Episode Twenty-Three of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: Nightmare...

Last time we met him, James Churchill Proudfoot, the Chief Operating Officer of the mighty Shrimpies – Shrimpleton Town AFC of the Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League (Second Division) – was operating to his usual standard of efficiency in trying to organise a Summer Gala for the club on a freezing Sunday in late January.

It was harder than he had anticipated. And one of his Golden Rules – not so much `if you fail’ try; try; try again’ as `when you fail; find something easier to do’ – was no use at all to him for once.

Thirty-five thousand pounds was at stake. No Gala meant no honoured guests, It meant that the leader of the elusive Khalistan Warriors, Ranjit Singh `Chopper’ Chopra and his greatest protégée – the very lovely Simran who was adored right around the globe and followed on the internet by an almost incalculable number of fans – would not put in an appearance.

And if they didn’t, Jim’s hopes of what he had once expected to be the easiest thirty-five grand he would ever make would go up in smoke as surely as an Irishman called Kelly and two of his Russian pals had done a very short while ago on the mainland.

So Jim must break his absolutely Number One Golden Rule and go against every instinct he had ever possessed. And try harder…

The always less than diplomatic Mr Proudfoot had managed to upset several of the natives almost as soon as he stepped-off the ferry from the mainland – which clearly hadn’t helped him to get the locals on-side with his Gala project. And everything else he had tried to do during the week to prepare for this great event had gone wrong, too. In fact, his best-laid plans had all fallen at the first hurdle, to be brutally honest.

`Chopper’ had given him five hundred smackers less than a week ago, two hundred of which Jim was supposed to spend on stuff for the Gala alone.

You can buy an awful lot of balloons and bunting for two hundred quid. And with his Gift of the Gab, Jim was confident he could get the local community to effectively donate far more than two hundred pounds’ worth of stuff in provisions and services alone on Gala day itself.

So he had intended to approach the local Women’s’ Institute to try and get the locals to make and provide the food he needed as a neighbourly gesture on their part which showed solidarity with the island’s – no, their – football club. But the WI only met once a month and their last gathering had been a week before Jim had arrived on Cumberside.

However, similar plans to persuade local farmers to provide free bacon for the butties he envisaged on the day came to nothing for a slightly different reason.

The Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town AFC reminded himself after five pints of Seth’s Extra Special in the Shrimpleton Arms that he was Jim Threefeet. Thirtyfeet, then. Or was it Proudfeet? Well – he was Jim somebody-or-other anyway. And whoever he was, James Whatsit didn’t take `no’ for an answer, did he? No – not with all the skills in deception and general skulduggery he had developed in a lifetime of conning other people. What chance did these island peasels and yokants – hic! – pestles and mortars – damn! – peasants and yokels – have against a man of his sofa… sofa… – double hic! – sophistication and cunning?

So he decided to approach individual females he had spotted in the pub and sweet-talk them into doing the WI stuff individually instead.

To Jim’s considerable surprise, this didn’t go very well though. The first woman he targeted – an unfortunately rather ugly and sour-faced larger older lady with a very full bosom and the unmistakable appearance of a farmer’s wife – told him to go away.

“I don’t entertain tramps!” she snapped at him coldly. “Why don’t you get yourself a job – as a smelly Father Christmas, perhaps?”

Unabashed, Jim tried again with another woman with a less forbidding expression. But she didn’t take kindly to his proposal to provide services for him on the day of the Summer Gala either. Jim still couldn’t figure out why. But saying “Could I put a proposal to you?” as he meant to and what he actually came out with: “Would it be possible to proposition you on Sunday?” didn’t go down very well with the good lady concerned. Worse still, it went down even less favourably with her husband, who was a big, rough-looking red-faced chap with a flat cap and a tweed jacket who looked like he could handle himself. Jim had to hide in the Snug until the angry couple eventually left.

The free Bacon Butties plan departed with them: the red-faced chap turned-out to be the Chairman of the island branch of the National Farmers’ Union, believe it or not. And if you upset the local Chairman of the NFU anywhere in Britain, your goose would be well and truly cooked (or turkey; pheasant or otherwise if that was what you were seeking) as far as the other local members were concerned…

The inaugural (and final) visit by the Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town Football Club to the one and only general shop in Shrimpleton turned out to be just as big a disaster.

Balloons; party hats and all sorts of things absolutely perfect for a Gala were in plentiful supply, perhaps surprisingly. But the prices were maybe five times what Jim imagined he would pay on the mainland.

Shrimpleton Town’s C.O.O. made a quick mental calculation: he reckoned the quantity of tat – sorry – merchandise he needed to deck-out the football ground on Sunday would come to about eighty quid. But a man of his experience of bartering wasn’t going to pay that sort of price – No Way Hose A as he thought all firemen in Spain were taught to say. (Old corny jokes weren’t really Jim’s Fort A, which he thought was simply twenty less than Six T.)

He approached the owner of the shop – a woman of about fifty who was positioned next to a till behind a small counter by the door. She was seated in a wheelchair. Instinct almost led Jim to gather everything he needed and then just walk out of the shop with it – what could a woman as disabled as she clearly was do to stop him? But this wasn’t London and even James Proudfoot A.C.E. had the sense not to even attempt to do it here. Instead, he would charm her into a reduction in the cost. Easy-peasy with a peasant like this one…

So he gave the woman by the till his most obsequious and condescending smile and reeled-off the list of things he was interested in buying, finishing his inquiry with the classic words:

“What’s your best price?”

In response, the disabled woman rummaged under the counter and then pulled out a sign which read:

Thankyou for asking. The best Price ever was Vincent in my humble opinion. I love his scary films. And the narrative bit on Michael Jackson’s Thriller still gives me goose-bumps, all these years later.

Jim was slightly nonplussed by this totally unexpected response and it took him a long moment to compute it. Then he gave the lady in the wheelchair what he hoped was his most sincere and friendly smile and said:

“I reckon what I need would cost eighty pounds. How about forty for cash?”

“Fifty?” he added quickly as he realised that this particular island peasant didn’t seem to be up for bartering. The woman in the wheelchair still said nothing. Instead, she pointed with a walking stick to a sign on the wall with these words written on it:

No Reductions except on Sale items.

“Fifty-five is my final offer!”

For the first time the woman spoke:

“And my final offer is what is written on the packets. If you’re not happy – then go somewhere else!” She paused and then added: “Oh – silly me! Except there isn’t anywhere else, is there? Not on this island anyway!”

When it was obvious that Jim wasn’t intending to take `no’ for an answer, she spoke once more:

“Unless you’d like to speak to our Customer Relations Consultant, Edna, of course! I’ll call her if you like!”

Jim would like. He smiled anew, even more patronisingly than before – if such a thing is possible. The name Edna and all its connotations of an elderly spinster with glasses who was a little hard of hearing was precisely the sort of Customer Relations Consultant he would like to bamboozle – sorry – speak to.

Until Edna actually appeared. She was a very large and extremely hairy German Shepherd. She stared at Threefeet of the Yard and uttered a low growl before baring her teeth as her hackles visibly started to rise.

Jim moved swiftly towards the door and was through it even quicker, closing it securely behind him. He glanced back from the safety of the exterior to see the dog still staring at him. So was the woman in the wheelchair and this time she was holding three more notices on her lap, like a pack of cards. One by one, she held them up so that Jim could see what was written on them:

No vagrants!

No Reductions!

Don’t come back!

So it wasn’t going well for James Proudfoot on Cumberside Island. No bacon butties. No flags and bunting. No bar either: local landlord Amos had demanded a downpayment of two hundred quid; non-refundable if sales did not go well.

So what was Jim going to do?

Get drunk, of course. But drunkenness always finally wore off, however long it took. Leaving harsh reality in its place, staring James Proudfoot squarely in the face.

So today, Jim woke-up a truly troubled man. Try as he might, James Churchill Proudfoot a.k.a. `Tripod’ and Threefeet of the Yard just couldn’t shake-off the nightmare he had endured every night since he arrived from London as he lay, tossing and turning, in his dishevelled bed at the Shrimpleton Arms.

Today was Saturday, the eve of the Shrimpies’ much anticipated Summer Gala – when all Cumberside Island’s inhabitants would head en masse to The Black Pool – the beloved home of their pride and joy as far as the footballing universe was concerned.

The team itself had already left for their away game at Cockerham and – as the club’s Chief Operating Officer – Jim should really have gone with them. But he had excused himself. He had claimed – in a sense truthfully for once – that he had the Gala to attend to and couldn’t afford the time.

“In a sense truthfully”? – well, I suppose that an almost total lack of any sort of preparation on the club’s C.O.O.’s part would have to be hastily remedied within twenty-four hours if there was still any chance at all of the Gala actually happening. Sadly, as we have just seen, Jim’s preparations for it so far though had been to his usual standards.

As if subliminally reminding him of this sad fact, the nightmare he had been plagued by for more years than he would like to remember had returned with a vengeance the previous night.

But before we go any further, I feel I need to offer some sort of an explanation as to why Shrimpleton Town’s C.O.O. might be troubled by the sort of thoughts which are betrayed by the dream I am about to describe to you.

Astute readers will remember Lady Lynne Shrimpleton’s response when her Office Manager Victoria at the House of Lords had suggested they use some sleaze they had on Jim Proudfoot to pressurise him into doing what they wanted.

So what was that all about?

Well – many years ago, when Jim was living in Guernsey, he managed to gatecrash a reception following an England match at Wembley, supposedly as a member of the island’s Football Association. There were some very attractive young women serving the drinks there. Students, most of them, earning a few quid to help them with their college fees.

One in particular, Jim recalled with a sigh, had one of the most shapely rear ends he had ever set eyes upon. As the evening grew older and the free champagne started to increasingly loosen his inhibitions, Jim had an overwhelming desire to fondle it. What harm would it do? She’d probably welcome it – she must be bored, he reckoned – and it was meant as a compliment after all.

So, next time she was unlucky enough to come literally within touching distance, he did just that, pulling her towards him and making halitosis-laden lewd suggestions to the helpless teenager as she tried – and failed – to fend him off.

“Temptress!” he thought groggily through a fug of champagne bubbles and alcohol. The young hussy had deliberately dressed in a really provocative way. And now she was calling foul! Decent men weren’t safe any more! What was the world coming to?

The cheeky little tart then took him to court: sexual assault, she had claimed. But the Beak fortunately saw sense.

“Were you wearing those particularly fetching black tights you have graced our presence with here today?” asked the Judge, his speech perhaps slightly slurred. He was staring in a distinctly lecherous way at the complainant as she stood, conservatively clad, in the dock. It was the afternoon session and His Worship had just returned from a very agreeable lunch at his club. The claret had been particularly fine today, in his regarded opinion. He should know – he had polished-off almost two bottles of the stuff.

“I wonder what your take is on red stockings and suspenders?” he said, as his glasses started steaming-up and a little string of saliva dribbled from his mouth. “With a matching thong? Or maybe no thong at all, my dear young lady!”

The young woman covered her face with her hand at this point and left the courtroom in tears. So Jim ended-up with no case to answer.

“Thank goodness for reliable British justice and the application of simple common sense!” he thought triumphantly at the time.

That was a long, long time ago. But the memory still rumbled on – at least subliminally – in Jim’s vodka-sodden head. Sometimes, he dreamt about what had happened. But every time he did, the story changed slightly – even if the central core of the dream never altered. And that central core was a really heavy burden of guilt which even copious amounts of alcohol couldn’t completely wash away.

So now you know.

Last night, though – as he groaned and mumbled to himself in his bed at the Shrimpleton Arms – he had endured the latest iteration of this recurring nightmare.

He found himself in a strange place. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere cold and inhospitable. Around him, all he could see was grass and nettles with broken-down dry stone walls and the occasional stunted tree breaking up the view across flat fields towards a stormy grey sea. In the distance, the remains of a rusting lump of farm machinery was quietly rotting away in the remains of a derelict stone shed, parts of its corrugated iron roof having already collapsed and started to blend-in with the abandoned thresher, or whatever it was. Suddenly, an elderly crone with yellow and broken teeth was in his face.

”Beware the Black Pool and the Black Dog that drinks at it!” she shrieked. “The Black Dog means Death. The Black Pool drowns all who stumble upon it!”

She was gone as quickly as she had appeared. Without warning, though, there was a noise coming in the other direction. The noise of a procession and of people celebrating; a Brass Band playing somewhere far away but the sound of its bass drum and the tubas growing ever louder as the parade grew closer.

Next moment – as you only can in dreams – Jim was among the throng. Leading it in fact. Behind him was a long line of dancing girls flamboyantly dressed in Brazilian outfits in outlandishly bright colours. They were followed by Salsa bands with exotically-clad members. They, in turn, were followed by marching Army Recruits; Naval Ratings; RAF Cadets and then nurses dressed in uniform but walking in perfect step with one another. An Orange Lodge suddenly appeared with their drums and whistles, incongruously playing a Celtic Football Club anthem: You’ll Never Walk Alone.

Anything that can march or drum or dance or sing– you name it: there were even a couple of performing dogs there – was represented in a seemingly endless procession stretching further than the eye could see. It was a fantastic sight – and the sense of excitement it generated was absolutely electrifying.

In an instant, people were slapping Jim on the back and telling him what a fine fellow he was. Lots of people were doing this – old; young; women; men – even a policeman decked-out in full dress uniform who appeared from somewhere or other. Next moment, Jim was marching along the cobbled streets of a small village full of stone-built cottages. Bunting and flags and balloons – most of them red and white – could be seen everywhere. Football scarves done out in similar hooped colours hung from lots of windows. Everyone was wearing red shirts with a sponsor’s logo – the number Three followed by the silhouette of a human foot – on the chest. Threefeet…The shirts were red as well. They marched past a shop which Jim felt was vaguely familiar. A woman wearing a red football shirt with a red and white scarf wound around her neck was waving a flag with the 3/Foot logo on it. She smiled at Jim as he walked past. A large dog wearing a red and white bandana which was sitting obediently next to her wheelchair barked in a friendly way and wagged its huge, bushy tail. Everyone was happy – even the dog – but Jim most of all.

Next minute, he was leading the procession towards a huge stadium which suddenly appeared at the end of the street. Massive red gates were open, welcoming the massed ranks to a perfectly manicured football pitch with huge stands towering above it on all sides almost right up to the sky.  Enormous terraces bedecked with red and white roses on the endless rows of seats created an unforgettable scene all on their own.

As he stared about him in wonder, unseen speakers relayed the voice of a woman – in turn husky and suggestive but always extraordinarily sexy – saying:

“Welcome! Welcome one and all from wherever you have travelled from wherever in the world – to the internationally renowned Shrimpleton Town Football Club Summer Gala!”

But then – in a flash – it was all gone. Jim found himself standing in the middle of the scrubby field he had started off in. There were mole hills. Piles of dog poo. Bare patches of grass. A broken-down pitch roller. Headless pylons at the corners of what was badly marked-out as a football pitch.

A crumbling breezeblock building next to a sagging farm gate with a broken-down wooden fence was alongside this. This eyesore stretched right around the pitch with its occasional shards of barbed wire half-buried in nettles and other untended weeds or partially covered in piles of ancient cinders. Rusting Shipping Containers – some cut in half – almost completed the vision of awfulness. But the piece de resistance of the entire scene of dereliction was the small brick-built privy with UNISEX BOG painted across it in childish letters formed from whitewash. The same writing could just be made out on the wall of the breezeblock wreck, saying: WELKUM TO THE BLACK (there was a gap where the next letters – P and O – should be) OL, HOME OF SH. (Jim tried to guess the missing word – and got it wrong. It would have been `Shrimpleton’ and be followed by `Town Football Club’. Presumably, the sign writer had either run out of space – or whitewash; or perhaps even the will to live any longer – at this point.)

But – as if that wasn’t bad enough – angry, accusatory faces had replaced the smiling ones which had accompanied Jim to the fantasy football stadium just moments earlier.

A woman was loudly calling him a “Dirty Old Man”; accusing him of trying to take advantage of her teenage daughter and several of her friends.

“I absolutely deny such an outrageous accusation, Madam!” said Jim, puffing himself up to his full five foot eight and attempting to look both insulted and dignified at the same time. “I am a happily married man with teenage girls of my own!” he lied. “I would not even dream of doing such an unspeakable thing, let alone carry out such a dastardly task!”

“Oh aye?” asked a man of about his own age who Jim thought he might have seen in the Shrimpleton Arms once or twice. “So who was it told the local lads – and I quote: “Get the best-looking birds to t’audition!”, eh? Who were it that said “Best bums equals more booty – for us!”? I think it were thee, lad!”

Jim was struck momentarily by an uncomfortable memory. He could see himself standing on the threadbare pitch at The Black Pool when he first arrived and fantasising about hand-picked waitresses mingling with the massed crowds on Summer Gala day. At the time, he was actually thinking about a girl called Gemma who he had ogled in the pub the day after he graced the island with his presence. “That girl’s got a hell of a bottom on her!” he had thought. “Might have to call her over your way, Jimmy My Boy! Get to know her a bit better!”

But Gemma wasn’t quite so easy to take advantage of as the poor girl had been at Wembley all that time in the past. Dave, her big brother, looked out for her for a start. Not that she needed him to – she could look after herself perfectly adequately, thank you very much. So when James Proudfoot ACE finally attempted a clumsy drunken lurch towards her, he got a lot more than he had bargained for. Gemma did a sidestep better than any Shrimpleton Town winger had ever managed on this pitch – and then brought her right knee into violent contact with Jim’s most sensitive parts.

“Wait till I tell my brother Dave about this!” she said – and flounced away from the football ground and towards the pub, where she knew she would be able to find him.

As onlookers crowded around Jim as he knelt in agony on the ground, it didn’t take long for Dave to appear. There was a slight movement in the crowd as a hooded figure pushed its way through them towards the prone Chief Operating Officer of the Shrimpies. Nobody blocked its way. The figure stepped out of the throng and pushed back its hood as it locked eyes with James Proudfoot.

“You may know me as Gemma’s big brother Dave. But to everyone else on this island, I’m known as Psycho!”

Jim felt faint but managed to stagger to his feet and begin to run. Behind him, Psycho and his younger sister led the hilarity which followed – although Jim didn’t realise it, nobody was going to bother to chase him.

Because they didn’t need to.

To his utter delight, Jim saw the Shrimpleton Arms appearing over a wall up ahead, not too far away to his right. Salvation! He could get a pint in there and regain his composure, he thought.

But he should have realised that news of his escapade on the pitch at The Black Pool had already reached the locals.

As Jim reached the door, a large woman in a long black dress was blocking it, her back turned towards him.

“Excuse me!” said Jim, trying to push past. At which point, the woman turned and faced him, revealing lots of metalwork in nose, eyebrows and lips. She spoke:

“Hello mate! My name’s Brianna! How do you fancy fondling my arse?”

It was from this terrifying scenario that James Proudfoot awoke with a start. He breathed a sigh of relief – and then looked around in the still unfamiliar bedroom and wondered momentarily where he was. The incident involving the young woman at Wembley came flooding back to him. The guilt mixed with fantasy and a warning all wrapped up in one custom-built nightmare had finally ended.

But the dream cast a shadow over him which he couldn’t shake off. Was it a warning? A premonition, even? Nothing about it offered the slightest reassurance to this troubled and worried individual. Because, as we’ve said, today was the eve of the Gala.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, things were soon to get even worse for the Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town AFC…

Next time though, we travel back across the Irish Sea and beyond to the little town of Arracrowe in County Tipperary.

There, gathering tensions among the Kelly Gang as the funeral of former leader Joe-Boy wasn’t the only problem that had arisen.

Find out more in the next engrossing episode of

The Sensational Shrimpleton Saga.