Episode Twenty-One of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: Is there really any such thing as a Shrim Pie?

Last time, James Churchill Proudfoot – newly appointed Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town Football Club on behalf of the elusive Khalistan Warriors – had arrived on Cumberside Island. This, we must remember, is the home of the mighty Shrimpies of the Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League (Second Division).

He expected what he assumed would be peasants there to be in awe of him in his new position. Indeed, one of them – Amos De Rowlocks; the landlord of the Shrimpleton Arms where he would be staying – seemed to be the moment they first met:

“COO!” he had responded when Jim had told him his exalted title.

“Yes – it really is quite impressive, isn’t it?” replied Jim with a particularly self-satisfied smile.

“COO?” said Amos again. Jim looked at him for a moment. Was this yokel as simple as he seemed? Had his brain been replaced by that of a pigeon?

“COO” said Amos for a third time before repeating the following three words very slowly: “Chief Operating Officer – COO – you say? What’s that when it’s at home then?”

It was an inauspicious star which left Jim a bit deflated.

But the landlord had far more urgent things to think about than a pompous, rather smelly man with a ridiculous title who had just blown-in from the mainland…

As promised earlier in the week, Amos had met Psycho from the same ferry Jim had arrived on down by the quay a few hours previously.

It wasn’t the first time he had welcomed this troubled young man back to the island after he had spent some time at His Majesty’s pleasure.

The truth was that Amos felt some sort of responsibility for the lad.

Psycho – `Dave’ to his mates – was about the same age as his own son Seth. But Psycho and his sister Gemma had suffered a tragedy earlier in life even worse than when his own beloved wife Betty had died from cancer at a time that Seth was just eight years old.

Both of Psycho’s parents had been killed in a car crash on the mainland when the boy was only five and his sister three. The lad seemed to go off the rails at that point and had constantly been in trouble ever since.

Amos was convinced – however – that under Dave’s macho, devil-may-care persona, there was another one trying to get out: a frightened young lad who still misses his Mum and Dad.

So he’d tried to help encourage this by offering work and attempting to keep the teenager – and then the young man – out of trouble. With mixed results – otherwise Psycho wouldn’t have been back in prison again, would he?

Normally, though, a stretch of porridge did Dave a bit of good. Gave him time to think. To plan. To change his ways. Sometimes it had seemed to have actually worked in the past until something always seemed to happen to spoil it all again. This time, it had been drugs.

Psycho had been making a steady if not spectacular living from driving a taxi. And he was doing ok until a man came over from Liverpool and offered him some easy money for delivering certain packages.

Then the payments ceased but the packages didn’t. Psycho’s drug lord had threatened to shop him to the police as a dealer if he didn’t start working for free.

What the Scouse drug baron didn’t realise, though, was that Dave was called `Psycho’ by the islanders for a very good reason. It didn’t pay to wind him up or otherwise upset him because the results could be literally unpredictable – but always catastrophic. For the person doing the winding-up at least. Psycho didn’t take any prisoners. And he didn’t believe in `a tooth for a tooth’ either: if you knocked one of his out, he would immediately kick all of yours in – and break your jaw in the bargain as a response, likely as not…

Psycho knew where the man who had been giving him the packages to distribute lived: in an expensive suburb of Southport near Ainsdale Golf Course. But if he felt safe there, throwing his weight about and telling other people on an island seemingly too far away to have any repercussions what to do, he had another think coming…

So Psycho took the next ferry to the mainland. Then – relying on past misdemeanours – he nicked a van belonging to a water utility company in Liverpool . Next – wearing a stolen uniform, Hard Hat, reflective jacket and safety glasses to disguise his appearance – he called at the drug lord’s house.

He wasn’t in but his Missis was. And she didn’t seem particularly perturbed by a workman who spent several hours digging a large hole in her driveway before filling it all in again with no discernible improvement to her water supply.

In reality, Psycho had dug down to the foundations close to the corner of the huge house.

One of the scallies he had spent prison time with in the past was a Cypriot. He had shown Dave a book he kept in his cell about a man called George Grivas who Psycho had never heard of.

Grivas turned-out to be the leader of a Cypriot guerrilla group dedicated to driving the British off the Mediterranean island in the 1950s and 60s. He specialised in building huge roadside bombs and then successfully blowing-up British military convoys as they drove past.

But the scally who showed him the book wasn’t trying to educate Psycho about British Imperialism or historical struggles against it. He knew that the man from Cumberside Island would be interested in two appendices attached at the back of the book. Both of these told anyone who wanted to know precisely how to build the sort of bombs Grivas’ organisation EOKA used to cause these explosions. Both were very simple – but deadly effective.

So during the afternoon he spent close to Ainsdale beach, Utility Engineer Psycho buried four large packs of nitrogenous fertiliser, some copper pipe, a car battery, a timer and a couple of other things right in line with the foundations of the Scouse criminal’s house. Dave then set the timer for two o’clock the next morning. He then dumped the utility van, burnt the kit he had been wearing and returned to Cumberside on the next ferry.

To find the police waiting for him. 

The bomb had gone off and wrecked the entire house it was planted under at precisely the time Psycho had planned. A large part of the property had been burnt to the ground; the rest of it saved – ironically enough – by a cascade of water from a burst supply pipe which was shattered by the bomb planted next to it.

Although the drug dealer and his wife were at home at the time, they were uninjured in a part of the house unaffected by the fire.

Sadly for Dave, though, their house phone also survived the explosion. As did the tape of Psycho threatening to blow the Scouser to Kingdom Come which had been recorded two weeks earlier.

He got five years for causing criminal damage: a relatively light sentence because the authorities realised that Psycho was actually doing them a favour by putting the frighteners on men the likes of the drug baron he had blown-up. And because he behaved himself impeccably in Walton prison, Psycho only served half of his sentence.

But something had changed in that time. This became apparent as soon as Amos set eyes on Dave as he stepped off the ferry. Under the hood he had pulled-up was a mane of long hair – and a beard. When he’d been carted away by the police two and a bit years earlier, though, Dave had a shaved head and no facial hair.

By the time Amos had guided him back to his pub, the landlord had realised that a lot more had changed as well as Dave’s appearance. Normally, they would enjoy a meal together and drink heavily to celebrate Psycho’s new-found freedom. Today though, Dave at first refused any food and – even more out of character – any booze either. This is because – in prison of all places – Psycho had has a Road to Damascus moment. He had discovered Jainism.

This is an ancient Indian religion based on spirituality and a respect for all living things.

Think of Veganism – then think of Veganism on acid.

Adherents of the faith pray to their demi-gods for forgiveness on regular occasions; knowing that the reality of being alive as a human being means – by definition – that other creatures won’t live any longer. Microscopic organisms die every time we move. We unintentionally crush living things in the earth by inadvertently walking on them. Drinking water destroys the microbes living in it. But Jainism prohibits all killing – as well as all forms of violence. So there’s no chance of Jainists eating meat. Or fish. Even root vegetables and mushrooms are excluded for fear of injuring other living creatures in their production.

On his return to the island, Dave initially even refused to drink beer, arguing that yeast was a living thing that was destroyed in the brewing process. Fortunately, a combination of Jay and a slightly concussed Seth were able to convince him that because the beer the pub produced wasn’t pasteurised, the yeast lived-on. So he relented – and seemed more his normal self after three or four pints of it.

But house Chef “Evil Erik” had an even bigger struggle to find something that Dave would actually eat. Bread and soup was what they finally settled on after Erik had almost pulled his remaining hair out dealing with his reluctant customer’s objections to chips; onions; pasteurised milk; processed cheese and virtually everything else he had in the larder.

So Amos was left with a major worry – what he was going to do with the new-look Psycho – and how to cope with his highly-strung chief cook, who was wrung-out with the diet he would now have to prepare for the Walton Waldorf Old Boy. All Evil Erik needed was another difficult customer to tip the balance altogether…

Erik was the chef who had been sacked by the local football club’s owners – the Khalistan Warriors – for refusing to produce a new delicacy to their design. Even then, he was also Chief Bottle Washer and Cook at the Shrimpleton Arms. He was called `Evil Erik’ for reasons nobody could explain, least of all Erik himself: because the last thing which describe a man as basically wholly innocuous and inoffensive as Erik was `Evil’.

Oh – and he preferred to be called the Chef de Mission even though he wasn’t actually the head of a diplomatic corps visiting Cumberside Island from far-flung climes. This is because – in common with James Churchill Proudfoot – he had a thing about words even though, as we have just seen – and exactly like our own favourite Chief Operating Officer – he often got them wrong.

On the evening he arrived, Jim made his way from his room to the Dining area of the Shrimpleton Arms. There, he asked for a sample of what he had been led by the internet to believe was one of Cumberside Island’s unique specialties: a Shrim Pie with all the trimmings.

Nobody had ever done so before and the option was nowhere to be found on the pub’s menu.

The waitress Jim had given his order to looked puzzled – she had never heard of a Shrim Pie previously. But Jim insisted. However, when she asked Evil Erik to prepare this gastronomic delight, the outburst it provoked from the pub’s self-styled Chef de Mission was so extreme that Mine Host Amos had to leave the bar to find out what on Earth was going on. As the waitress looked on, horrified, Erik was yelling at the top of his voice – and repeatedly:

“THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A SHRIM PIE!”

When Amos entered the room, his Chief Cook started to systematically throw pots, pans, jugs, colanders and any other receptacles that came to hand against the wall of the kitchen; one for every word as he continued bawling at the top of his voice:

“I BANG! GOT CRASH! SACKED SPLAT! FOR CRUNCH! REFUSING BOING! TO BLOOP! MAKE DING! ANY SMASH! SHRIM SQUELCH! PIES PING! AT CRACK! THE SPROING! FOOTBALL TINKLE! CLUB! BASH! “

Gordon Ramsey would have been proud of him. (Even though I’ve removed all the expletives, of which there were quite a few.)

And in case anybody had failed to get the message, Evil Erik then yelled:

ANYONE WHO THINKS I WILL DO SO NOW HAS GOT ANOTHER THINK COMING!

Then he collapsed in a heap in the middle of the floor and started sobbing.

“Leave this to me!” said Amos to the waitress. He marched straight into the Dining Room, grabbed Jim Proudfoot by the arm, pushed him roughly into the kitchen and shoved him towards his distraught Chief Cook.

“This is what happens when people like you demand items that are not on the menu!  It is very upsetting for professionally-trained Chefs like Erik here! These men are known to be very highly strung practitioners of a very stressful and uniquely physically and emotionally demanding job. Poor Erik is drained, as you…”

“How can he be drained?” asked Jim, not unreasonably. “He’s just thrown the colander at the wall – and knackered it!”

“Have you no sensitivity?” snapped Amos, which – as we have already seen – Jim didn’t. “Erik is an artist. A gastronome!”

“Where’s his fishing rod, then?”

“Not that sort of gnome!” exclaimed Amos. “I’m clearly wasting my breath talking to an idiot like you! Evil Erik can’t do the cooking – and it’s your fault! So you’ll have to do it!”

“Just Hold Your Horses there a moment, Sherriff!” protested Threefeet of the Yard. “There’s no need to panic! Mr Erik just needs to be spoken to QUIETLY!” (he yelled this word so loudly in Amos’ ear that he actually jumped backwards – as the Chef suddenly stopped sobbing) “And GENTLY!”  He bent down towards the stricken Chef and continued, softly:

“Let’s get back to First Principles, sunshine. Allow me to ask you a few simple questions. Is that OK? Right: here we go: Firstly, you are what we veterans of the catering trade know as a Commie, aren’t you?

Erik look startled.

“I’m not a Communist!” he objected. “I hate them! Overran Poland, where Mama i Tata came from…”

“Mama i Tata?” repeated Jim, trying to make sense of this; “Your Mother was a potato?”

The Chef looked at him as if he was mad – as well he might. And continued:

“Mama i Tata – Mother and Father, you moron! But to answer your question: yes, I did begin my career as a Commis-Chef if you must know!”

“Precisely!” said Jim. “And you are familiar with amphibians: Shrimps; Crayfish; Prawns and the like…”

“They’re not amphibians – they’re crustaceans; decapods to be precise!”

“A mere detail. One thing they have in common with us, these little creatures, is the gift of sight – am I correct?”

Erik looked doubtful but nodded.

“They have eyes – is that agreed?”

“Well… I suppose so!”

“Even Shrimps?”

“Yes. But…”

“But nothing!” said Jim triumphantly. “So Shrimp eyes do exist! I’d like one with all the trimmings – soon as possible, please!”

Amos looked towards the heavens – and sighed. Increasingly, he was becoming convinced that he was the owner of a madhouse rather than a pub. The abduction of the Sikh earlier in the week had caused shock-waves on the island which were still reverberating. He was still quite shaken by it himself, truth be told. His boy Seth had been seriously hurt and still seemed a little confused, maybe even concussed as he wandered around the premises bumping into things. He needed to keep a close eye on him.

And the earlier nonsense about yeast and Psycho’s sudden conversion to an Eastern religion really didn’t help. Plus, valued – if not actually revered – guest Baroness Blighty of Brighton had mysteriously disappeared. The one visitor whose reassuring presence he actually welcomed – Shrimpleton Town’s new Number Five – had been off god knows where doing god alone knows what for god alone knows what reasons too. And now he had Drama Queens like Evil Erik kicking-off and obviously dodgy geezers such as Jim Threefeet to deal with as well.

Would life ever get back to normal? Or was `normality’ going to be a little different from here on in for the landlord and his pub?

During the early evening of his second night on Cumberside Island, Jim Proudfoot was making his way to the Dining Room of the Shrimpleton Arms again only to discover Amos chatting with one of his regulars – a man called Silas – at the main bar. They were talking about someone called `Ena’.

Sensing a whiff of scandal, Jim paused. Only to be disappointed to learn that Ena was the ancient tank engine which once performed sterling service for years on the island upon the now defunct Great Northern Railway from Shrimpleton Central to Laketown Junction five miles to the west. As was the case for so many steam engines of yesteryear, Ena was bound for the acetylene torches of the scrapyard until a consortium led by this particular customer organised a campaign to save her.

 “We hired a cargo ship to sail to Barry Island to visit…” Silas was saying.

“Let me guess” said Jim, breaking – unbidden – into the conversation. “Either Gavin or Stacey – which was it?”

Silas gave him a withering look.

“If you must know, to visit Woodham’s famous scrapyard to rescue Ena…”

“Sorry – Point of Order there Matey! I think you’ll find that Ena wasn’t in Gavin & Stacey; Ena Staples was one of the original characters in the first-ever British TV Soap: Constipation Street…”

 “Who is this idiot, Amos?” asked Silas, “I think he means Ena Sharples and Coronation Street!”

The landlord turned towards his unwelcome guest and asked:

“Are you familiar with Barry Scrapyard, the Graveyard of the Steam Age, then Jim?”

“Barry Scrapyard? Oh yes!  I think I can say without fear of contraception that I am quite an authority on Barry Scrapyard. I’m pretty sure I’ve read everything he’s ever written about trains!”

And with that, off he went to stuff his fat, unshaven face, happy that yet again, James Churchill Proudfoot had put people of the lower orders like these island peasants well and truly in their places.

But would Jim’s Missionary work come completely unstuck?

The whole point of him being on Cumberside Island was to arrange Shrimpleton Town AFC’s Summer Gala – in January. The day was fast approaching.

Would the Khalistan Warriors grace it with their presence?

If so, how would Lady Lynne Shrimpleton react this time?

What will she have done with their abducted senior member Baban Singh Chopra in the meantime?

And just across the sea in Ireland – what were the Kelly Gang doing in response to the loss of their leader, the infamous Joe-Boy?

Find out the answer to at least some of these questions in the next episode of the

Sensational Shrimpleton Saga…