Well well well… Before we go any further, let me share with you the `justification’ I was sent by Facebook for banning my Sensational Shrimpleton Saga in India virtually the very moment I uploaded the last episode.

This is it:

Since then, this apparently God-like organisation has also blocked the version of it which appeared on the Morecambe fans’ dedicated Facebook page:

So let’s start this episode with a serious warning – pay attention at the back!

You’ve probably heard the rumours sweeping the internet concerning unrest on Cumberside Island, where this content is also rightly banned. The Marxist-Leninist Cumberside Liberation Front (CLF) and the rival Trotskyite Cumberside Popular Movement (CPM) have started jockeying for position there with the long-established Cumberside United National Territorial Separatists (let’s not bother with their initials…) for supremacy in the island’s long struggle to break away from the United Kingdom. All of them plan – using revenue from the island’s newly discovered Black Pool Oil Field (which all of them intend to immediately nationalise) – to attempt to become self-governing; self-sustaining and independent. The Territorial Separatists have the long-term aim – vehemently opposed by both the CLF and the CPM – of joining both the European Union and NATO. (I have it on good authority that orders have already been placed by them for three Sopwith Camels for the NCAF: National Cumberside Air Force – which is obviously a major escalation of an already very tense situation on the island.)

So if you are the sort of person who is tempted to send aid – or even volunteer to join – these utterly misguided so-called `independence’ groups, please take my advice and stop reading this subversive story right now. Without necessarily meaning to, you may just be sowing the seeds of a civil war. And – as history has shown – there are no winners in Civil Wars, not really. Who needs United Nations’ peacekeeping troops on the streets of Shrimpleton or airlifts to a divided capital full of traumatised refugees from the fighting?

Any further queries about this sensitive subject can be addressed “f.a.o. Brenda” at the Cumberside Island Republican Ministry of Information Technology, Harbour Terrace, Shrimpleton CI1 1IC. Please mark your enquiries Digital Media Ethics Code Rules.

Thankyou.

Part Forty-Four of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: Aftermath…

Last time, the fate of Ranjit Singh Chopra was sealed in a way that few people would have expected – or even wanted. With him went his plans for what Chopper had always intended to call the RSC Oil Field (in honour of his own initials; not any theatre company to be found in Stratford-upon-Avon, I hasten to add…)

But what were the repercussions concerning this development in the fortunes of the former leader of the Khalistan Warriors and now late Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of Shrimpleton Town Football Club?

Back at the Shrimpies’ ground, The Black Pool, everything had fallen silent after the excitement of the Gala which had been held earlier – and the horror which ensued after it.

Singly at first and then in dribs and drabs, the remnants of the crowd which hadn’t already stampeded began to disperse.

They had been sad earlier on to think that the Shrimpies were in a tier of the English football pyramid so far removed from the apex that nobody was entirely sure how far they had actually fallen – and that the club’s future was far from assured as well.

But that disappointment had been softened somewhat by the unexpectedly excellent Summer Gala which had been held at the Black Pool during the afternoon. Disappointment returned once it became clear that stunning superstar singing sensation Simran wasn’t going to show her exquisite face as the vaunted Star of the Show. That was made even worse when they learned that the Khalistan Warriors had duped everyone on the island – and much further afield – with their nefarious plans for the club and the exploitation of its worth in terms of drilling for oil. But none of this mattered now.

Most people simply couldn’t begin to process the calamity they had just witnessed in the sky above their island. They needed to get home and start to let some sense of what they had seen start to form in their heads.

They were not alone…

Far away in Vietnam, Baban Singh Copra was oblivious as to the fate of his despised older brother as he was being treated in the sanatorium Lady Lynne had planned for him in the north of the county. Everything he had suffered in the last week alone – catalepsy twice and kidnappings on two occasions – made him thank all the things he held holy that he was still in one piece.

His unexpected release from the clutches of the Khalistan Warriors – and their involvement in the drugs and arms trades – was something he welcomed with open arms. Baban had never been comfortable with either of these things. Medical Doctors like himself were supposed to preserve life, not end it with weapons or wreck it with narcotics. He also regretted really profoundly the death of Jay’s sister: the killing of both her and Whit Jason had both been unwarranted and a major mistake in his opinion.  But he knew that elder brother Ranjit was totally untroubled by either: all his older sibling had ever been interested in was money – and status.

When he finally received the news of the fate of Ranjit as his eye-wateringly expensive Trophy helicopter crashed within sight of his even bigger Trophy ship, however, Baban was profoundly upset nevertheless. Blood is thicker than water, after all.

He thought of his treacherous and manipulative brother – and instantly felt more than a small pang of regret, despite himself.

He had sworn revenge on Ranjit the moment he realised that it was he who had ratted on him to the authorities in the UK and got him banned by HM Treasury.

He had also realised that the CEO of the Khalistan Warriors had offered his younger brother’s neck – and with it Baban’s treasured position as the spokesman for Shrimpleton Town Football Club – as a sacrifice to protect his own position in the group.

Nevertheless, Baban had never expected – or wanted – what had happened to Ranjit as his older sibling had made his acquaintance with King Neptune in the freezing depths of the north Atlantic.

But Baban also believed in Karma – this is how things were always likely to end as far as Chopper was concerned in his opinion.

But as he was treated and – in turn – both taught and learned from the medics and folk remedy practitioners in Vietnam, his thoughts turned back to the Khalistan Warriors.

He thought of Simran in particular. He had a real soft spot for her which he had no idea actually worked both ways. Dr Baban had delivered her as a premature baby: the birth was difficult and at one time, he feared the loss of both mother and child. But Simran was strong and she fought. She survived – but Simran was one of life’s natural survivors. That’s where Karma kicked-in again. Her mother was not so lucky…

Ever since then, Baban had looked out for the girl who was now blossoming into a beautiful young woman. He disliked Ranjit’s influence on her: exploitative; mercenary and actually cruel in his opinion. He would like to see her again. To talk to her, heart-to-heart. To discover how she was in herself: in her very soul.

So, as he gradually recovered almost on the other side of the world to Cumberside Island, Baban Sikh Chopra seriously wondered about stepping back into the firing line and taking control of the Khalistan Warriors. Was it possible to steer them towards the sort of future he had always envisaged for them? – a future where drugs and guns would not be welcome?

Could he do so? Would he do so?

Lady Lynne Shrimpleton was similarly nonplussed. Her plan to track-down and nullify the Khalistan Warriors in their British lair with the help of the intelligence agencies of the Vietnamese Peoples’ Government had never envisaged killing any of them…

Separately, Jay had sworn to himself long ago that he would avenge his sister’s death if it was the last thing he ever did. That the Khalistan Warriors were going to pay some sort of price if it turned-out that they were responsible for what had happened to Dora was a given – if he was sure that they had caused it.

But as he looked at the absolutely distraught Simran in the same boat as him moments after her Great Uncle’s helicopter had crashed into the sea, he realised that that this `tooth for a tooth’ lark wasn’t quite as simple as he had expected.

He felt her pain. Although he hadn’t caused it, he felt responsible if only because he knew that what had happened to her friends and relations aboard the stricken helicopter had been caused by someone just like him: someone trained to kill and to be totally unaffected psychologically or emotionally by doing so.

So what was he to do now? Call it quits?

Or help Simran to some sort of closure of the sort he had received himself in the most unexpected – albeit unwelcome – of ways?

As for Siobhán Aleksandovna Kelly, her next step wasn’t clear either. Should she concentrate on returning to the Emerald Isle after making such a show of herself in regards to her brother’s funeral?

Or seek further revenge on the Mulligans and other gobshoites who had taken such pleasure at her obvious humiliation? Maybe seek out and take vengeance on the Giant who had crashed his huge tractor into the funeral cortege and then set his clearly trained squadron of pigs loose to cause absolute mayhem afterwards? If she chose to do so, who knows how Cormack McMullen might respond?

A she lay in a hospital bed in Dublin recovering from her gunshot wounds, she didn’t feel strong enough – mentally or physically – to do this alone. So – who could she involve to help her to do this?

The beautiful Natasha Yurievna Kravtsova would be an obvious choice. An obvious choice if Siobhán knew who she was – and the key role she had played in destroying the very people who had injured her and killed her men on Cumberside Island.

They both had a Russian connection after all:  Natasha’s current – and Siobhán’s second generation.  What Natasha had just done in the name of the Motherland would make her a contemporary hero (we probably can’t say `heroine’ for all sorts of reasons these days, can we?) in Russia. Siobhán’s father was also an established hero in the modern Russia. Besides which, who knows what he got up to before the Soviets finally turfed him out – and who with? These unknown people might be contacts worth chasing-up and cultivating too – if any of them were still around…

As she lay in agony on a cliff-top on Cumberside Island awaiting rescue, the only thought that ran endlessly through Siobhán‘s head was that of revenge. Revenge for the death of her most loyal men tonight. Revenge for the excruciating pain she was currently experiencing. Revenge – most of all – for her brother and all the calamities which had befallen her since his untimely demise

Had she but known it, Natasha Yurievna Kravtsova would be exactly the person who could help her to do this…

I shudder to think how such a powerful combination as these two women might affect anyone whose paths crossed theirs in the future.

But would this ever happen?

The seismic shock waves which had struck the core of the island’s Pecking-Order in the shape of the Cumberlake family had not even dissipated before the unexpected and very brutal end of their line in the sights of gunmen from the Punjabi Popular Front.

We are told that Nature abhors a vacuum. Anointed successor – young Cornelius – had already met a very sticky end earlier in the week. Now, the Earl himself and his closest confederates on the island had been literally blown away by Indian separatists right here on their home turf. So who would attempt to fill this vacuum – and how?

Which leaves us with James Churchill Proudfoot in his room at the pub as he snored with his mouth wide open and dreamt of a future which did not include poky bedsits and the misadventures which he seemed to have a knack of constantly being the focus of.

If we were to enter his totally muddled head, we would understand that this was very unlikely to ever trans… trans… trans…

What was the missing word?

Following what passes for his thought processes, Jim believed that you can’t say `trans’ anymore – because it wasn’t acceptable for reasons he frankly didn’t understand. So what other word was he left with?

His brain ran through the list of alternative endings to this word and discounted the ones he could think of:  tower and then steeple – but knew he was almost there.

That was it! – tower and steeple – and then: Bingo!…

Let’s return to what he was trying to say a few lines ago:

If we were to enter his totally muddled head, we would understand that this was very unlikely to ever trans-spire…

But what did fate really hold in store for the suddenly unemployed former Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town AFC? Could he still claim the huge rewards Lady Lynne Shrimpleton had offered him not very long ago for dealing with the Khallie Scallies? Sell the top secret documents of hers which he had not-so-secretly photographed to the highest bidder? Find himself a lucrative job somewhere where precisely the sort of unique skills he possessed would be absolutely invaluable – Director General of the BBC – or some sort of government Ombudsman, for instance?

Who knows?

Could it possibly be that – in trying to sell his secret snaps to the Russians, he would inadvertently make contact with the lovely Natasha Yurievna Kravtsova? And – through a further twist of fate – the Irish sister (or Aleksandro-bitch if you must) – of a man he had recently made acquaintance with who happened to have a Russian father?

Surely not. But who knows what might happen in the future?

—

All I can tell you is that I do know that things moved apace on Cumberside Island despite the tragedy off the coast on a Sunday night which nobody would ever forget.

Having been informed at the very last minutes by the Craggy Outcrops’ league hierarchy that their postponed game against Black Rock Vikings would be played at the Black Pool instead of as an authentic away fixture, training had to be cancelled on Tuesday night because that was when the match would actually be played.

So training was moved to Monday – just one day after the disaster involving Chopper and his other, bigger Chopper. The Black Pool was cleared of litter and generally spruced-up by the squad. Then their first ever proper training session ensued with a fully-qualified Coach. The same person had visited Barrow earlier in the day and bought ten red football shirts; ten white shorts; ten pairs of red socks; eleven black tracksuits and ten complete football strips in bright pink – the only complete alternative set of sportswear the shop possessed. Then two different-coloured goalkeeping outfits were added to eleven white T-shirts and eleven more pairs of shorts and socks. For the first time ever, Shrimpleton Town Football Club had a matching First Team strip; a full reserve strip and a complete Training Kit as well.

And on Tuesday night, the game against the Vikings went ahead: the first floodlit game ever to be played at the Black Pool. For the first time this season, too, the Shrimpies fielded an almost full team. Along with the usual seven – with Skip still Captain and Jay playing Centre-Half, the Team Sheet read: 4: Triallist; 9: Triallist and 10: Triallist. And the Number Ten was the new coach with brand new tactics: play a low block and hit on the break using Four on the right and Ten on the left. Nine would act as lone striker up the middle but he and Ten could intertwine in certain circumstances.

It worked a treat: against eleven men, Town were 4-1 up at half time and won the game 7-2 after ninety minutes to secure three precious points at the bottom of the table.

The difference had been made by the three Triallists. Two of them had played for the club once before but the third made history as not only the first Vietnamese player to score a hat-trick in a Craggy Outcrops League game ever – but to be the first woman to ever play in the competition.

But for the former Captain of the Vietnamese Women’s National soccer team, this was no problem for Tran Linh, who had forgotten more about football, tactics and things like nutrition than many male Coaches in the British Isles will ever know.

Her new training regime and ideas about diet and physical conditioning simply transformed the outlook and standards at the Black Pool. Even with only ten players on the books, they waltzed through their remaining three league games and escaped any thoughts of re-election at the end of the season. Furthermore – the Black Pool was full to bursting for both home games that followed the win against the Vikings. Television crews from all over the planet – even Vietnam itself – filled every nook and cranny of the ground.

But not all of them were interested in the club or its new Coach.

The lenses of the paparazzi were trained on someone else who – without fail – turned up to support the team every time they took to the field. And that person was the most famous sixteen-year-old in the world. Her complexion was soon perfect and her puppy fat gone in no time at all because she was on the same training regime and diet as the football team.

Once the sheer shock of what had happened to her hated Great Uncle and his goons had worn off, Simran soon realised that she was among people who clearly had her own interests – and not what they could make out of her – at heart. So she couldn’t have been happier.  Who cared that Nine was a Vietnamese soldier, amateur footballer and not an actual K-Pop star? With the tutelage of someone as worldly-wise and simply smart as Lady Lynne Shrimpleton, Simran had no doubt at all that her own path to even greater success and international stardom was already guaranteed – and in very safe hands. And with Jay around to protect her, she had nothing to fear from inquisitive journalists – or anyone else for that matter.

But what of Lady Lynne herself?

She had moved with Jay, Simran and her Vietnamese crew into Lake Hall itself, her yacht tied-up in the tarn which faced the enormous Gothic pile. With the Earls of Cumberlake and their line now extinct and their lackeys either dead or fled, they had the huge place to themselves. And until anyone made claims on the dead Duke’s estate, they intended to stay there.

Next door, the exclusive Lake Hotel ­was actually over-booked. Lynne had asked Amos’ son Seth to be the Manager – and that situation, too, would apply until anyone else challenged it.

The international media; camera crews; global paparazzi – plus waning stars who wanted an association with Simran in the hope that her blossoming career might shed some fairy dust on their own – were falling over themselves to get as close to her as they could.

Many were disappointed. As soon as the football season ended and the Shrimpies were safe, Simran and Lady Lynne were spirited away at dead of night by Nine right under the noses of intrusive photographers and other scandal-seekers. They sailed in the early hours of the morning to the Ayrshire coast, from where a local taxi drove them to Prestwick Airport. Next stop was Turin. And then Hanoi.

The hangers-on and parasites worshippers of the God of Celebrity left behind on the island were totally nonplussed by this.

Two of the most famous women in existence had literally disappeared from right under their noses – and not even one of the professional parasites had even an inkling of a clue as to where they had gone – or even precisely when.

When Lynne returned some time later with her two children, these hangers-on and parasites were long-gone.

Lord Shrimpleton had agreed to an amicable divorce, sweetened by no claim from Lynne on anything His Lordship and herself had previously shared as man and wife: chief among which was his eye-wateringly valuable house in Bloomsbury.

And although the Celebrity Hunters continued their chase of Simran right across the globe, Lady Lynne was left largely in peace to do whatever she would next.

What this might be – and whether it involved Jay, the football club or Baban Singh Chopra – is a potential story for another time.

Back home in Vietnam – once Lady Lynne had arrived from Scotland – the army took herself and Simran north into the hills. So, almost three days after they set-off, Simran and Lynne had a reunion – tearful in the younger woman‘s case – with Baban Singh Chopra.

Neither of them recognised the big Sikh at first: with the loss of his wild hair, beard and over fifty kilos of excess Baban, he looked twenty years younger. And would probably live twenty years longer as a result of his new life style.

But Dr Singh Chopra was now effectively Clan Leader of the Khalistan Warriors and also Top Man at Shrimpleton Town AFC. Lynne and he needed to talk urgently about both of these things.

So there we go – full-circle – back to the club.

It had survived extinction by escaping from the very bottom of the Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League at the very last moment. But its future remained unclear.

So – as we ponder the possible futures of the stars of this yarn, what could possibly lie in store for Shrimpleton Town Football Club itself which could actually be worse than the Soap Opera I have described to you so far?

Who knows?

Nobody in their right mind could invent the sort of fantasy I have just constructed about this fictional club. Dodgy owners; unpaid staff; mass sackings of loyal workers; appointments of very dubious characters to replace them; failure to pay staff pensions; repeated embargoes by league hierarchies; singling-out by the new Football Regulator as the first-ever Pariahs in the  British game; points deductions; successive relegations etc etc etc.

It simply couldn’t happen in the real world, could it? – you couldn’t make it up!

But there again…

Could facts stranger than fiction which might actually occur during the coming months and years – facts which are miles away from Soap Operas and TV dramas – conspire to create the need for a sequel?

Surely not.

But who knows what the future might bring?…

So for anyone who has ever supported Shrimpleton Town AFC, I have the following advice:

Watch this space!…

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(ER- BUT PLEASE DON’T EVEN ATTEMPT TO DO THIS IN INDIA BECAUSE ELON MUSK WILL BE VERY UPSET WITH YOU IF YOU DO – AND NONE OF US WANTS THAT, DO WE?…)