Too
many visitors?
I'm not sure that the British Penal System is ready for the arrival
of Mr Evans. How will the visitors rooms cope with all the celebrity
visitors as his entourage of famous best friends arrive to see
him on an almost hourly basis?
Dial
F for fraud, fat and football
Mr Evans stepped off the train at King's Cross railway station,
platform 9 3/4, thanking the good Lord above that his hellish
ride had come to an end. After standing up on a train for 53 mins
and witnessing a rather rowdy gordie gentleman throw up in the
vestibule end in which he was standing, Mr Evans reflected that
he may have a complaint or two for the lovely people at GNER.
Upon serious reflection, however, he noted that he could record
this less than delightful journey as expenses, charge it to the
taxpayer and maybe keep the VAT for himself. His mind wandered
-- if he made the complaint he could reclaim the £94 spent
on the trip from GNER, pocket that, and pocket the fare as expenses
and the VAT he would claim back. "Oh Stevo, you've done it
again; you're an absolute genius" he thought as he wandered
down the platform and began planning the snotty letter he would
write replete with child-like stick drawings to illustrate his
concern.
Mr Evans walked into the underground and to the ticket counter.
He considered for a moment. Did he need a return? "Why not?",
he thought, "what's the worst that could happen?" Mr
Evans ordered the ticket in what he believed to be his manly Scottish
baritone voice, but which sounded to the ticket clerk to be the
sound of a hundred bagpipes playing out of tune. He borded the
next train and counted the stations: Angel, Old Street, Moorgate,
Bank and finally London Bridge. Mr Evans popped out of the station
and glared furiously down Borough High St. at the offices of Her
Majesty's Customs and Revenue in the belief that his mighty football
brain would cause an almighty explosion which he would later blame
John Blackwell. Much to his dismay, his superpowers failed him
so Mr Evans turned towards London Bridge only to be barged out
of the way by a rushing city trader. "och, 'scuse me"
uttered Mr Evans only to be greeted by "Christ! why are all
the homeless drunks in this city Scottish?". Mr Evans hung
his head in shame.
Mr Evans wandered worrying along Tooley Street past the ominious
London Dungoen and a Smart Car that was probably bigger than a
cell at Pentonville Prison. The usual hordes of 'London Light'
newspaper muggers parted in his path and a black cat spat at him
as he turned into More London Place. There in-front of him was
Southwark Crown Court, that hideous brown brick modernist building
home to everything he hated (Inland Revenue officers, the police
and the judge). Mr Evans, head still bowed, walked straight through
the metal detectors whithout setting them off, in-spite of his
pockets being full of change. Mr Evans arrived at the open lift
door to be greeted by Droopy, the cartoon dog. "going down,
sir?" asked droopy. "Going up" answered Mr Evans.
"We'll see, sir" replied droopy.
In his effort to present a stong and unworried front to anyone
who may see Mr Evans stepped purposefully towards the lift door,
only to stub his nose straight into it, not realising that the
lifts opened on the opposite side to entry. His nose red and eyes
watering Mr Evans exited via the correct door and stared down
the corridoor to the looming court 14. Outside he spied 3 spooks
from the revenue, 4 barristers, 15 Daggenham fans on parole brandishing
knives and a lonely bespectacled young journalist who would later
sell garbled and misleading accounts of the proceedings to Boston's
favourite newspapers.
Mr Evans walked into the court and sat in the dock noting that
it had shrunk since his last visit. The judge sat atop his burnished
throne and glared omniously at Mr Evans. "Mr Evans, will
you rise please?". "Mr Evans, you have pleaded guilty
to cheating Her Majest's Customs and Revenue out of £323,000
between the years 1997 and 2001 in the world's simplest tax fraud.
You have also been found guilty of making the fattest town in
the world fatter by your mere presence; crimes against good football;
being Scottish and wearing bad aftershave. For these crimes, not
only against the Revenue, but also against humanity, I sentence
you to 2 years' of being Mr John Blackwell's slave including:
Regular trips for family buckets of chicken from KFC, bed bathing
every monday and wednesday, sensual massage every thursday, car
washing, toe nail clipping, arse scratching, and of course nose-picking.
You, Mr Evans, are a very bad man. Take him down please baliff"
Fin.
Agatha Gee Christmas |
