The evening the match came and a blood soaked first half

It was early evening and the temperature in the western Polish city had cooled a little and the setting sun gave the whole place an almost Mediterranean air. Acosta bounded into the teams changing room wearing an exquisite pair of handmade blue and gold silken football socks a gift from his husband Xavier who was currently on tour with his flamenco band somewhere in India. The young winger struck a pose to show them off and his team mates wolf whistled.

Pastore was on the floor doing some last minute pre match press ups the powerful Argentine attacking midfielder looked stronger and fitter than ever largely due to the fact that under his managers advice he had practiced total sexual abstinence for the 3 months leading up to tonight’s game and the explosive right footed attacker was primed and ready to explode one way or another in the coming 90 minutes.

Mr Sempleton was stood next to Signor Robbiati wearing his spanking new suit and matching deerstalker in the colours of Rio Grandé. He had felt great honour when Signor Robbiati had told him that he had been appointed as a member of the coaching staff even though he was still struggling to grasp the finer details of the game and kept shouting lbw or Howzat during recent training sessions.

The English detective leant over and asked Robbiati who was busy fiddling about trying to pin the team sheet to the cork tactic board with little success, if they would be taking tea and cake at half time. Trying his best not to be irritable with Mr Sempleton he suggested to José his assistant manager that maybe he could take the Englishman with him to collect and count the half time oranges from the stadium canteen.

They retuned a few minutes later and José looked over at Signor Robbiati and said “Rolando these look like excellent oranges sweet and juicy I’d say.”

“Who is Rolando?” asked Mr Sempleton and José rolling his eyes skyward pointed at Signor Robbiati.

“Oh I see that is your name” said the English detective losing count of the oranges for the tenth time.

A huge cheer erupted around the dressing room as in cycled Suarez on the fully restored elegant blue Mirabella a grin spread across his face. The rest of the team sang “Viva Suarez, Viva Mirabella, Viva Rio Grandé, Viva Don Blanco.”

Signor Robbiati raised his hand and called for quiet and concentration as the minutes until kick off ran down. Pointing the long vintage Fidelito castrato cigar (a gift from the Don for winning the Coppa Della Magico six years ago) at the tactics board that he had finally with great effort managed to pin the team sheet to; he addressed his players.

“My brave brave Rio Grandeans,

Tonight the world will watch us as we fly like condors, twist and turn like the great rivers of Rio Grandé. We must flood the opposition with the beauty of óle football, yet not commit a foul as we must honour the life of Don Blanco and the people of our beloved nation who toil under the evil dictatorship of Generale Baratopolippo. Now go my boys and win for dear Don Blanco.”

Mr Sempleton stood back up and examined the team sheet a little closer, he thought he must have been imagining but there was his name on the team sheet in what appeared to be the wicket keepers position.

“Er ah hello Signor Robbiati it seems that you have made a mistake my name is in the wicket keepers’ position am I playing?”

Rolando touched the confused looking Englishman on the shoulder and said “goalkeeper that is the position my friend and yes I am afraid due to unforeseen circumstances we have no keeper, you will be fine.” Then handed the poor detective a pair of padded gloves and patted his bottom and sent him scampering after the other players down the tunnel. He lined up behind his new team mates in the narrow walkway that led to the pitch. There on the other side stood the impressive genetically modified figures that made up the mighty El Capitalisto’s. Their wealthy superstars started to fall about laughing when they saw the Englishman in the blue deerstalker struggling to put on his keepers’ gloves. They blew raspberries at the nervous and confused looking Mr Sempleton who tried his best to ignore the relentless teasing. Gargagno the tough but deeply spiritual defensive midfielder (who was due to play his final match for Rio Grandé before beginning the long journey high into the Tatra mountains to the Monasterio della Socrates where he was to take up a life devoted to spiritual enlightenment.) walked over and looked the English detective in the eye and with a kind smile touched his cheek. “Do not worry Signor Sempleton let the spirit of Santo Socrates guide and bless you.” Then as a deafening roar erupted around the stadium the brave Rio Grandeans found themselves on the newly laid green carpet of the pitch.

Torado looked around the huge stadium and up into the high stands that surrounded them on all sides “Santa Maria Zico” he said “there must be more than a million people here!”

None of the Rio Grandé players had ever seen anything like it before. High above almost in the setting evening sky were tall wooden towers and ladders made from old pieces of crate and driftwood. On them tens of thousands of cheering Rio Grandé teetered and rocked in the gentle breeze unsteadily. There were so many people packed in and around the stadium that the collective body heat of everyone made the players on the pitch feel as if they were at the bottom of a burning cauldron.

The referee called the two opposing captains over. Aromga stepped forward adjusting his hair band one last time. He held out a hand towards the El Capitalisto captain Christopher Overhairproducto who refused the offer of a handshake and simply spat on the ground in front of Aromga before calling him a traitor to the great Generale Baratopolippo.

The crowd saw the incident take place and boos echoed around the far end of the stadium where the Rio Grandé fans stood packed together like baby mackerel in fishing net. People from far corners of the globe who would sat glued to their transistors, shook their fists at the radio as the commenters described the unfolding scene in hundreds of different dialects.

The whistle blew.

Aromga quickly found the silk socked young winger Acosta with the deftest of flicks but before the golden haired young wide man could show the crowds his delightful dribbling skills; one of the bulging legged El Capitalisto’s clattered into him, sending his slight frame flying high into the air.

No whistle. As Acosta crashed to the ground his Rio Grandé team mates swarmed around the referee protesting his decision to give no foul. Gonzalo pointed at the blood that was now staining the young wingers Acosta’s handmade socks as if to illustrate the severity of the challenge.

The next 25 minutes of the match continued in a similar vein and just half an hour into the game over 7 of the Rio Grandé team sported bloody wounds on various parts of their anatomy. Gilberto and Gonzalo the defensive greats were some of the few Rio Grandé players to escape injury during this brutal period. This was mainly down to the fact that the mighty El Capitalisto players genuinely feared the mythical stories of the strength the two centre backs possessed. This had caused great relief to the Brazilian and Argentine defensive partnership as they had been rather preoccupied with keeping the ball as far away from Mr Sempleton as possible. Who for some inexplicable reason kept turning around in his goal to face the wrong way.

In the 41^st minute disaster struck! Gargagno limping stud marks all up his thighs found himself surrounded by the menacing figures of five El Capitalisto’s with nowhere to go he was forced to lay the ball back to the English detective in goal. To everyone’s amazement Mr Sempleton who for the briefest of moments was actually facing the right way collected the ball comfortably  but the as Gargagno cried out “Noooooooooooooooo” the detective picked the ball up and hurled it into his own net before shouting out “Howzat”

Signor Robbiati watching from the side lines threw his hands in the air an act of sheer exasperation and stated to laugh.

He turned to his assistant manager José and smiled. “That Englishman is a wonderful gentleman but Don Blanco was right he is truly an idiota.”

The game had barely restarted when the referee blew for halftime 3 minutes early ignoring the protestations of the Rio Grandé captain Aromga.

Towers of Salmon at an empty festival

Sir Monty had spent the months following that fateful day when their orders temple was desecrated by those vile Rio Grandeans locked in his opulent office at the pink hippopotamus’s rowing headquarters. But on this day as he pulled out the pink mask from his mahogany desk he felt his powers return as he placed the mask over his beetroot face. Tomorrow would see the start of the festival of golden oars the single biggest boating event in the world and this year it would be bigger than ever. Billions had been spent to ensure its success and the town was in a state of feverish excitement as it awaited the champagne guzzling hordes that were due to arrive at daybreak the following morning.  Leaving nothing to chance Sir Monty had sent an elite squad of blonde pitch diggers to find dig up and destroy every football pitch they within a thousand leagues of them. Tomorrow morning the whole world’s eyes would be firmly fixed on Sir Monty’s gala of wealth, power and rowing.

He looked down at the official check list that lay on his desk.

 6 million cases of champagne ordered, delivered and already chilled.

500 tonnes of willow smoked salmon.

80 million kilos of strawberries.

And lastly and most importantly 20 million gallons of Pimms summer punch.

“yes” Sir Monty said to himself chuckling by the end of this week there will not be a soul in the world who will not have heard of the mighty Pink Hippopotami .

The next day came, Sir Monty and his order were joined by the crème de la crème of the town folk. They all lolled about on the river bank in the morning sun. Vast blue and white striped tents stretched as far as the eye could see along the banks of the river. Champagne corks were being popped every second the men guffawing and the women giggling as they awaited the throngs of people who were expected to flood into the town but no one came.

Midday came and went the sun high in the sky shone down on the empty riverside and its exclusive restaurants.  The townsfolk had waited expectantly for the crowds to charge of the specially arranged trains and coaches then down to the river where they would gorge themselves on an orgy of alcohol, smoked fish and summer fruits but still no one came. Sir Monty anxiously commandeered a phone form a young bouffant haired barman who was busy filling vats of summer punch with freshly hulled strawberries and telephoned the station master.

Everyone turned around as Sir Monty roared into the tiny mobile telephone “what an earth do you mean man! Are you trying to tell me that not one person has stepped off a train this morning?”

Sir Monty threw the phone in a fit of anger into the vat of summer punch, pulled the pink hippopotamus mask back over his face and marched through the tents until he found himself in one of the caterers’ kitchens. He looked around and saw many of the world’s finest and most mercenary chefs busily milling around, their hands delicately adjusting and perfecting elaborate creations of smoked salmon. Then from the corner of his eye he caught sight of one man who appeared to be doing no work whatsoever. There in the pot washing section was a dark haired olive skinned man, who instead of washing up was jabbering to himself in some god forsaken language as he held a portable radio to his ear. Every few seconds he would shout out “óle, magnifico, viva viva”

Sir Monty stormed over, snatched the radio from the kitchen porter’s hand and flung it into the sink that was full of dirty oily water and salmon skin.

“Hey whyaya you do that amigos” shouted the washer upper.

Sir Monty took a swipe with his fat hands and sent the kitchen porter crashing to the floor.

“Now listen here you filthy immigrant why aren’t you working?”

José the kitchen porter got to his feet and rubbing his bruised jaw just laughed.

“Hee hee you not a know, today in Poland is big big match, greatest football match in a da world Rio Grandé óle they play the gigantico El Capitalisto’s.”

Sir Monty’s pink mask visibly turned ashen white, he stumbled out of the tent sending pots, pans and Michelin starred salmons clattering and splattering around him.

He ran back out onto the river bank shouting like a madman “ready the private jet, call the airport, send word to Generale Baratopolippo we must go to Poland at once and stop this outrage.”

The spearing of Rio Grandé

Suarez crept or rather limped as silently as he could through the tangled undergrowth of river weeds and broken willow branches. Every so often he had to stop and hold his nose to try and stop the sickly fumes of a fruit based cocktail overwhelming him. Hearing voices he crouched down and looked through a small gap between two thorn bushes. Their branches scratched at his arms but Suarez stayed as quiet as a stalking Rio Grandean mountain goat. He sat and watched as a truly terrifying ritual took place before his disbelieving eyes. Suarez searched his mind for an idea to help him rescue his friends but no matter how hard he tried he could not see any way he could save them, if only Mirabella was here he thought she would know what to do. Then from above him came the sounds of snapping branches and shuffling feet, Suarez adjusted his body to try and see where the noise was coming from. At first all he saw was a pair of thick shaven legs and a bulge coming from a tight pink swimsuit, he craned his neck and then saw a pair of lifeless eyes and a thick mop of ash blonde hair at that instant a plan formed in his head. The plucky Uruguayan playmaker waited until the man in the swimsuit was close enough and then with one single deft movement took the driftwood crutch Mr Sempleton had fashioned for him in his right hand and struck the man as hard as he could in his willito. There was a yelp of pain but before the blonde monster had time to cry out the mercurial striker deftly struck him across the face rendering the blonde giant unconscious.

The man lay motionless on the floor in front of Suarez. Asking Santa Socrates for forgiveness for what he was about to do Suarez removed his own clothes and then tentatively started to undress the sleeping giant, he pulled the top part of the swimsuit down revealing a smooth chest with the tattoo of a hippopotamus by the man’s left nipple. Then with trepidation he pulled the suit down further where the bulge had been bales of cotton wool fell out of the Lycra leotard. With a shudder Suarez pulled the costume of the man’s thick legs and pulled it over his own.

He stood there for a moment in the tight fitting costume and thought about the teasing he would be subjected too if they ever got off the island but he knew that the life of Torado and his friends would be worth the humiliation.

Donned in the ridiculous outfit Suarez then gathered as many thin yellow willow branches as he could find and made himself a blonde wig then covered his flowing jet black with the yellow thatch which he balanced as best he could on the top of his head.

Don Blanco kept reaching inside the pocket of his cashmere suit looking for the ivory handle of his pistola, that was now somewhere resting on the riverbed, there was no way out now he thought.

The fat man in the pink suit and the hideous mask stepped forwards and eyed Mr Sempleton up and down pointed at his deerstalker and laughed.

“You are an Englishman are you not?”

Mr Sempleton’s eyes stared straight back but he said nothing.

“Answer me” roared the masked man

Still the English detective said nothing. This clearly enraged the hippopotamus masked monster who struck the Englishman across the face and dragged his long nails down the cheek of Mr Sempleton causing blood to trickle down. But still the detective kept his silence; he just gritted his teeth and thought about the article on surviving interrogation techniques that he had read in the previous issue of Spy kids magazine.

The man fuming turned around and marched back to his retinue of naked women. They two women linked their arms into his and he turned back to address his followers and the captives.

“We had one Rio Grandean, now we have 4 and one foolish Englishman. Tonight they will burn and as their flesh chars on the fire we will celebrate the moment that we sounded the death knell for the uncivilised game of football.

Soon my people the regal sport of rowing shall take its place at the altar to be worshipped by the world and the name of the order of the pink hippopotamus shall ring out around the earth.”

The man’s speech was all Don Blanco needed to confirm his long held suspicion that the entire island of Britain was populated by insane tea drinking idiots. If he was to die in this forsaken place he would die fighting for Rio Grandé.

Torado still weak from starvation felt his eyes slowly start to come back into focus as he surveyed the scene unfolding around him and it was then that he noticed that one of the pink leotarded soldiers appeared to be winking at him. This particular one looked even more ridiculous than his fellow pink swim suited wearing comrades. He had the most buffoonish blonde hair that looked as if a birds nest of blonde twigs had landed on his head.  He kept winking more and more feverishly at Torado. What did he want? “Oh my god” thought Torado maybe he wants to make me his sex slave suddenly death seemed a more attractive proposal.

Torado tried his best to ignore the amorous advances but the winking became more and more obvious. He started to notice odd things about his suitor he seemed far shorter than the other men and his frame had the elegance of a skilful footballer about it suddenly he recognized the face “Suarez” he mouthed silently the winks turned to a nods.

Gilberto and Gonzalo felt Torado nudge them and whisper “Suarez, Suarez”

“He is on the boat” replied Gonzalo

“No look Suarez he is here”

The two defenders followed the Mexican midfielder’s eyes until they saw a slight man in a pink leotard with a pile of yellow twigs on his head. Gilberto seeing the skin tight Lycra outfit had to stifle a laugh and wished he had bought a camera so he could have documented Suarez dressed in the swimsuit to show the rest of their team mates.

The masked master of the pink hippopotamus order had started to launch into another diatribe against the beautiful game of football.  Suarez looked around at his fellow leotard wearers their eyes were all staring directly ahead as if transfixed by their leader’s words. He spotted a large cauldron in the middle of the clearing full of an orangey pink liquid and floating tropical fruit, sickly sweet fumes rose from it engulfing the island. The man in the mask continued to address his audience Suarez didn’t  follow the words but when the fat man in the pink suit raided his hand in the air and roared “ladies and gentleman.” Suarez seized his chance and began his charge.

He ran toward the cauldron then with all his strength tipped the huge cast iron pot over sending the sticky cocktail of alcohol and fruit flooding out over the ground. Suarez plunged the wooden spear into to the ground tore of his impromptu wig of twigs and screamed out

“Viva Rio Grandé, aim for their willito’s boys.”

The fat pink hippopotamus spun around and shouted “get him; get him he is one of them.” Before losing his footing and slipping head first into a sticky pool of summer punch that had now spread over the whole clearing. The men in the pink leotards tried to give chase but kept sliding and tumbling over each other the women too their see through white gowns stained pink by the liquid that had now formed into a small lake where the clearing had been. It all looked like some kind of bizarre Roman orgy as pink leotards, white dresses and limbs lay entwined on the ground as they wrestled each other trying to get back to their feet. The few still standing pink swimsuit wearing guards charged towards the Rio Grandeans but were met by the iron fists and feet of Gilberto and Gonzalo.

Don Blanco threw his Panama hat high into the sky, so it span like a flying saucer “make for the “he shouted. Two of the blonde giants were just about to grab the drug lord when his hat came spinning back knocking them to the floor before coming to a rest on the Dons head.

Gilberto and Gonzalo ran towards the trees using their years of defensive experience and powerful shoulders to clear a path for Torado who followed behind them panting for breath still weak from his months of captivity. The bushes scratched and stuck their bony fingers out trying to grab them as they made for the edge of the island where the lock keeper and the harbourmaster, having heard the commotion had already untied the boat from its mooring and had the engine spluttering.

Mr Sempleton grabbed Suarez who was limping badly now having injured his bad leg again during his act of heroism, the pair struggled their way arm in arm into the undergrowth.

Don Blanco was still in the clearing on the ground his cashmere suit now stained orange as he grappled with several men at once in pink leotards.

Breathing heavily Gilberto, Gonzalo and Torado collapsed into the boat. They looked up to see Suarez and Mr Sempleton slowly limping their way towards the river bank and urged them on. They had almost reached the boat when a deafening sound filled the air

 “HALT YOU ANIMALS!!!”

Suarez and the English detective stopped dead then slowly turned around. Not twenty metres away was the man in the hippopotamus mask his fat legs planted firmly in the ground in his hand was one of the wooden oar shaped spears they watched as he flung it high into the air.

As if frozen to the spot the Englishman and the Uruguayan watched as the spear arrowed its way towards them.

From the boat Torado, Gilberto and Gonzalo looked on in horror as the spear span and whistled its way ever closer to the heart of Suarez and that of every Rio Grandean. Then from nowhere cam the hulking figure of Don Blanco, blood on his face and summer punch dripping from his tailored jacket. With an almighty cry he threw his body in front of Suarez, the spear stopped spinning and plunged into the reformed drug lord’s chest.

Torado let out a scream like a wounded animal “nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo”

Suarez fell to his knees, Mr Sempleton tore of his Harrison tweed jacket bent down over the Don and wrapped the ripped pieces of material around the wound desperately he tried to stop the blood that flowed out.

Don Blanco tried to wave him away “leave me you English fool.” He pulled the detective close “do not let our effort be in vain, get on that boat Santa Socrates leave this forsaken place, you must keep the spirit of Rio Grandé alive. I have done many dark deeds in my life; the footballing gods of olé football have given me this fate and I accept it willingly with the pride of being able to call myself a true Rio Grandean, now go!!”

Mr Sempleton ignored the Don’s words and the mass of onrushing leotarded warriors who were drawing ever closer and with a hitherto unseen strength threw Don Blanco’s wounded body over his shoulder, pulled Suarez to his feet and made for the fishing boat. He lifted the Dons body gently onto the boat and pushed the boat out into the water before diving into the river as a shower of spears flew towards him. The harbourmaster pushed the throttle down and Mr Sempleton gripped onto the side of the fishing boat his legs flailing about in the water as they sped away from the island under another barrage of wooden oar shaped spears.

The last cigars of Don Blanco

Don Blanco urged the harbourmaster to try and find some more power in the small fishing boats engine as it chugged its way out of London town and upstream towards a quiet empty stretch of river. Mr Sempleton finally fully recovered from the Fisherman’s Friend incident emerged from the boats small cabin adjusting his deer stalker.

“So what’s happening chaps, ooh what a jolly pretty stretch of river reminds me of Wind in the Willows.”

Don Blanco jumped up and lurched toward the English detective, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him violently.

“Listen you idiota, my friend is going to die if we do not reach him soon and all you can talk about is the scenery Santa Maria Socrates help me.”

Suarez intervened taking Don Blanco by the arm and then he spoke.

“Torado is my dearest oldest and sweetest friend, if we cannot reach him in time I too shall surely die because by heart will break and shatter into a thousand pieces but we must remain strong and calm.”

Sadness descended over the boat, even the harbour master though he did not really know these men or their kidnapped compatriot Torado felt the pain that had ached in the words of Suarez.

Mr Sempleton walked over to Don Blanco and wrapped an arm around him and in a voice full of kindness and care apologized.

“Don Blanco you must accept my apology, I have not quite been myself ever since those blasted Fisherman’s Friends. Do not worry I will do whatever it takes to release Torado from the clutches of these animals that smear the name of my country so.”

The Don thanked him for his kind words then turned to address Suarez, Gilberto and Gonzalo.

“We must find a quiet stretch of river, it is about 20 miles upstream where the banks are full of weeping willows, there Signor Robbiati told me is a long haired man of the river. He guards a pair of giant wooden doors in the middle of the water and he will take us to this dreaded island.”

Then he grabbed the bulging biceps of Gilberto and Gonzalo.

“Be ready to fight boys!”

The huge footed Brazilian and the swarthy Argentine defender gave a deferential nod towards the Don.

The boat continued on up the river, the day was mild and the trees that dotted the riverbank were starting to show the first small green buds of the approaching spring on their spindly branches.

At one point they passed some huge carefully manicured laws as green as the greenest Rio Grandean avocado, towering up from the lawn was a magnificent grey stone castle.

“What is that?” asked Gilberto pointing at the castle.

“That” said Mr Sempleton “is Windsor castle the residence of our great Queen Elizabeth.”

“Santa Domingo Socrates Rolando Cristobal” shouted Gilberto “if I knew we were going to see the queen I would have changed my slippers.” And then pointed at his once purple velvet slippers that were now caked in a combination of dried mud and sea kelp. Everyone laughed and just for a second the men’s tension, worry and fear slipped away. They were at that very moment just six men enjoying a day out on the river Thameses.

As the boat continued its journey chugging its way upstream across the borders of each new shire the distance between the houses along the riverbank grew. Each house seemed larger than the one before like gigantico Hacienda’s thought Don Blanco.

Mr Sempleton piped up. “I know this stretch of river, my grandpapa used to take me crayfish poaching here as a little boy.”

“These houses are huge, who an earth owns them?” asked Suarez pointing at a huge faux Gothic monstrosity on the riverbank

“No Rio Grandean that’s for sure” laughed Gilberto

“These” replied the English detective “are the properties of England’s elite classes my friend. Bankers,  Estate agents, Rowing coaches, Rotary club members and crooked politicians.”

As the fishing boat floated past one of the huge mansions that hung over the river, Don Blanco saw two white wooden signs poking up from the manicured lawn. One read Keep of the Grass the other said Rowers do it better footballers don’t do it at all. Incensed by the sign Don Blanco pulled out his ivory pistola and deposited the whole clip in the sign leaving it riddled with bullet holes. Suarez snatched the gun from the Don’s hand “tranquillo Don Blanco,tranquillo amigo.”

Then a short beetroot faced bald man, emerged from the ostentatious doors of the mansion and marched across the lawn shaking his fist at the occupants of the boat.

“What is the meaning of this bloody outrage.” As he stared at the gaping holes of his precious wooden sign, he eyed the faces of the men on the boat and seeing the deep olive skin of Don Blanco, Gilberto, Gonzalo and Suarez began to hurl xenophobic abuse in their direction.

“Bloody Immigrants, layabouts haven’t you been told Britain is closed to the likes of you, don’t you know?”

Don Blanco grabbed his pistola back from Suarez refilled the clip and fired four shots into the air, then at the top of his lungs shouted “Viva Rio Grandé, Viva Torado”

The bald beetroot shaped and coloured man fearing for his life jumped into the river and howls of laughter erupted from the boat as the man’s bald pate emerged from the water with a Mallard nesting on his head , mistaking the round shape of it for an un hatched egg than needed incubating.

The man shouted angrily as the boat and the laughter drifted off upstream.

It took another 3 hours to reach the lock that was just a few miles downstream of the temple, by now it was mid-afternoon and the sky had taken on a dark grey hue that was neither pleasant nor reassuring. The lock keeper seeing the small boat approach, put down his ukulele that he had been strumming in an absent minded manner all day, stood up pressed the button spun the metal wheel, the huge wooden gates to the lock began to open and the small fishing vessel navigated its way skilfully through the opening doors.

The harbourmaster and Suarez tied the ropes to the metal ringlets on the bank by the boats aft and stern; Don Blanco skipped off the boat up the stone steps, removed his panama hat, pulled out a Fidelito Castrato cigar and struck a match against his gunpowder scarred cheek.

The lock keeper looked at the giant figure in the Cashmere suit and then down into the boat at the swarthy figures of Gilberto and Gonzalo and the strangely tweed suited deer stalker wearing figure of the English detective Mr Sempleton. He closed his eyes, he was sure he must have been having one of his acid flashbacks but when he re-opened them the same bizarre motley group of men were still staring back at him.

The Don stuck out his huge leathery hand “My name is Don Blanco, these men” he pointed at the fishing boat “are my most trusted allies and you are Mr Pottering I presume?”

The lock keeper almost entirely lost for words stuttered “er… erm… er yes, may I ask how... er… you know my name Sir?”

“you know a certain lady? A Signora Robbiati no?”

Christ thought the lock keeper; I thought my therapy sessions were supposed to be confidential. He started to think of all the secrets he had revealed to the Latina therapist who had become like a surrogate mother to him. Then a strong feeling of nausea started to overwhelm him. Did this man know that his very first erotic awakening had involved a pop-up book about the HMS Nelson and a particular page which had shown a detailed drawing of two sailors being flogged?

He tried to gather himself “Yes Yes She is my therapist, why?”

“Well you see my friend” said the Don “we are close friends/colleagues of her only son Signor Rolando Robbiati the famed manager of Rio Grandé”

“Viva Rio Grandé” came a shout from the boat.

“Er…ah…ok right, please to meet you” said the lock keeper feeling more confused than ever and at that point made a solemn promise to himself to never touch another drop of Olde Man Mindfuck again.

Don Blanco becoming increasingly impatient with the niceties expected of you when greeting the English gave the astounded looking river man a very brief synopsis of Torado’s kidnap.

“Now you my friend must lead us to this island and its temple at once!”  And just to show the lock keeper that this was not a request but an order, he unbuttoned his cashmere jacket so the long haired man could see the ivory handle of the pistola.

However there had been no need for this demonstration as the lock keeper overwhelmed with happiness that his long held conspiracy theories had been confirmed and tiring of his life opening the river doors for the rich and privileged ; simply grabbed his tatty canvas bag and ukulele tore of his Thameses river agency sweater and leapt into the boat.

“Shall we go then?” he said grinning.