Chapter 22: A LITERARY LIFE





Cheesehead Revisited

Mackenzie Morris considers the literary career of a member of the English aristocracy who, in his late sixties, became a spy for the New Zealand Secret Service before commenting on the publication of the second volume of his wildly exaggerated autobiography 

The Ilchester File

by Sir Crispen Fotherington-Smythe

Possum Press, 376 pages, 45NZD

                                 * * * *

Cheesehead Revisited, the first volume of Sir Crispen Fotherington-Smythe’s proposed autobiographical trilogy, covered the period from his aristocratic origins to his work with Frontiere, the cheese empire run by Everard Hinchcliffe that he claims was a front for the New Zealand Secret Service (Cheese Division).

This volume covers the period when (he claims) he became part of a task force known as The Unteachables, which, on the surface, was formed to close down the Triveasies (with force if necessary) that had sprung up throughout New Zealand following the nationwide ban on the game Trivial Pursuit. In reality (he claims) The Unteachables were formed to break a ruthless gang of cheese smugglers led by Martin Garré and his more intelligent wife, who were illegally bringing Australian Bitey into the country and passing it off as Cheddar.

The first volume of his so-called autobiography was difficult to swallow but The Ilchester File is just plain out there. What one must remember when reading this book is that Sir Crispen was ninety-seven years old when he wrote it and prone to exaggeration and make-believe.

Let’s face it, whoever heard of a nationwide ban on the game Trivial Pursuit in New Zealand, or any country for that matter, and no one on this planet could ever mistake Australian Bitey for any other cheese in existence.

Although originally from Britain, Sir Crispen moved to New Zealand in the early 1980s and it was there that this fantasy world of cheese guns, Babybombs, cheese smugglers and people with ridiculous names like Martin Garré and Everard Hinchcliffe and Jim Friteuse began. Let’s not forget that this is the same man who was responsible for the truly awful spy novels Chunderball and From Thrusher With Love, which were published to universal derision in 1984 and 1991 respectively.

In order to understand the fantasy world that Sir Crispen now inhabits one must first examine those early novels.

Chunderball followed the adventures of Bruce Bond, Australia’s drunkest secret agent. The first question one must ask oneself is why, if Bruce Bond was so drunk all the time, did the Australian Secret Service employ him in the first place? The second question is what was it all about? There seemed to be no plot, no identifiable characters and no suspense. The fact that he won A Golden Gouda for the book is testament to how bad it was.

Here is an extract from the book. Bruce Bond has been sent on a mission to assassinate Brandon Crowe, the head of the Australian Bitey Company.

Bruce had the gates of the factory in his sights. He had his weapon cocked and ready to fire. All he had to do was wait until Crowe showed up and then it was goodnight Vienna for him.

He lifted the top off the cool box by his side and reached for another Castlemaine XXXX. He tugged at the ring pull on the top of the can and smiled at the familiar Pssssttt sound – God he loved that sound; it was probably his favourite sound in the world. He liked it so much he had heard it probably twenty (or was it twenty-five) times already that day as he had lain in wait for his target.

He took a long glug from the can and slurred, to no one in particular, “Ah zhe am’er ne’tar is’o goo. . . ”

After an hour or so Bruce was finding it difficult to concentrate and he found it a struggle to keep more than one eye open at a time. When he did open both eyes everything around him started to spin and he felt like he was looking out at the world through a kaleidoscope. He seemed to have no control over the amount of saliva his body was producing and drool started running freely out of his mouth and he had to keep wiping it away with his sleeve.

A thought suddenly struck him. Had he been drugged? And if so, by whom?

His confused thoughts were interrupted by the sound of clanging metal. He peered over the ridge of the sand dune and saw that the factory gates were opening and Brandon Crowe was stepping outside to climb into a waiting limousine. Bruce immediately grabbed his rifle, but in his drunken state he pulled the trigger fired the weapon in the air.

“Bugger it!” he cried, as he watched Crowe dive into his armour-plated limo and drive away into the distance.

Bruce sat down despite the dampness in his shorts. He reached back into the cool box and took out another can of XXXX and a wedge of Ilchester.

“There’s always tomorrow,” he told himself.

Sir Crispen’s second novel From Thrusher With Love was about a female Soviet agent who disabled agents from the New Zealand Secret Service (NZSS) by passing sexually transmitted diseases onto them just before they were about to embark on a mission. With all of their agents either sick or delirious the NZSS have to call on retired super-agent Dirk Prick to assist them in their hour of need. The novel’s tagline – Love is . . . never having to report to the clinic – ensured that it was a bestseller in both Australia and Egypt.  Like Chunderball it was a crudely written exploitation novel. In a television interview for Channel One, Sir Crispen explained that:

“Whereas the first novel was about the perils of alcoholism, From Thusher With Love concerns itself with the pitfalls of rampant sexual behaviour amongst our modern day secret service agents.”

Personally I think it was just the wishful thinking of an incurable fantasist, but who am I to criticise – judge for yourself by reading this extract from that novel.

Olga Tossimov looked over the table at Prick and fluttered her eyebrows. She observed that he had recently been riding his motorcycle, as he had placed his helmet on the chair in between them.

“Miss Tossimov,” Prick said with a faint hint of a Scottish brogue, “if you think you can turn me with your feminine ways you are very much mistaken.”

“I zink you are ze most beautiful man I haff ever seen,” said Miss Tossimov, “and I vant you!”

“Like you wanted the other agents you put in the clinic.”

“No, you are different. You are English but you talk viz a Scottish accent. I haff vatched you closely, Mr Prick, and every disguise you take, vezzer it be Irish, Russian or American, you alvays use a Scottish accent.”

Prick stiffened. “I can’t help it,” he said sadly, “I’m Scottish on my father’s side. Although we lived in England he insisted that I spoke in a Scottish accent. He made me read the Sunday Post every week. As a child, while all the other kids were reading Desperate Dan in The Dandy and Denace the Menace in The Beano, I was forced to read The Broons and Oor Wullie. It’s no wonder all my friends at school thought I was a weirdo. And at New Year I had to suffer Andy Stewart on the telly. It was hell, I tell you, hell.”

“Oh, you poor zing,” said Miss Tossimov, gently stroking Prick's helmet with her fingers, “haffing to endure hours off a man in a skirt singing A Scottish Soldier and Donald, Wheers Yer Troosers must haff damaged you psychologically.”

“Of course it has. Why do you think I smoke sixty fags a day and drink stupid cocktails that are gone in one gulp?”

“Oh my darlink, it sounds like you need to be consoled. You are not like all ze other agents. In fact I zink I love you, Prick. Maybe ve should book a room.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you haff any condoms?”

“No.”

“I know for a fact zat zere is a machine in ze toilets zat dispenses zem in packets of zree and it takes von pound coins.”

“Have you got any change?”

From Thrusher With Love was Fotheringon-Smythe’s last novel. After that he concentrated his attention on writing his memoirs, the first volume of which, Cheesehead Revisited, appeared in 2003.

The following extract from the final chapter of Cheesehead Revisited is Fotherington-Smythe’s reaction to the news that his favourite agent, John Smith, has been exposed as a ruthless Egyptian double agent Abdullah Fahad Achmed Al Mohammed bin Abdul Faisal Muhammed Fuad Abdullah Aziz Smith - otherwise known as Cheesefinger.

When Big C informed me that John Smith was in fact Cheesefinger and his real name was  Abdullah Fahad Achmed Al Mohammed bin Abdul Faisal Muhammed Fuad Abdullah Aziz Smith and that he was Egyptian I was flabbergasted. John was my hero; he was the agent that I would have aspired to if ever I was given the opportunity to work in the field. Although this was highly unlikely given my advancing years, I still held onto that glimmer of hope.

Once the news had sunk in I went home to my mansion and got Johnson, my butler, to burn all my John Smith memorabilia, including the two albums he recorded for Possum Records, Land Of The Pharoahs and I Talk To The Pyramids.

It was such a shock discovering that John was an Egyptian agent. There was nothing in his records that suggested any such thing.

The Big Top became a hive of industry as witch hunts were carried out throughout each department. No witches were found but a number of Egyptian agents were discovered. John Smith, it seemed was just the tip of the iceberg.

The Big Top was depleted once all the Egyptian double agents had been transported to Australia. There were no other agents capable of carrying out missions.

And then one day Big C breezed into G Division. 

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

“Well, G,” said Big C, “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!" I yelped. "When do I start?"

Volume Two of his memoirs, The Ilchester File, follows directly on from where Cheesehead Revisited left off. This extract is from the first chapter, where he is introduced to the team members of The Unteachables.

During the Prohibition of Trivial Pursuit, Martin Garré and his more intelligent wife had nearly the whole city of Orangatanga under their control. Bureau of Prohibition agent Eric ‘Loch’ Ness was so hindered by a largely corrupt police force that he formed his own unit which he called The Unteachables. This team consisted of an incorruptible Irish Kiwi private detective with a Scottish accent called Shamus O’Flaherty McBond, a young marksman called George Bailey, who had a terrible squint and who often wished he’d never been born. There was Reginald Molehusband who was a consulting detective and pigeon fancier (unfortunately Reginald was not with us for very long as he really did fancy pigeons) and then there was Buster Duran, Shamus O'Flaherty McBond's former partner in the PI business, who was recruited for his propensity for ultra-violence. And, of course, there was myself, who was hired as the literary consultant.

When I first met O’Flaherty McBond he asked me if I was really committed to bringing down Garré and his more intelligent wife.

“Yes,” I told him. “I’m totally committed.”

“But what are you prepared to do about it?” he countered.

“Anything,” I replied, “as long as it’s within the law.”

“And then what would you be prepared to do? If you open this jar of cheese you have to be prepared to go all the way. Because they’re not going to give up until one of you has conceded the game.”

“I want to get the Garré’s. I just don’t know how to do it.”

“You want to know how to get the Garré’s? They ask a Sport & Liesure Question, you ask a Literature Question. They pull a cheese knife, you pull a grater. They send one of ours to the dairy, you send one of theirs to the abbatoir. That’s the Orangatanga way. And that’s how you get the Garré’s. Do you want that?”

“We have all sworn to capture Garré and his more intelligent wife with all the powers at our disposal and that’s what we will do.”

“Well, Mr Fotherington-Smythe, shake on it.” He extended his hand and I took it. His grip was firm and rather painful. “Do you know what a blood oath is?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Good,” he said, stabbing my hand with a cheese knife, “because you’ve just taken one.”

I think it was at that moment that I realised that Shamus O’Flaherty McBond was totally insane.

Unlike his novels, and despite it reading like the plot of a cheap Hollywood gangster movie, The Ilchester File is an entertaining, although unreliable account of life in the business of espionage and I would heartily recommend it to anyone who loves to have their non-fiction accompanied by a large pinch of salt.

* * * *

Mackenzie Morris is the literary consultant to the Computer Games Division of Scotland Yard. He is also the world’s leading authority on spigots. As well as creating the popular series of computer games Spigot Wars, his books include The Maltese Spigot, The Spigot Always Rings Twice and Farewell My Spigot. 

* * * * 

 

DON'T MISS
Chapter 23 - SHAMUS O'FLAHERTY McBOND PI 
COMING SOON!

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!