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.”
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