bird inside was some malevolent living being, perched high above us, observing our every movement and amusing itself by choosing the most frightening moments to spring out at us.

Of course I had read up on pregnancy and knew all about women becoming a bit irrational, and so I tried to humour her by playing along. I did my best to reassure her that it was just a clock and was utterly benign – if slightly annoying for its deteriorating timekeeping.

“ If we don’t wind the wretched thing Darling it won’t bother us.” I told her, which seemed to do the trick.

Then one night in March I returned home to find Patricia in a frightful state. She lay on the floor trembling and sobbing and insisted that without any winding the thing had sprung out at her several times during the afternoon. It would be a fair description to say that she was terrified.
Well of course I did what any caring husband would have done under the circumstances. Although doubting the veracity of these attacks and dismissing them as nothing more than the over-active imagination of a woman with too much time on her hands, my wife’s emotional state was enough to drive me to immediate action, and I elected to have done with the thing once and for all. I lifted the abominable machine down from the wall and took it to the kitchen where I spread out some sheets of newspaper, then proceeded to smash it to pieces with a hammer, a rolling pin, and whatever other implements came to hand to bring about its complete and utter destruction. The wooden casing splintered beneath my blows, then I wrenched out the cuckoo and struck it again and again until it was unrecognizable. When I had satisfied myself that the thing was beyond any further use, I gathered the springs, cogs and pulverized fragments together, wrapped and sealed the mess, then to end the matter, took the parcel out to the dustbins and cast it out forever.

The next few weeks were pleasant enough; tranquillity returned – more of less, and the weather improved to the point where an early spring seemed likely. Patricia was still troubled occasionally by the cuckooing noise, but I pointed out – as tactfully as I could, that she was imagining it due to a chemical imbalance brought about by her fecundity and our impending wonderful event, which was usually enough to put her at her ease.

Then, on a warm April morning, just as Dr Bird had predicted, Patricia -quite suddenly, and extremely prematurely, began her labour.

“ My baby’s coming, my baby’s coming.” she yelled. “ Fetch Dr Bird”.

Her waters had already broken and she lay in the pool of warm frothing liquid that had formed from her nether regions, succumbing to the rhythmic power of her bodily contractions.
I telephoned him at once, and to my immense relief, got through to him right away, and explained the situation. His jovial manner reassured me, as did the news that he was nearby and would come almost immediately. He told me to prepare for a home birth, and to guard the nest until his arrival.
While I set about boiling water, arranging towels and making my wife as comfortable as possible, Dr Bird as good as his word, arrived almost at once, bringing with him a midwife. I did not hear them ring the bell or enter the flat, but with all that was happening around me, did not think to question how they’d got in.

“ Good job for you we were in the area” was all he said, as I thanked him for being so prompt.

I kissed Patricia and mopped her brow, and we prepared for our new arrival.

“ Now you stay at this end old boy” said Dr Bird. “ We’ve got some business to attend to down there.”

Patricia’s contractions were strong and regular, and she gripped my arm with enormous strength. The midwife poked around inside her, then announced that the dilation was complete and that it was now time to push.
As the Dr and I yelled encouragement, Patricia began to push, summoning superhuman strength to deliver our heaven-sent child.

“Push” we shouted, and my dear beloved pushed. “ Push” we repeated, and again my darling wife obeyed.

“ It’s coming” squawked the midwife, “ It’s coming now.”

My wife and I clung to each other as the final effort began. I called out words of love and encouragement as she heaved and hoed, mad with the excitement of seeing our firstborn arrive…mad. With. The. Excitement. Of. Seeing. Our. Firstborn. arrive…

What erupted from Patricia was repulsive, obscene, and of the devil. Somewhere between a foetus and a bird, with razor sharp talons, and the blackest eyes this side of hell.

“ Cuckoo, cuckoo” it screeched. It shot out at enormous velocity on the spring of its umbilical chord, repeating its diabolical greeting, splashing blood and viscera, and spraying glutinous milky liquid from its beak – for that it what it was. It then shot back inside my wife, then out again to repeat the whole foul process.

What dying agonies Patricia must have experienced in those last terrible seconds, I can only begin to imagine. To my eternal shame the horror of the spectacle over-whelmed me, and I fell into a dead faint. When I came to, the doctor, his unspeakable accomplice, and my poor dear wife were gone. That is my story, and this is the end of it. Whether you believe me or not is of little purpose. My life ended with the first cuckoo of spring.

The Faecalosaurus

What caused the shit to come to life is not for me to say. I’ve got my theories of course – I’ve been a sewer man for thirty years, and I’ve seen a lot of unexplainable stuff down there, but this, quite frankly is beyond me. To me, a turd is a turd is a turd, well more or less – human waste. We all do them and they’ve got to go somewhere. We know when it’s likely to get a bit crowded down there, and we take precautions. The day England reached the World Cup Final, we knew we was going to have our work cut out at half time. People are especially nervous when their country’s on the brink of repeating 1966, and most of them are holding parties and barbecues, eating uncooked meat and such and knocking back a skin full, so it’s hardly surprising the system gets a surge.
Of course, I was on duty when the call came, watching the game in the staff canteen on the big screen telly we all chipped in for. I was a bit miffed when they called me. England was two nil up with ten minutes left of normal time left to play.
“ Derek Grainger” I answered into the mobile.
It was Jeff who was on watch at the slurry tank. I thought he was taking the piss.
“ Get down here now, we’ve got an emergency – Brown Alert.”
Obviously that meant red alert, but sewage men have to have a sense of humour.
“ Can’t it wait for a bit Jeff, aren’t you watching the game?” I told him.
“ No it can’t fucking wait mate. The shit is coming to life.”
Well as I said, I’ve been doing this job for a number of years and I’d never heard anything like that before. Obviously I assumed it was a wind-up, but then again, even Jeremy Beadle wouldn’t be daft enough to pull a stunt like that when the World Cup Final was on.
I went down there – all the time thinking that Jeff was taking the piss, and I’d play along. He was quite a decent bloke and I thought that maybe he just wanted a bit of company. We could watch the rest of the game together on the telly in his hut; I didn’t mind.
Of course, the whole world knows what happened next. When I got out there, the smell was rank, and Jeff was just standing there pointing at the tank “ Look” was all he could say. The whole thing was bubbling and gurgling like the crater of a volcano, shit splattering everywhere. I didn’t even think to run and get protective clothing, I just stood there open mouthed as the gallons of turd clung together and formed a bloody great shape, which became more and more detailed until we could make out that it was some kind of giant head; like a prehistoric monster, except entirely made of shit. It must have been all of twenty-feet across…and then its body started forming.
“ This ain’t right Derek” cried Jeff. “ What them Pakis been eating?”
I should explain that Jeff is ever so slightly racist – he’s in the BNP as it happens.
Now Slough does have a large ethnic community, and Jeff – bless him, has taken it upon himself to blame them for pretty much everything. As a sewage man living local, I’ve never had any trouble with them, and I know for a fact that they have a much healthier diet than us.
“ It’s got nothing to do with them Jeff” I said. “ Get a grip on yourself. If anyone’s to blame for this lot, it’s English football fans, eating all sorts of what-have-you and taking a load of fucking drugs.”
“ No it ain’t, it’s bio-terrorism – Al Queda – they’ve flushed something down the bogs – it’s their scientists – another 9.11 – there’s no way this is an English phenomenon.”
As we argued the ethnic origins of the monster that was forming before us, another huge wave of shit entered the tank.
“ Germany must have scored.” Said Jeff.
With every fresh gallon of turd pouring into the system, the creature was getting bigger.
As the senior staff member, the executive decision-making process fell to me, and it is to my dismay, that I hesitated momentarily before deciding on the best course of action. I knew that what was before me represented the most serious problem in all my sewage career, and that it would have to be dealt with, but like Sir Winston Churchill smoking his cigar, or Sir Francis Drake finishing his game of bowls before defeating the Spanish Armada, I knew that England was five minutes away from lifting the world cup, and that no Englishman would thank me for ruining the party. Football – as the late Bill Shankley said, is more important than God.
“ Pretend we haven’t seen him Jeff” was what I came up with.
“ Let’s watch the rest of the game, then if it’s still there when we come out, we’ll take him down.”
Of course, in light of the events of this day, England is changed forever, but at least we went into our next course of action on a high.
In the ninety-second minute, Germany had a controversial goal disallowed and then the ref blew. As the Krauts stormed off the pitch in disgust, Wembley went apeshit and the entire nation cheered. You could hear it all over, English men and women with their hearts gladdened and their spirits lifted, screaming for all they was worth.

Jeff and I agreed not to mention the slight delay in our call to action. After all, we are not qualified of trained to deal with an emergency such as this. After we’d finally stopped hugging each other and wooping, we knew that we had a job to do, and infused with the bulldog spirit, we got to work.
Of course, the full-time whistle and the waves of excitement and euphoria sent such a cascade of shit down the pipes, that the thing was easily a hundred feet tall now. This is where triumph turned to despair.
As our colleagues rushed out of the canteen into the fresh air, filled with our two-one thrashing of Germany, they were unprepared for what they saw. You don’t think at a time like that do you – you ain’t expecting a tyrannosaurus rex tail completely made out of shit to swish across the yard and crush you to death?

The beast was fully alive now, and lifted its mighty form out of the slurry tanks and began to walk. The ground shook as its enormous feet pounded the asphalt, pulverising everything in its wake. You would have been able to hear its roar as far off as Reading, it was that loud.

We took great pride in our work here at the Slough Water And Sewage Purification Plant, and we did our best to stop this Faecalosaurus becoming a hazard to members of the general public, but it was no use. If our high-pressure hoses had been working properly that day, we might have been able to jet-spray it, but owing to maintenance issues and low water pressure due to the heatwave and drought, we were inadequately resourced to satisfactorily deal with the situation. Once it headed for the trees and broke out onto the M4, we knew we could no longer contain the situation.

I can hardly imagine the feelings of terror motorists must have had, to be bowling down the M4 – at what should have been a particularly quiet time, then seeing this thing towering up in the distance, picking cars out of both carriageways and hurling them like a baby tossing toys out of its pram. My only comfort – and it’s a slender one at best, is that most of those killed would not have been loyal English football fans. Of course I know that not everybody likes football, and some people – like cab drivers and the emergency services, or asylum seekers, are forced to work whatever the situation – and my heart goes out to them.
However – and I do appreciate this – nobody was expecting something like this to happen. The emergency services – God bless them, were all geared up for football violence, and quite rightly so. If England had lost, the whole country would have kicked off – again, quite rightly so, so to say that their response was too little too late is a bit unfair.
Can you imagine what people felt when the first newsflashes broke into their world cup celebration broadcasts? A lot of TV producers got a right bollocking for trying to stop them; and imagine the sponsors and advertisers, all that money they put in – they must have been livid – but when there’s a hundred and fifty foot tall shit monster tearing up the M4, it’s a bit hard to maintain a news blackout.

Now what the authorities feared most was an attack on Windsor Castle. They in their wisdom, assumed that this was the work of terrorists, and those of the royals not at the game, was all there, and the dent to the British way of life, and international prestige of having the monarch wiped out by a shit monster didn’t bear thinking about.
In an improvised joint operation, the emergency services and armed forces combined to defeat the Faecalosaurus, bombing it from the air, and blasting it with heavy artillery, yet always mindful that Slough is a built up area.
Of course, as I’ve already said, I’ve nothing against our ethnic friends, but I must say that in this particular case, on this particular day, they were bloody unhelpful. Within no time, local leaders and elders, backed by half of Slough, were hailing this monster as some kind of deity, and vowing to protect it – not giving a shit about the smell. Then a lot of pacifists turned up and joined in, claiming that we had no right to take the life of another living being – It was made of shit for God Sake!
Well inevitably this inflamed a lot of people – who were already emotional, and the BNP used it as an excuse, so apart from everything else going on, a whole effing race riot started. Pissed-up football fans taking everyone on, Muslim nutters with meat cleavers, bearded bloody lesbians, riot police – just when everybody should have been having a good time.
I got collared by a loud of scientists, trying to piece together what I knew. I kept schtumm about watching the end of the game – for obvious reasons. Their tissue analysis didn’t add up to much. They concluded that it was made entirely of shit, which is what I told them in the first place.

Bombing the monster had very little effect. Whatever bits they knocked off, seemed to grow back instantly, and when a couple of stray missiles – which people said must have been fired by Prince William, hit the Mars factory, aerial bombardment was suspended.

As night came, an uneasy peace fell over Slough. The chaos of the afternoon gave way to cautious calm – I think perhaps people were feeling ashamed of themselves. There was hymn singing and anti-war songs and a candlelit vigil, despite the fear of gas. The Archbishop of Canterbury turned up, and joined by leaders of all the faiths, led a service of Thanksgiving and tolerance.
Despite a lot of folks doubled up with dysentery, we sang All Things Bright And Beautiful. Communities came together, and on this night, new understandings were forged – in the knowledge that something about the way we live our lives had changed forever. The general consensus was that we should still kill it, but that was tinged with an air of wonderment, that from the very humblest of beginnings, a new life form had begun– formed from the bowels of Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs – perhaps embodying the hopes and dreams of us all – a Peoples’ Faecalosaurus.
Experts surmised that it was an intelligent being, a miraculous throwback to the origin of the species, causing us to ask uncomfortable questions about our own delicate evolution; perhaps the first of a new race, and that a breeding mate might be found.

For better or for worse, these questions never came to be answered, for on the stroke of midnight, the heavens opened and the drought finally broke. The tremendous thunderstorm did what the combined strength of our armed forces, emergency services, best brains, and government could not do. The rain lashed the monster mercilessly, and it was much to the credit of we as a people that we pitied its fate.

As the driving rain dissolved it, it stood proud and magnificent, raging, yet powerless against the torrential assault from Mother Nature’s arsenal.
I can’t say that I was not relieved to see the back of it – especially as I felt partly responsible for its creation and the reign of havoc it brought down upon the nation, but I will have to live with that on my conscience.

I still sleep easily at night, although after the disciplinary tribunal, I am no longer in sewage. Firmer management structures are now in place to ensure that a situation like this does not arise again, but I say this: If it’s happened once, it can happen again. The genie – or Faecalosaurus is out of the bottle. Until we start taking a bit better care of or dietary intake and are bit more considerate about what we flush down the toilets, there is always a danger of worse to come. The British sewage system – great though it is, is mostly Victorian, and it is not equipped to deal with the modern world.

On a personal note, I would like to apologize to all those who lost love ones in the crisis – especially her Majesty the Queen, whose pleasure I am currently at. Had I been made fully aware of the potential loss of life and dreadful consequences owing to my lack of immediate action, I would have responded differently. I know that Jeff thinks along similar lines. Still, you can’t turn back the clock can you?