Chapter 21: CASINO ROYALE-WITH-CHEESE

Martin Garré locked the doors of the Royale-With-Cheese, the underground Triveasy he co-owned with his more intelligent wife, and wandered wearily through the empty, early morning streets of Orangatanga after another busy night of dice-throwing and question-answering. Still, his fortunes had increased exponentially since the Prime Minister, David Lange, had banned the sale, manufacture, transportation and playing of the game Trivial Pursuit in October 1985.

The Prohibition of Trivial Pursuit in New Zealand (POTPINZ) was a major reform movement that began life in 1983 after the game’s initial release in the United States and was sponsored by the Protestant evangelical and Non-conformist churches in a desperate bid to stop the populace from believing they were more intelligent because they could answer numerous questions on a range of trivial subjects and also from asking unprepared members of the clergy awkward questions about fictional characters on Sunday mornings. 

Thousands of people from all walks of life began phoning in sick just so they could carry on playing; on one occasion the chairman of a popular chain of Burger Bars actually phoned himself to throw a sickie whilst he was halfway through a game and struggling to answer a question on Food and Drink. 

In 1985,  as a result of the number of work days lost to New Zealand’s obsession with the game, the government stepped in. 

Something clearly had to be done about the situation. The government wanted to ban the game, but owing to the fact that the Prime Minister was a fan nothing could be done. It looked like POTPINZ was never going to succeed in their demands, but all that changed on Sunday 24^th November 1985. John Russell Brand, the Minister for Arts, Culture and Heritage described the reasons for the PMs change of heart in his autobiography My Arty Farty Culchy Wulchy Herity Werity Life.

We had been playing Trivial Pursuit all night and the PM was determined to win. There were six of us in that tiny smoky room – the PM, the Minister of Defence, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Minister of Justice, the Minister of Education and myself. The PM only had one wedge to get, which was Entertainment – he threw the dice and it was a five, exactly the right number for him to land on the Entertainment Wedge Space. We all groaned and called him a jammy bastard to which he responded by telling us that if we wanted to argue about it he wouldn’t be shuffling the cards next time but he would be reshuffling the Cabinet.’

We decided that it would be best if we all shut up.

It was my turn to ask him the question and so I picked up the top card and read from it. “At the start of which film is Richard Harris savaged by a grizzly bear and left for dead?”

“That’s easy,” yelped the PM. “It’s “Man in the Wilderness!”

I knew he had answered the question correctly and was about to give him his final wedge when I looked at the answer that was written on the card. “I’m sorry, David,” I smirked, “that’s not what it says on the card.”

The PM looked flabbergasted. “But it’s the correct answer,” he protested.

“It says A Man Called Horse on the card,” I told him with a smile. I knew that this was a common mistake with the early Genus editions of the game.

“But that’s not right!” he shrieked. “A Man Called Horse is where Richard Harris is strung up by his nipples by Indians!”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but as Minister of the Arts, Culture and Heritage I am going to have to go with the answer that’s on the card.”

It was at this precise point that the PM upended the board and ordered everyone out of the room shouting, “It’s my game and I’ll decide from now on who can play it with me!”

The next morning he ratified the legislation that prohibited the sale, manufacture, transportation and playing of the game Trivial Pursuit throughout the entire nation.

At first Martin Garré thought that the October of 1985 was not a good time for him and his wife Sellian (see Note 1) to arrive in New Zealand.

As the prohibition of Trivial Pursuit started to grip the nation, gang warfare broke out. Rival gangs, mainly immigrants from Australia and Italy started to illegally manufacture and sell bootleg copies of the game to anyone who would buy them. Corruption was widespread amongst the police and politicians as Trivial Pursuit parties began to take place in underground bars and garages. Politicians were (as usual) always open to bribes and large sums of money began to change hands, sometimes accompanied by an easy Entertainment question. As a result open warfare between the two rival gangs, The Trivies (Italians) and The Pursies (Australians), broke out. At first this was in the form of aggressive question and answer sessions, but fairly soon the questioners were imposing time limits on their opponents. It was inevitable that blood would eventually be spilled; during a heated argument about whether Richard Harris was savaged by a grizzly bear at the start of Man in the Wilderness or A Man Called Horse a Pursie received a minor trauma to the forehead after a Trivie hurled a box of questions at him from across the room.

A group of Australian Pursies off to buy some Bitey

Martin Garré discovered to his delight that October 1985 was a very good time to arrive in New Zealand. Using the money he had saved whist he was in America he was able to put a deposit on a Triveasy’s in Orangatanga, just one of a franchise of underground Trivial Pursuit dens that had sprung up throughout New Zealand during the first few months of the ban.

Martin (or Mr Garré as he liked to be called) had moved to America after a short spell in the Middle East. His idea was to settle down in the heart of a right-wing, gun-toting, Jesus-loving town where he would do next to nothing whilst his more intelligent wife ran his life. He had been married to Sellian for over twenty-five years and although he knew that she was a lawyer he had no idea that, like most lawyers, she was also a criminal mastermind. Unfortunately, just as she was building a vast criminal empire right under the noses of everyone in the community, Martin went and spoiled it all by admitting, during a Citizen’s Meeting in December, that he didn’t believe in Santa Claus.

The residents of the street where he lived went ballistic. When they heard the news of Martin’s antisantaism they burned down his house with flaming torches and chased him and his wife out of town and all the way to the docks. It was fraught time for Martin and Sellian but they managed to escape on a steam boat to New Zealand with just a few clothes and Martin’s treasured collection of albums by The Eagles (and a healthy bank balance thanks to Sellian’s criminal empire).

Once they opened the Royale-With-Cheese, Sellian immediately set to work. Under the cover of the Triveasy she started importing sub-standard Australian Bitey Cheese and repackaging it as Cheddar. After six months she controlled all the import of Bitey throughout the country and, by employing the Pursies to smuggle the cheese into the country using secret pockets sewn into the crotches of their trousers and the Trivies to set up Protection Rackets, thus ensuring that all the country’s cheese outlets stocked their product, business was booming.

This did not, however escape the attention of The Big Top (the unofficial name for New Zealand’s Secret Service) and Everard Hinchcliffe sprang into action. Unfortunately with half of his agents operating out of the country and the other half acting as double agents for Egypt, he was left with a very difficult decision to make.

Once he had made that decision, Hinchcliffe walked, with a heavy heart, down the corridor to G Division.

Sir Crispen Fotherington-Smythe was working on his autobiography, The Ilchester File, when Hinchcliffe entered his office.

“Big C,” said Sir Crispen, “what brings you down to this neck of the woods?”

“Well, G,” said Hinchcliffe, “do you remember last year when you told me that you really envied the lifestyle of the agents you sent out into the field?”

"I do."

"Well the police are putting together a special six-man team to break the Trivial Pursuit rings and to try and put a stop to the import of Bitey. They're calling themselves The Unteachables. You interested in joining them as literary advisor?"

"I say, top hole!" said Sir Crispen. "When do I start?"

Note 1: Sellian is an ancient Welsh name given by Druids to the first-born girl of any couple who had achieved a record result in the annual cow-tipping contest (See Note 2) during the Festival of Yrttghyrnstry (See Note 3).

Note 2: Annual Cow-tipping contests in ancient Wales were held once a year, usually on the second day of the Festival of Yrttghyrnstry (See Note 3), and was only open to young men and young girls who had just produced their first daughter. These couples would then have to dispense words of advice to cows – for example: ‘Produce more milk you stupid bovine or you’ll be for the dinner table, see.’ (see Note 4). The couple with the most original tip would win the competition and be allowed to call their daughter Sellian, as well as nominating a person in the tribe they didn’t like to be offered up as human sacrifice to the God Blodwyn (See Note 5).

Note 3: The Festival of Yrttghyrnstry was an annual event held in ancient Wales and organised by a committee of Druids with long white beards and grey flowing robes. They mostly talked about sheep, cheese and sacrificing young virgins but on the odd occasion (usually once a year) they talked about the Festival of Yrttghyrnstry. Their meetings were normally dry, boring affairs, but once in a while one of their number would come up with an amazing, world changing idea; it was during one of these meetings that Jones the Druid (see Note 6) came up with idea for the wheelbarrow. After explaining how useful his ‘whel-brow’ would be he was immediately sacked from the Society of Druids and branded with the mark of the Black Sheep for being too forward thinking.

Note 4: Obviously the phrase used in Note 2 (see Note 2) was an English translation of the original ancient Welsh tongue. Ancient Welsh is a difficult language to understand as at that time the Welsh had not only not discovered the vowel, but the predilection for using the letter Y as many times as possible in a sentence rendered almost all written documents from that period virtually unreadable. So if the statement, Produce more milk you stupid bovine or you’ll be for the dinner table, see were to appear written in ancient Welsh it would appear thus: Prydcy myry mylk yyy stypyd byvny yr yyyll by fyy thy dynner tyble, syy.

Note 5: The God Blodwyn is now more commonly known as the patron saint of Welsh Theme Parks. In ancient times he was depicted as a lascivious, drunk with a barrel of mead under one arm and his other arm around the neck of a rather attractive ewe.

Note 6: After Jones the Druid was expelled from the Society of Druids he wandered the countryside talking to animals and stuff until he eventually left Ancient Wales (see Note 7) and discovered England where he formed his own nation.

Note 7: If you want to know more about Ancient Wales visit the website www.druidsrus.com or read Jones the Historian’s bestselling epic Pillows of the Yrttghyrnstry.

DON’T MISS AN EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM SIR CRISPEN FOTHERINGTON-SMYTHE’S EXPLOSIVE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, THE ILCHESTER FILE 

COMING SOON!

Chapter 20: THE WALLPAPERED ROOM

As the car pulled up outside the cottage, Peter Perkins heard a loud bark followed by a series of growls that drew steadily more sinister.

“We have no time to lose,” he said, as he climbed out of the vehicle.

“But what about the dog you told me about?” Claire asked.

“Leave the dog to me. I’ll use my Voltaire Voice to calm that savage beast while you get Jim, Wulf and Miss Yip out of there.”

They ran to cottage and found that the front door was unlocked but the door to the room in which Derek was pacing menacingly about in was locked. “Stand back!” shouted Peter as he ran at the door. His bulky frame smashed against the wood and door flew open.

Inside the room Jim, George and Miss Yip were backed into a corner with Derek closing in on them. As the door crashed open Derek turned around to see what it was that had disturbed him from his next meal. He saw Peter on the floor on his hands and knees and recognised an easy target. He turned his attention away from his intended dinners and started to move towards Peter.

But Derek was not prepared for what came next.

Peter got on one knee and held his hands out and said in a soft voice, paraphrasing the words of Voltaire (1694 – 1778), “Oh the dog that has lost his master has come into this room troubled and restless – he needs love, and betokens his gladness by soft whimpers, frisks, and caresses.”

Derek stopped in his tracks. At first he seemed confused but as I-Think-Therefore-I-Am-Man’s soft, soothing voice began to take effect his features changed and started to visibly soften. His tail began to wag and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. Then he bounded playfully over and nuzzled his head under Peter’s arm and rolled over onto his back.

“Who’s a good boy then,” said Peter, stroking the dog’s belly, “who a good boy!”

As he was stroking and praising the dog, Claire led Jim, George and Miss Yip out of the house and into the garden, where she handed Jim a piece of paper.”

“What’s this, darling?” he asked.

“It’s the menu for tonight. What do you think?”

Jim unfolded the A4 sheet of paper and looked over the carefully typed menu. “Mmmmm,” he slavered, “Fray Bentos pie and Jar Cheese. You really are spoiling me.”

“Only the best for you, my love.”

“You know much I’m turned on when you talk about tins and cheese,” said Jim.

“Oh my,” said Claire.

Jim turned to his dad and Miss Yip and said, “Excuse us for a few minutes will you, we just need to get something out of Peter’s car.”

Fifteen minutes later Peter came out the cottage with Derek walking happily next to him on the end of a lead,. “Everyone needs to get in the car,” he said. “We have to catch up with those villains before they leave the country for Egypt.”

“What?” said Miss Yip. “How do you know they’re going to Egypt?”

“Derek pointed me to a pile of Egyptian holiday brochures in the bedroom upstairs.”

As he approached the car he wondered why all the windows were all steamed up and when he opened the hatchback door he saw that Claire and Jim were already waiting inside. “That was quick,” he said, referring to the speed at which they had reached the car.

“Not really,” said Claire breathlessly, looking flushed.

Derek just about fitted into the back and Peter climbed into the driver’s seat. Miss Yip got into the back of the car and Jim’s dad in the front next to Peter.

“What now?” George asked.

“We need to inform the authorities,” said Peter.

“Quick,” said Jim, “let’s find the nearest phone box.”

“No need for a phone box, Jim,” said Peter, as he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out an object the size of a shoe box.

“What the hell is that?” George asked.

“It’s my mobile phone.”

“Your what?

“My mobile phone. I can carry it anywhere as long as I have a battery charger the size of a large suitcase somewhere nearby. Luckily Derek is sitting on one in the back of the car.

“Wow,” said George incredulously, “This is just like being in an episode of Star Trek!”

“I’m going to phone 999 and tell the police to be waiting for those villains and stop them from boarding a plane out of the country.”

Two hours later they met two policemen at Heathrow Airport. Mrs Smedley and Mr Smith were both in custody but there was no sign of the mysterious third man they had spotted in the car when they had arrived at the cottage.

“Well done lads,” said the police sergeant who had made the arrest. “We’ve had our eye on these two for quite some time now.”

“Yes Mrs Smedley,” said Peter, “and I’ve tamed that brute of a dog of yours.”

“Oh no,” said the police constable, “this is not Mrs Smedley.” He took hold of Mrs Smedley’s hair and gave it a sharp tug. Jim, George, Peter and Miss Yip looked on in horror as he lifted her entire face away to reveal a grizzled old man with a red, blotchy face.

“Old man Jackson, the toilet cleaner!” declared Miss Yip. “But, why?”

“Because I hate Frontiere; I’ve worked there all my life and never risen above the rank of toilet cleaner. I dreamt of being a cheese sniffer and having the respect of the people around me, but no, the organisation chose to ignore me and promote other, less worthy people in my stead. There was only one thing for it and that was to destroy the Frontiere organisation . . . and I would have got away with it if it hadn’t been for you pesky interfering kids!”

Abdullah Fahad Achmed Al Mohammed bin Abdul Faisal Muhammed Fuad Abdullah Aziz Smith looked at old man Jackson with disgust and said, “You mean all this time when we were  . . . you were really . . . ?”

Old man Jackson shrugged his shoulders and gave Mr Smith a sly wink.

“Take them away, officers,” said Miss Yip, “and I hope they get transported to Australia – it’s the only punishment they deserve.”

Three days later Everard Hinchcliffe arrived in England to congratulate the team that had defeated the evil Cheesefinger.

He offered Jim the job of General Manager of the Braintree works with Miss Yip as his deputy and George as his operations manager. Peter was promoted to Head of the Computer Geek Department, whilst Claire accepted the position of Creative Chef for Frontiere (England).

They bought themselves a camper van and at various times of the year they went away on holiday, usually to somewhere creepy, with Derek the dog (who they had now renamed Deggy-Doo), where they had many adventures.

HERE ENDS PART ONE OF A LIFE IN CHEESE.

It would be a year before the team bought the camper van; their life in England up until then was one boring meeting after another until everything in the factory was sorted.

Rather than waste your time describing one tedious meeting after another, when A Life in Cheese returns in the New Year the action will move back to New Zealand for The Exciting Adventures of Sir Crispen Fotherington-Smythe!

DON’T MISS CASINO ROYALE-WITH-CHEESE!

COMING SOON!

Chapter 19: MEANWHILE . . .

Peter Perkins had seen and heard everything and he couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears. His Spinoza-Sense had told him that something was wrong, but Mr Smith had kept his evil intent so well hidden under a lead-lined veil of incompetence that he had been impossible to read. He had heard Mr Smith reveal himself to be Abdullah Fahad Achmed Al Mohammed bin Abdul Faisal Muhammed Fuad Abdullah Aziz Smith aka the super-villain Cheesefinger and he had seen the voluptuous Irene Smedley arrive and a man resembling Mr Smith (but with an Egyptian air about him) leading Jim, Miss Yip and Wulf Sternhammer out of the office at gunpoint.

He had to think fast. He reached into his pocket and found a Teichmuller Tracking Device from his old I-Think-Therefore-I-Am-Man days. The tracker was one of his own inventions and he’d named it after the German philosopher Gustav Teichmuller (1837 – 1888) because he’d found him difficult to follow. Perhaps, thought Peter, now was the time to bring I-Think-Therefore-I-Am-Man out of retirement. He ran to the end of the corridor and left the building through a side door. He skirted his way around the building, moving as quickly as his bulky frame would allow.

He was in luck – he had reached Irene Smedley’s car before Smith and the others had left the building. He bent down, reached behind the rear bumper and attached the tracker just as the factory door opposite him began to open.

He quickly dived behind a large bush on the other side of the road and listened.

“We must take care of them, Irene, my love,” said Smith kissing Mrs Smedley full on the lips. “They must never be seen again.”

“Don’t worry, darling. I think Derek is ready for a nice big meal. It’s been a while since he finished off Charles.”

“Yes, your stupid rich husband - all the time he thought that it was just you and that dog, where in actual fact it had always you and me!” Mr Smith burst into maniacal laughter.

“I know – ever since you contacted me from New Zealand we have been lovers. I never loved my husband – I only loved his money!”

“All right, all right!” said Miss Yip, angrily, “I think that’s enough back story and plot exposition to fill everyone in with your motives. Let’s get this over and done with, shall we!”

The three prisoners were bundled into the back of the car and when they were firmly secured there Irene Smedley sat down in the driver’s seat and started the engine. With his golden gun still trained on them, Mr Smith climbed into passenger side and slammed the door, just as the car roared away.

Peter Perkins emerged from his hiding place and ran full tilt to his office. He closed the door, pulled down the blinds and quickly changed out of his work clothes and into his once familiar brown jacket with patches on the elbows, brown corduroy trousers, striped shirt with a plain collar, spotted tie and comfortable shoes “This looks like a job for I-Think-Therefore-I-Am-Man!” he cried as he left the office.

From the corridor behind him he thought he heard the sigh of female voice saying, “I-Think-Therefore-I-Am-Man? But . . . how?”

Peter ran to his car and started the engine. He switched on the Teichmuller Tracking System and wondered what to do next. And then it suddenly came to him. “Claire! I must go and get Claire!”

Claire was busy typing up the menu for when Jim returned home for his dinner. She had taken all the cans out of the cupboard and they were sat on the side waiting to be opened with her trusty Brabantia. This was to be her first three-course meal in England and she wanted to make it special.

STARTER

Campbell’s Cream of Tomato Soup

MAIN COURSE

Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney Pie

Tinned Marrowfat Peas

Tinned Baby Carrots

Tinned New Potatoes with Butter

Bisto Gravy

DESSERT

Ambrosia Rice Pudding

Jar Cheese & Biscuits

Nescafe

The doorbell rang as she typed out the last word on the menu. “Whoever can that be?” she thought. “It’s too early for Jim to be home.”

She opened the door to find Peter Perkins standing in the doorway. “Oh, hello, Peter – what on earth are you doing here?”

“Claire!” Peter said urgently. “You have to come with me. Jim’s in a spot of bother.”

“But, I’m just preparing the dinner. I have so many cans to open I’ve been exercising my wrist, although I probably needn’t have seeing as I’ll be using my Brabantia to open them.”

Peter was momentarily distracted. “You have a Brabantia tin opener?” he said in amazement.

“Yes,” replied Claire. “Would you like to see it?”

“Errr,” began Peter, “err . . . no. No. We need to get going before something terrible happens to Jim.”

“What’s the matter? Someone’s not fed him some fresh food, have they? Fresh food always upsets his stomach, you know.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. Now, if you could get in the car, we have no time to lose.”

“Oh. Right,” said Claire, as she kicked off her slippers and slipped on the comfortable shoes that she had brought with her from New Zealand. “Let’s get going then.”

Peter switched on the Teichmuller Tracking Device and started the car. The Teichmuller spoke to them in a German accent.

“Go schtrate down to ze ent off ze rote and turn left, zen at ze rountabout turn right,” it said.

“Wow,” said Claire, “that’s amazing. Have you ever thought of patenting it – you’d make a fortune. Anyway, what did it say?”

“Shutup!” said the Teichmuller, “I vill ask ze qvestions!”

“It needs a bit of refinement,” said Peter. “A couple of months ago I wanted to go to Leeds and it directed me all the way to Poland and told me to start the invasion. I was thinking of patenting it under the name of TeichNav, short for Teichmuller Navigation System, but after the Polish incident I think a better name for it would be TwatNav.”

“Keep goink schrate down zis rote until you get to ze ent and zen turn right.”

As they followed the instructions given to them by the Teichmuller, a car sped past them travelling in the opposite direction. Peter recognised the driver as being Mrs Irene Smedley.

“That’s them!” he cried. “That’s them who kidnapped Jim and Miss Yip and Wulf Sternhammer!”

“Where are they going?” asked Claire. “Shouldn’t you follow them?”

“No. No. We need to get to Jim. He may be in some danger by now, along with the woman I love.”

“Oh, that’s nice, rushing to save the woman you love. Who says romance is dead?”

“You vill reach your destination in von mile,” said the Teichmuller.

As the car reached the brow of a hill Peter could see the cottage in the distance. “Please, please, let’s not be too late,” he mumbled to himself.

WILL PETER BE TOO LATE TO SAVE THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE?

IS THIS THE END FOR OUR HEROES?

FIND OUT NEXT TIME IN A LIFE IN CHEESE!!!!