Boardania - Tales From The Shed part III

Could be any day!

I don't have a clue what day or date it is as he's only just allowed me back to the shed after the 'punishment'.

My escape plan almost worked. I don't suppose there's any reason I can't write about it now. I'll certainly not be able to use that plan again. My logic was that if the Welshman could get away with pretending to be me, then maybe I could pretend to be him. It very nearly worked as well.

When the Welshman visits, he always comes to gloat and complain how pretending to be me is such hard work. This time was no different. After patiently waiting for him to stop his griping, I hit him over the back of the head with the badgers' mucking-out shovel. He went down exactly like a sack of badger sh*t. Believe me, I've had enough experience of the stuff to make a comparison.

Actually, hitting him was just about the most satisfying thing that I've done in years. It was even more satisfying because he was wearing that awful bloody hat at the time. Although it did take me a while to reshape it for my disguise.

I quickly donned his ridiculous black leather trench coat and the stupid hat. I covered his unconscious body with bags of badger food and headed out of the shed.

I found myself in the backyard, which was surrounded on three sides by twelve-foot high walls, topped with barbed-wire. A typical Liverpudlian backyard. The other side, and only obvious direction, was the back of the house. I desperately tried to remember what a Welsh accent sounded like, as I didn't want to fall at this last hurdle. I'd seen the film of The Great Escape and I always remember Gordon Jackson getting caught out on the bus when the German guard says good luck to him.

I had to think Welsh.

I cautiously opened the back door that led into a large and somewhat scruffy kitchen. Seated at the table was him, the scouser and two people I'd not seen before. One was a short young man wearing a T-shirt with, for some reason, a carrot printed on it. The other was a red-faced, angry looking Scotsman with the sort of receding hairline, owners of which always insist that they have a fine head of hair. I cleared my throat:

"Wellll, llook you, boyos. I could realllly go for one of mam's lleek and llaverbread butties, while llistening to a malle voice choir from a coallmine at the Eisteddfod... erm... yacky da... Dyllan Thomas... Shirlley Bassey... llook you!"

It seemed to work. Apart from a raised eyebrow that looked like an MSN smiley, from the Scotsman, there were no comments. The scouser and the carrot boy seemed to be having an argument about which of them could outrun a train. I have no idea what that was about. The Scotsman said that the driver was waiting outside 'like the good man that he was' and that I should wait there. That seemed like a good idea to me. I could get in the car and pretend to be asleep until I had the chance to escape. I went in the direction the Scotsman had gestured and found the front door. This close to escaping was making me very nervous, but I daren't show it.

As I left the house, the driver quickly got out and opened the door for me. He was wearing a full-faced crash helmet just like that guy Michael Schumacher wears. I got in...

Then everything went wrong.

There was a bloody sheep in the back of the car! A sodding sheep! It must have been the pet, or girlfriend of the Welshman, because it wasn't fooled by my disguise for a second. I never realised that sheep could be so vicious, or make so much noise. The fuss it made had the gang members rushing out and my cover was blown!

I'm running out of space on this bit of paper, so I'll stop here. I need to write an account of the punishment pit, but that will have to wait for another empty badger feed bag.