The Posh Do

It was their favourite do of the year. A jolly. A beano.

The Lithuanian Embassy Ball, revived after many years of Soviet oppression, was hugely popular, in spite of its minor role in the Diplomatic Party Year. It was not the status of Lithuania that made it popular, but the individual that hosted it : Jasmine. Wobbly Bob's monopedic wife.

It was unusual for an Embassy to be in Liverpool, and not Britain's capital London. But THAT organisation was there. The thieves. The Bank of England. The organisation that looked after 44 million pounds Sterling worth of Gold bullion, for their client, independent Lithuania, many decades ago. When Lithuania recently asked to withdraw it, with the interest, the bank smirked and explained that they had given it away. The Embassy is poor, but it is the only do where diplomats pay freely, knowing SHE will be there. Tonight we expect two ex-Presidents and five ex-Prime Ministers.

Mersey Morris have the concession for this venue, flattering themselves that it is their fine dancing that gets the annual invitation, when in fact it is their absence of fee that makes them so desirable.

For this day, they pull out all the stops. They iron their cummerbunds and wait for the stretch limo to pick them up. It is part of the fun. This year Young David has thoughtfully joined some of the finer acne with a biro, which perfectly describes the new Birkenhead one-way traffic system. He sits next to the driver, who is unfamiliar with the area.

Not everyone gets the limo. After last year's function, where H, their giant rabbit, had been eating raw brussel sprouts, he was banned from travelling with the team.

Long John, too, was making his own way to the Embassy. He was currently standing upstairs on a bus, in a traffic jam in New Brighton. "Fookin shites" he growled. He was happy today. New Brighton was the northernmost part of the Wirral, he was upstairs, and he was standing. He was in Northern Heaven. The conductor wisely decided it was better just to ignore him, than to be petty, and bring up the subject of the bus fare.

It was assumed that Long John got his name from being called John, and being fairly tall. This was partly true, but there was another reason. He had spent a little time in Peterhead Prison - a prison for hard cases, next to the Long John distillery. Peterhead, also known as "Blue Toon" due to the characteristic blue socks of its fishermen, lies 25 miles north of Aberdeen. Long John considers this "acceptably north". In the late eighties a violent prison protest was suppressed by sending in the SAS. The troops left the prison still wearing their balaclava helmets. This was rumoured to be to hide their black-eyes. Long John's role in this incident is unknown.

As they sped into the entrance of the Mersey Tunnel, Richard groaned "Ooh, I don't like tunnels". They spied a tall white rabbit on a pogo stick ahead. "Ignore him" said Eddy, "he's just trying to bring attention to himself". "Christ! What's that smell?" they all cried at once. "For fuck's sake close the windows!" yelled Pete . "I think I'm going to be sick!" muttered Richard. He rushed towards the closing window, seemingly in slow motion, in an attempt to place his stomach contents in a location other than his immediate proximity.

"Clunk" went the closing window.

"Hurghhhh!" went Richard.

"Yuckkk!" went everyone else.

Richard was now on one side of the car, and everyone was on the other. Unfortunately a stretch limo does not stretch sideways.

The rabbit was still ahead, waving two fingers. "Well, overtake him then!" squealed Eddy. A stretch-limo full of Morris Men is considerably under-powered, and it seemed an eternity to reach the 75 miles per hour, required to get alongside him. He was now grinning and making childish faces. This did not last long; whether it was boredom, or the "Keep to the Left" sign he hit, he failed to keep up with the car. By about 75 miles per hour.

Wobbly Bob was alone in the back of the limo filling his artificial leg with all the liquor he could find. Jasmine had ensured that she would not be distracted with the attentions of the team by having sex with most of them last practice night, when Wobbly Bob was sent out for chips.

Clive sat quietly behind the driver. He was looking smart today. Well that's what his mother told him. He lived with his mother. His mother owned his soul. "That school blazer still looks smart without the badge. Wear a pair of my silk knickers as a cravat, and you'll look very grown-up." Clive was 35. He WAS grown up. Clive was a passionate man; unfortunately about the wrong things. He had no interest in drink or women, but had an evangelical zeal about his sad mundane traditional pursuits. Train spotting, bus spotting, stamp collecting etc. That was why he was so interested in Morris Dancing; he was that sad.

If you'd ever heard that Thomas the Tank Engine was in fact a London, Brighton and South Coast Railway tender, with a 0-6-0 E2 bogie configuration and extended side tanks, then you've been talking to Clive. Today he was interested in his beer mat collection. Thinking of Liverpool he said "Did you know that Higson's Brewery has only had three kinds of beer mat?" "Fuck off!" they all shouted. Even the driver.

The car emerged from the tunnel and swept its way through the drizzle of the early evening, to the posh part of Liverpool. The posh part of Liverpool is the area where some cars have all four wheels and some of the street lights work. The venue was unmistakable. The sounds of a Samba band poured out of every open window, lightly rippling the puddles on the broken flagstones outside. Colourful people danced in and out of the building like fireflies. The team walked past a window near the entrance. They could see in the centre of the crowd, Jasmine dancing frenetically with the Columbian ambassador. They all sighed. Well, all except Wobbly Bob, who burped. Then farted. Then burped again.

As the way was obstructed for the limo, Clive went to the driver's window to explain the eccentricities of the back streets of Liverpool. The driver threw the car into reverse and sped onto the pavement, shooting backwards down the street at speed, scraping the buildings in a shower of sparks. Anything but listen to Clive.

The team crept upstairs to ready themselves for their entry. The room was full of fur coats and stoles of the guests below. They used them to wipe the bits of vomit off their kit. "Five minutes!" said Eddy. "Piss Off!" said everyone else. Wobbly Bob was screwing his half-full artificial leg back on, and wiping his mouth. A half-full artificial leg, is more of an impediment than a full artificial leg. Although lighter, the booze within sloshes about and becomes a force of its own. Fortunately, with Bob's erratic dancing, this becomes a precision counter-measure, turning him into a dancer with grace. Old Bill was straightening his colostomy bag under his cummerbund.

They crept back down the stairs, their bells partly muffled by the fact that in the centre of their bells, no longer resided just a pea, but also a piece of diced carrot and some cabbage, from Richard's vegetable hotpot that he had consumed for his tea. Richard thought this an inappropriate time to point out that it never is diced carrots, but pieces of stomach lining. Looking through a crack in the door, they espied the dancing couple. The ambassador, slightly portly and in his late fifties, danced with great energy, helped by the sampling of his national produce, Cocaine, of which he personally was involved in the Export business. Jasmine, twice voted Samba Queen at the Rio Carnival, was wearing the Samba Dress of her own design. Where many women would take measures to conceal an artificial leg, she wore a split skirt to the thigh, and a breathtaking new appendage; a chrome steel limb.

It had been rumoured for months that Steven Spielberg had been planning a remake of Fritz Lang's 1927 classic, "Metropolis". He originally had commissioned Jasmine to design and manufacture the body shell for "Hel", the beautiful female robot. As an accomplished car body designer and argon-arc welder, she was an obvious choice. When he saw the end product, and the designer, he fell in love with both, and wanted her for the role. Unfortunately, due to her previous commitment of hosting the Eurovision Song Contest, a job that required her beauty and multi-lingual skills, she declined. The film was abandoned as the Director said that there could be no other suitable actress to play this part.

She did however own the property in the goods, and these goods were currently being rubbed up the inner thigh of her dancing partner. He was a violent man. A very violent man. It comes with the job. But inviting him ensures that there are no press, and all the wheels stay on the cars. They know the score.

As he turned to perform a final samba heel-pull and hesitation, she flitted to the next waiting dignitaries; the German and French embassadors. They had already offered to allow Britain to join the Economic Monetary Union under very favourable conditions, if she would have sex with them both tonight. She refused. They had already had sex with her before, after the Berlin Wall ceremony, on the wall. But tonight, HE was there. She could think of no other.

It was true that she was a nymphomaniac, and had had most of the men in the room, but it was more than that. It was a kind of self-loathing. She really despised those that loved her, and loved those that didn't. It was unbelievable that such a beautiful and brilliant woman hid a tormented inner-self.

As the Samba stopped, Old Bill's squeeze box started up into a haunting rendition of "Morning Star", the team's favourite tune for the Bledington hanky dance "Idbury Hill". This was unfortunate, as the team were tooled with sticks up for the Fieldtown stick dance "Three Musketeers". Bill smiled in encouragement, unaware of the difficulty faced by the team.

Tony, who had recently joined the team, was still engrossed in a chat with the buxom daughter of the Welsh Embassador. "I used to be the squire of Bangor Morris Men, you know. A cracking team. Not like this shower." Full of confidence he leapt into action performing a dazzling hook leg with bold hanky flourishes, still smiling at the girl that he hoped to acquire carnival knowledge of, before the night was out. As he was performing his sidesteps, he was unaware that five other dancers were clashing sticks. As he passed through the hey, he was imagining himself to be less of a sad school teacher, and more of a 007-like stud. Every time he returned to his number six position, he would talk a little more to the girl, explaining why he was such a good dancer. With the pumping blood booming in his ears, he failed to hear the call of "All Up!" Vigorously he leapt into another distinctive figure, whilst the team walked round and off. Now into the rounds, he started to notice that Mersey do this a bit differently; Bangor used to do it with six men, not one. And they used to have music. And a crowd. He turned towards the girl, but she was gone. He would never know that, later that night, she would have sex in the dumb-waiter with a not so dumb waiter, and return with him to Cyprus to put on 60 pounds, and have a child named Tony, named after that weird guy she met on the night that she conceived.

At the far end of the room, the band started up again, and the crowd cheered. This time it was the "Birdy Dance". The crowd closed around a table and someone jumped up on it. From the other end of the room, only the tops of the long white ears could be seen.

There was a loud crash from the kitchen and many female screams. The door was flung open and three female kitchen staff, in various states of disarray, came running out, pursued by a hopping Morris Dancer waving his leg over his head.

At the other end of the room, while most were distracted, the Columbian Ambassador, with his two bodyguards behind, grabbed Jasmine by the wrists and dragged her towards the curtains of the French Windows. "We do it now, in the garden!" he ordered. For Jasmine, being Hap Ki Do 7^th Dan, the reply was simple, and the ambassador crumpled to the ground like someone who has received no points at a Eurovision Song Contest. The two bodyguards lunged forwards, but stopped in mid-lunge, then immediately lunged backwards through the curtains out of sight. A growl was heard from behind the curtains. "Fookin SOUTH American shites!"

Moments later, Long John appeared. He was a handsome figure, with the most immaculate kit. He wore a bandolier of six razor sharp rappers, with a skean dhu rapper down his sock, and three ninja rapper stars on his hip. The high quality of the embroidery of his clothes transcended kit; this was quality costume. This was his craft. He went into prison as a street fighter, and left as one of the UK's experts in traditional fine tailoring. He had two new experiences in prison : stitching mailbags, and the TV Education system Open University. For him "Life" had meant 12 years, but twelve years well spent, learning to control his rage and apply his above-average intellect productively. Not only was he now a well paid advisor for many popular historical dramas, but he was also a lecturer for the Open University. He did not really enjoy making the Open University programmes, not because of the poor pay, but because of having to wear the afro wig and flared trousers essential to the OU style.

At his apartment, he had made a tapestry covering a wall with a scene similar to that of the "Last Supper", where seventeen men stood behind a table, with a central Christ-like figure closely resembling Long John. It had been a labour of love. Every year another character was added. He had started it shortly after his wife died. He missed her so. He had loved his wife deeply. Only someone that he loved so much would he have murdered. Once the deed had been done, he drove up to John O’Groats, the northern-most community of mainland Britain, and handed himself in to the local constabulary. The other deaths were of no consequence.

The tapestry was currently being admired by the burglar, walking around his rooms. The apartment was intensely tidy, reflecting his ascetic lifestyle. Antique prison implements decorated the walls. Long John even had an original metre-diameter man-trap, he used to protect his property. In such a bare apartment it would take a foolish burglar to step into a man-trap. This burglar was no fool. He was, however, surprised when the man-trap fell on to his head from the ceiling. He dropped to his knees. Well not quite to his knees. The chain to the ceiling was not long enough, serving only to tighten the large mechanism around his head. With a torn jugular, his blood and his life ran out. He died in front of the tapestry, unaware that he would now be added as the eighteenth character of this list of unsolved deaths.

Back at the Embassy, Mersey started to circulate. Well, circulate around the food, like sharks. Tasting the great variety of Lithuanian fare, they filled their pockets with food they could not fit into their mouths.

When the band stopped, Bill started to play "Nutting Girl", and Alan, the guy that left the team for Chester City Morris Men, because Wobbly Bob tipped a leg full of beer over his head, did a jig. It was a very good jig, but none of the team told him so, in case he felt he could rejoin the team. He used to be the team Fool, but would make the kids cry and intimidate the team with his scowls, always moaning about how life was treating him badly. He was a kind of counter-Fool. If you wanted to make a crowd miserable, send on Alan. The odd thing was that he was a member of the Ancient Order of Fools and Animals, and was very popular there. A place where the sign "You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps!" makes some kind of sense.

Bill finished the number with great gusto, giving the box a final big squeeze, unaware that his colostomy bag had swung between the bellows. Instead of finishing with a loud chord, he finished with a loud squelch, as the contents glided over his shoulder onto the Black Forest Gateau on a nearby table, unnoticed.

Richard's face was ashen. "I don't think I like caviar" he groaned. He turned around and plunged his head into the large full punch bowl. With his head fully immersed, he vomited at the bottom. He stood up and wiped his face on the curtains. He rejoined the team, feeling much better.

Peter was now back in mufti. He was wearing a medal that his dad had been awarded in North Africa, during WWII. His father had been part of a snatch squad that kidnapped Rommel, and replaced him with an identical assassin, who aimed to kill Hitler. Unknown to Peter, this was untrue. In fact, his father, the rat, had deserted from the Desert Rats, and run a bar in a little known wadi, selling home-made booze to any army that appeared. His famous hooch was well known to be the cause of desert blindness, previously attributed to the strong sunshine, rather than strong moonshine. The German Ambassador recognised the medal immediately. It was distinct. There had only been two SS Proctologist Second Class assigned to the Africa Corps. One had been assigned to Rommel, and was believed to have helped him in his suicide. The other was lost in a sandstorm, never to be heard of again. But he didn't die. He came upon a mirage : a bar in a wadi, miles from anywhere. He started a small commercial medical practice there, mainly for the treatment of alcohol poisoning. He now runs Britain's largest de-tox and colonic irrigation clinic, and drives a BMW.

"That belonged to your father?" the ambassador winked. "We will be great again, one day" he whispered. This was all over Peter's head, a head which nodded obligingly. Peter moved the discussion onto his favourite subject : military strategy. At home he had a table full of Napoleonic figures, and loved to paint the blood on them. He wasn't really a military strategist, just a big kid that liked playing with toy soldiers. His simplistic severe view of warfare, and phrases such as "String them up" and "No Prisoners" (from the Alamo), impressed the ambassador, who slipped him his card, saying that a comrade would be in touch.

Young David was talking to the Bishop of Liverpool. Although so young, he was an infants’ Sunday School teacher, amongst his other hobbies of playing computer games and watching TV and videos. Unfortunately facts became blurred with fiction, and where his knowledge of the bible was weak, he would fill the gaps with similar information. He still thought that there was an Apostle called Grumpy, and another called Scary Apostle. He had been covering the Last Supper with his class, and described the scene where Christ told his followers that he was leaving them, Matthew cried out "Lord, where dost thou go’est?" And the Lord replied "To infinity, and beyond." Next week he is to teach the kids his favourite Easter hymn "Always look on the bright side of life".

Jasmine was now breathless, not from the dancing, but from the anticipation. HE was there. HE had passed her, without noticing her. This had gone on too long. For years their paths had crossed, but HE had failed to respond to her. Tonight was going to change things, forever. She would confront him. He HAD to love her. She saw him going upstairs. This was her chance. She followed him up, at a distance.

To Jasmine, "perversion" was not a dirty word. Despite its seedy image, to her it was imagination, vitality, creativity, and something that normally required a stirrup pump and a rolled-up copy of "Farmer’s Weekly". HE had to be a bit like her, and less like them. Tonight, it was clear that he was wearing women’s underwear, and didn’t care who knew. She followed him down the corridor. He entered one of the panelled bedrooms, and went into the en-suite toilet. This was her chance. She slipped into the bedroom, and bolted the door behind her. She dimmed the lights and prepared herself for his return Eventually the sound of washing hands could be heard. He extinguished the toilet light and stepped back into the bedroom. He stopped dead in his tracks. Lit mainly by the cool moonlight, from a gap between the curtains, her naked body was trembling by the drinks cabinet. She gently poured them each a glass of champagne, placing them upon nearby drinks mats. He was stunned. His jaw dropped. He kept his head low and didn’t look up at her. What he wanted was there in front of him. He only had to take it. Eventually, he pulled himself together and gasped "Blimey! A pair of Higsons’ Silver Jubilee beer mats! I didn’t even know they had made any. Do you mind if I have them?" Before she could reply, he had snatched them, and slipped out of the bedroom, oblivious to the situation, and the loud weeping that had started behind him.

The limo was now standing outside and the Morris Men started to collect. Wobbly Bob was a little drunk. Very drunk to anyone else, but a little drunk on the Wobbly Bob scale. He had just finished complaining that someone had drunk all the booze in the limo. He considered this personal property. He then unscrewed his leg, and to his horror, discovered that his leg has empty. He now denied that this was his leg, and started to bash the legs of the other dancers with a pick-axe handle, to weed out the culprit. Fortunately for the team, he fell into a flower-bed, not getting back onto his feet until the following Tuesday.

Richard was full of beans. Well, that is fairly inaccurate. Richard was full of nothing, and had a nagging appetite. He jigged around on the spot. "Who’s for a curry then?" he asked, as he approached the binge part of his daily cycle. He had a vindaloo curry-out in one hand and a sweet and sour pork in the other.

The German Ambassador was standing outside talking to Pete. He asked if Pete would like to join the Party. "Another party?" said Pete. "I’m game." The Ambassodor snapped his fingers and a grey open-top staff car pulled up. Peter got in and taunted the team. "You’ll never guess where WE are going" he jibed as the car sped off into the evening mist, towards the airport, where the Brazilian Junkers 88 awaited.

A rat viewed the group from the darkness, unseen by all. A rapper-boomerang appeared out of the shadows, cutting off its head, before silently returning to its master.

Alan, who had drunk the punch-bowl dry, was now finishing off the last bit of Black Forest Gateau.

They got into the limo, only to discover the rabbit, unconscious on the floor. They didn’t care any more. He was big and soft, and soon the whole team were curled in foetal positions around him; many sucking their thumbs or purring. The car quietly slid back down the tunnel back to their homes and families.