Return of the Singh (final part of the trilogy)

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

That evening, we made our plans and supplies were brought in from around the town.

Cobblestones and half-bricks were brought in by the truckload and an extra crate of brandy was delivered for the troops.

Well wishers left cases of beer and pre-packed sandwiches outside the pub.

At eleven o’clock, I addressed the men: “ Right, Corky, you and the old campaigners will take the east of the street. Bluto, you and the lads will take the west end of the street. Biffy you, naturally, will be the field medic and don’t give me any of this fainting bullshit. Barty, you will stay with me and I’ll deploy you as I see fit. Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Okay, who wants another brandy?”

At midnight, the police arrived. The chief had been busy. Recruits from outside the area poured poured from vans.

I looked at the street; there had to be at least fifty uniforms either end. We were vastly outnumbered.

The uniforms advanced.

Corky and his men opened with a salvo of half-bricks, while Bluto and his men, at the other end of the street, stood their ground and waited for the coppers to run into their defensive line.

Corky, with the experienced Mothercare veterans, was holding the uniforms at bay, but, within the hour, Bluto was struggling.

I called to Bluto. “Hold the line, Bluto! Hold the line!”

Bluto screamed at his men for renewed efforts.

I ran inside the pub and shouted upstairs: “Now, Launcher! Now’s your time!”

(Larry the Launcher is the best fast bowler the town’s cricket team has ever had. His accuracy and speed is, frankly, unbelievable. He’s been offered well-paid positions in both county and international cricket, but has always declined, saying he prefers to knock the shit out of players from neighbouring towns.)

From the upstairs windows of the pub, cobblestones flew out.

The front row of police advancing on Bluto faltered and, eventually, fell back a few yards.

Over the next hour, neither side gained an advantage.

Barty, standing next to me, said, “eez, I’m feeling a bit left out of things, is there anything you want me to do?”

“Not yet, Barty. Be patient. Go and grab another bottle.”

Later, the coppers at Corky’s end of the street retreated and parted. A large vehicle with a water cannon mounted on its roof appeared from a side street and approached Corky’s front line.

“Barty!” I called, “Drop the bottle and come here!”

Barty ran towards me. “What is it, eez?”

“The enemy is about to fire its primary weapon at Corky and his men. It has to be taken out. Are you willing to accept the job?”

“Yes sir! Where is it?”

“It’s the big black vehicle with a pointy thing on its roof that’s going towards Corky.”

“Okay.”

Barty joined Corky’s men.

The water cannon started to shoot high-pressured water into the men.

To either side of Barty, men were thrown on their backs.

Barty, turned to me and laughingly shouted, “Hey, eez! This isn’t too bad. It’s a bit tingly, but fun.”

“More pressure!” shouted someone from the police ranks.

Barty caught a full-pressured blast of water in the chest.

He again turned to me and shouted, “I’m a bit cold, eez. Can I stop them now?”

“Break the bloody thing, Barty!”

Splashing through water, Barty ran towards the water cannon. He stepped onto the roof of the vehicle and did exactly what I’d asked him to do.

“eez, I think it’s broken,” he said, with a large piece of metal in his hands.

Barty stepped down from the vehicle and walked back to Corky and his men.

We watched in horror as six police officers drew their Tazers and fired at Barty’s back.

Barty turned round and looked at six police officers writhing about on the floor.

“eez,” shouted Barty, “what’s up with them?”

“Water and electricity don’t mix, Barty!” I shouted back. “I think they’ve just bollocksed themselves!”

“Oh, okay.”

Barty walked back to me, rubbed his back and said,  “I think I’ve been bitten by something.”

I looked at him.

“But,” he continued, “it could be a sting. Have you got any of that jungle cream?”

An hour later, Bluto called out, “eez, there’s too many! We can’t hold them!”

Again I turned to Barty, “go and help Bluto.“

“Okay, eez.”

He started to run towards the west end of the street and then stopped. He turned round and said, “How?”

“Barty, if anyone’s wearing a police uniform, get rid of them.”

“Okay.”

He pushed and pulled a telegraph pole until it came loose and then lifted it from the ground.

Carrying the pole in his arms, he jumped over Bluto’s men and charged the police ranks.

Twenty coppers took the impact of the side-on pole, staggered back, but remained on their feet.

More officers joined them and they started to heave against Barty and his pole.

Barty’s feet began to slip and he was pushed back.

A gasp came from Bluto’s men.

Barty looked back and grinned.

He gave the pole a shove and the uniforms flew backwards.

Bluto and his men advanced.

Corky ran up to me: “eez, we’re down to three cobblestones and a half-brick per man.”

I turned to him, but before I could speak, he said, “yes, eez; they’ll hold…they’re good men.”

Corky walked off. He looked a beaten man. He picked up one of the remaining cobblestones and half heartedly threw it at the advancing law enforcement officers.

He looked back and smiled. Then he waved goodbye.

I looked at Bluto and his men. Barty had rejoined them, but even he was beginning to feel the effects of the sustained assault.

“Fall back!” I shouted. “Back to the Dog and Donkey!”

Corky, Bluto and their men retreated to the entrance of the pub.

“Where’s Barty?” I asked.

“I think he’s over there,” said Corky.

I looked up the street. Barty was covered in policemen.

We’d lost Barty.

As the police lines advanced, I turned to the remaining men:

“Gentlemen, should any of us survive, let it be known that rather than submit to the oppression and tyranny of the Bogton Constabulary, free men stood and fought here!”

“Hurrah!” the bloodied and battle-weary men shouted.

A single ray of sunlight shone between the two towers of the gas works.

A noise came from the far end of the street.

Coppers and boozers looked at each other.

The noise got closer.

Through the early morning mist, a pick-up emerged. Bhopinder Singh, wearing a golden turban and golden outfit, stood in the rear, with loud speakers to either side of him.

Behind the pick-up, a horde of turban wearing warriors followed.

The police turned to face the advancing turbans.

Bhoppy stopped fifty yards short of the police lines.

He looked at the coppers, drew a ceremonial sword and called out to the warriors behind him.

I haven’t got a clue what Bhoppy shouted, but all of a sudden the Turbans, with swords drawn, charged towards the police.

The coppers formed a line.

The Turbans stopped twenty yards from the police line and stood motionless.

We all looked at each other, wondering what was going to happen.

Bhoppy started to rant and rave about something in a cranky language and then pushed a button on the top of the pick-up.

Indian restaurant music flooded the street.

The turban-wearing warriors started to dance, while chanting, “Bolly…Bolly, Bolly!”

The uniforms could take no more. They broke rank and fled leaving their weapons on the floor.

Only one uniform remained.

The chief walked towards the Dog and Donkey.

“eeeeeeez!” she called out.

She looked pretty miffed.

I stepped forward.

She removed her hat and then charged me with her baton.

Having always believed that a firm parent is a good parent, I punched her in the throat and slammed my knee into her groin.

As she writhed on the floor, I looked down at her.

“I’ve told you before! Don’t wear that earring!”

The chief let out an unearthly scream as I pulled the earring from her ear.

I looked down at the earring. Actually, it was quite nice. It was sort of growing on me.

I looked up and saw the men staring at me. Again, I looked at the earring in my hand.

I walked towards a burning police van and threw the earring into the flames.

A distant rumbling noise came from the other side of town as the police station collapsed.

Behind me, the chief, still on the ground, arched her back, let out a final scream and then fell into unconsciousness.

She’d always been a strange girl. There’s a lot of her mother in her.

I kicked her in the head a few times and she regained consciousness.

“Dad? Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I feel strange. What happened? And my cunt’s killing me.”

Barty rejoined us, the men started to sing Glory, Glory Hallelujah and put Bhoppy on their shoulders. We went into the Dog and Donkey for a beer.

Tired, we sat quietly drinking.

A loud banging came from somewhere.

“Where did that come from?” I asked.

“Stockroom, I think,” said one of the men.

Shit! Gertie!

Can we face one hundred riot police? No probs.

Can we face a pissed off woman who’s been locked in a stockroom with a VAT inspector for nineteen hours?

We ran.