“Oh, bollocks,” said Tompkins, “I’ve bloody well slammed my Jaguar into a telegraph pole, again, that’s the third time today.” He thumped a pint-glass sized fist into the palm of his other hand, causing a slapping sound that reverberated around the interior of his vehicle. Using his enormous strength, Tompkins levered himself out of the Jaguar and surveyed the damage.
“That’s bad, not like the previous two, around 10,000 pounds worth by the looks of it, I will have to sell off some of mater’s shares in BT to pay for this” he said, straightening a few pieces of metal using his massively strong hands. Tompkins put his back into it and moved the car from the pole. He pushed it a few yards away, to try and make it look like his car and the pole had never been introduced, let alone met on any meaningful level.
“I’ll have to ask my little Polish mechanic to come along and fix this for me, assuming he’s not drunk on Pepper Vodka or whatever it is he drinks for breakie.” Tompkins made a note in his pocket book to contact Vassily, or Grigor, or whatever the mechanic’s name was, to ask him to come and fix his auto. He made a note of the location too, just to help matters somewhat.
“This is going to make old Tomcat late for the pals’ meeting – we’ve to decide whether those Russkies are aiming to start another Bolshevik revolution in Old Blighty. It’d be like the Blair government did, though this time they will use all the immigrants that are coming in, rather than the democratic process” said Tompkins to himself.
He looked at his Breitling watch and sprinted away towards the cunningly named The Meeting House. His clan was going to meet in 5 minutes time, at 11:30pm, under the artful guise of an Archery Club Executive meeting. Cue lots of talk about bows, arrows, bullseyes and similar lingo.
“Just shot a bullseye with me bow,” said Tompkins to himself over and over again as he sprinted along towards his destination.
“Hello, is that a Tomcat I spy,” said a man leaning out of a large, black car.
“Why, if it isn’t the Deputy-Commissioner of Police, how are you doing, Spiffy Wiffy?”
“Haven’t seen you run so fast since you saw that beautiful blonde French girl from the Rugby pitch at Twickers.”
“The Varsity still won with 14 players, but y’know Spiffy, a man’s got to do, what a man’s got to do. I caught her in the car park, near a red Bentley,” replied Tompkins still running, “I remember her well, turned out to be a grocer’s daughter from Arles, so the mater and pater didn’t approve. Her father specialised in Onions, but they were cocktail onions you see, not nearly big enough for the parents. ‘If you’re going into onions, Tomcat,’ my pater said, ‘make sure the onions are big enough to grip with both hands’ – and y’know, Spiffy, I’ve followed that philosophy for the whole of my life, and applied it not only to onions, but to all things. Make sure they’re big enough to grip with both hands, y’know.”
“Fascinating insight,” came the reply, “what became of her, the grocer’s daughter from Arles?”
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