Dear reader, beyond the profound and far-reaching decision by the Australian Government to deploy Virginal Class Submarines to Australian waters by 2525. We have the startling news that Princess Migraine and Harry have been allowed by decree from an all-white GOD to call their children, lilibet, Sports- bet, Archibold (princess Diana, Lord Mountbatten, scion a horse and Queen Victoria with a bit of Charles the second and the black Prince) with the official gong of ‘Prince and Princess dom’.

This is a win for equal rights, human rights and their chinless brigade.

Another savage blow for those who would wish to bring down the edifice of Saxe Coburg Gotha, now more meekly described as the ‘House of Windsor’. We wanted to get a quote from Barbara Windsor the more celebrated member of the royal family, but sadly she’s karked, it.  But were told by her publicity office to pick up a copy of ‘Big n Bouncy’ July 1972 edition to get a full appraisal on the Windsor assets and future directions.

Information we are sure will propel the AUK-WARD treaty to new heights of interoperability and interlocutory intransigence, per se.

But are there bigger issues? The war in Ukraine, the release of Julian Assange, the batting line- up for the fourth test in India?

Sadly there is,

 Our heroes are still trapped, though trapped freely atop a remote New Guinea village. In a village that worships a very close look alike to their nemesis Sophie, (‘there’s another tax payer funded  sinecure  in the offing’) Mirabella, whom, by fate they have trussed and bound in the baggage compartment of their stranded Rotodyne. Not even Benny-boy can help them or his sidekick Julian, because they’re out of range, out of fuel and outta LUCK. How outta there do you have to be?

Find out in the next episode, which is about to start right now.

‘I dunno’, Terry pulled out another Camel, ‘I don’t like the sound of them drums’.

‘Nor do I’, said Ces.  ‘It’s something about the rhythm, it sounds like a funeral march, or’ Quipped Quient, who had an ear for music,’ the opening bars to Rolfs Two Little Boys. Jeez’! Terry quipped;’ if they know the opening bars to ‘two little boys’ they must be’, he paused as the idea occurred to him, ‘they must be, they must be CIVILISED’!

With that word ‘Civilized” they felt immeasurably reassured, reassured that at that very moment a symbol of civilisation, and good grace the word over, his HRH Prince Andrew might emerge from the jungle in his admiral’s uniform and restore order with a wave of his princely, and white gloved hand.

One can only hope. They listened, the drumming grew louder and louder, until just as the light faded to such an extent that the Sophie like totems began to be obscured by the stygian mists they saw approaching them a small group of people.  And one by one, the assembly grew, and became illuminated, ghostly and ethereal like so many nuns under a pallid spotlight at an ‘All Nun Revue’. There emerged from the gathering throng a woman.

‘If Rider Haggard had written this is still wouldn’t believe it. Nor I’ said Ces as he snatched another Camel from Terry’s fingers. ‘This is fucken, (we apologise for the use of profane language) unbelievable’! For there, right in front of them gathering closer and closer there emerged a woman, a vestigial priestess, dressed in priestly garb. Long slithers of semi-precious metal and bird of paradise plumes. A necklace of exquisitely shrunken skulls, nose-piercings that would make a Goth envious, and though her lips, coated in the darkest of pigments looked menacing, she possessed a set of the most perfect white teeth.

‘I don’t believe it’, Quent nudged Ces, ‘it’s the spitting image’, and then, almost by clockwork, a curse from the bundled and trussed Sophie; ‘let me outta here or ill fucken deck youse, strangle youse and use yer dicks for target practice with me slug gun when I get outta here’!

It was the other Sophie, the real one, or the unreal one? We couldn’t tell, and it seemed irrelevant. ‘Anyway, with two Sophie’s, what could be worse’? Ces mused.

‘I dunno’, Terry replied, caustically; ‘two Benny Boy Roberts Smiths, Two Gina’s, two Angus Taylors’?

Terry had a point, two times any of the aforementioned was always gonna be shit whichever way you looked at it.

The native Sophie walked up to the cockpit Perspex we should see her ghostly features, apart from the war paint and the ochre, she was identical to our Sophie. She tapped the Perspex, we waved, kindly to suggest we posed no threat. She smiled back at us.

‘So far so good’, Terry murmured,

She tapped again, we tapped back.  She stood back, scratched her forehead and with one wave of her arm, commanded a native to come forward and play a short series of notes on the bongos.

The native played, it sounded familiar.

‘I think they’re trying to communicate’, murmured Ces.

‘It’s a tune, and its strangely familiar’.

It came to Quent like a thunderclap. He tapped back onto the Perspex. The rhythm, the tune, the evocation all began to crystallise, the opening bars to ‘Two little boys’, Rolfe must have left his mark. We felt profound relief that another Australian had gifted these natives with music and grace.

We all relaxed,

The priestess then smiled again, pointed to us, and then as her faced changed to a menacing leer, she pointed to the shrunken skulls, then back at us, and at that precise moment the drum tempo changed to a more menacing beat.

Is this their last foxtrot? Will this be their last tango in the Paris-end of Papua? Find out in the next episode; ‘Shrunken or shredded coconuts are best kept in a cool dry place’ or, “Two little boys turned out to be a requiem for three slightly more mature boys.”