Dan Jones

So! After slipping the clutches of El Boppo, whose bravura combination of sadism and slapstick had had him branded by the Nicaraguan press as the most hilarious drugs capo in the country, I made my way with rare magnificence to a fundraiser for fabulously wealthy heiresses cruelly deprived of a political career by dint of their rank stupidity. The more beautiful of the creatures enjoyed gaggles of hormonally dysfunctional males swarming around them, panting hypothetically at the sight of a well-turned buttock or two.

But I was interested in the more ugsome individuals, and invited a banal, flapping monster named Ergo to the Cardomoms, the quite brilliant name I'd given my London bolthole, just outside Oxford, near the A34.

"Oh seňor, tu tienes tantos manos, como el pulpo!" she snorted through her single nostril, offering me a coffee absolutely riddled with Colombian honking powder.

"No gracias, generalamente yo hago Dry January," I hollered, quaffing the lot with humble élan.

But zoinks! The wazzo drink caused such virulent hallucinaballinations that I witnessed a merry score of Jezebels armed with AK47s osmosing through the walls! The most hithersome of them produced a rubber mallet and twonked me about the fizzog with such dexterity that my nausea was tempered by a fleeting frisson of admiration.

Slowly, Ergo peeled away her rubber mask to reveal the smiling, twiglet-featured boat race of none other than El Boppo himself!

To the cheers of his amoeba-brained henchmen he produced a large feline chicken festooned with rubber noblets from his underchatterers and my heart, already yampering buggeredly from the chocca-bocca-charlie, soared into a panicked (but groovy) rhythm, for I well knew El Boppo's tortuous methods.

"¡Es el ora para la Unión de la pollo y la bum bum!" he squealed with irresistible pleasure.

Foiled again!