He powered the scarlet Ferrari down the Mulsanne straight. One of a select band of drivers who took the curve absolutely flat out no lifting off for him. Perfection was what had got him to the top. A quick jink exquisitely timed took him passed the danger. In the distance a klaxon sounded. A klaxon sounded? The lights had changed to green and the car behind was anxious to be on his journey. Timothy sighed let the handbrake off on his ancient 1100 and slowly pulled away from the lights.
In truth he was on the way to the supermarket first left, second right and then first right would bring him to their car park.
As he turned right he saw the suspect van ahead. Tucking himself in behind his quarry he followed at a safe distance as the white nondescript van with the tell tale slogan Chelsea TID written large in the dirt on the back doors wove its way through the maze of a newly built housing estate. Eventually the van slowed and pulled in at a site office. He cruised passed and slowed to a stop. He looked at his watch he had been following the suspect van for forty-five minutes. Following the suspect van? He had been on his way to Tesco’s now he was lost on this bloody housing estate.
Singing Pete Seager’s “Little Boxes” to himself he set about finding his way out of the labyrinth.
The helicopter slowly descended its downward pointing searchlight made it look like a spaceship hovering over the Glastonbury Festival. Suddenly a huge roar thundered from the gathered multitude as the legendary folk singer simply known as Tim alighted from the helicopter and, surrounded by bodyguards, made his way with guitar in hand to the giant powerfully lit stage. An expectant hush fell on the vast crowd. The two red lights glowed warning him not to start singing yet. Two red lights? He jammed his foot hard on the brake and skidded to a halt mere inches from the back of a flat back lorry.
Now where the hell was he? The lorry had stopped at a “Give Way” sign as the lorry moved off he could see if he turned left it was fifteen miles back to town. Good grief it was only two miles from his house to Tesco’s. He thought about the white van and suddenly he realised “Chelsea TID” meant “Chelsea ‘til I die“. Disgraceful how they had treated Claudio Ranieri, he thought, they should be ashamed of themselves.
Driving his Aston Martin quickly but safely fabled football manager Timothy Brown headed towards his latest challenge. He had been brought in by Chelsea to replace Jose Mourinho in a desperate attempt to salvage their tarnished reputation and this was to be his first game in charge. Using all his legendary man management skills coupled with a subtle blend of youth and experience and both English and foreign players he had managed to satisfy the Board and please the fans. Mind you he thought with the fortune they’re paying me I’ve got to pull out all the stops. He smiled confidently, he was at the top of his profession, and if he couldn’t do it no one could. He arrived at the ground and slowed as he entered the car park and edged his way through the crowd heading towards the turnstiles.
Heading towards the turnstiles? With a sigh of relief he realised he was on Tesco’s car park and the crowds were streaming towards the entrance and the trolley bays. How did that happen? That was a bit of luck and it only took forty minutes. It was only a five minute drive from his house to the supermarket but so far the trip had taken him two hours and five minutes.
As he headed towards the trolley bay he spotted the tall sinister man. T froze and said to himself. “So we meet again my friend“. He had no fear of being recognized the plastic surgery he had endured plus his mastery of disguise would take care of that. T, M.I.5’s top agent had been waiting this chance for quite some time and he was not going to risk losing his man by acting to soon. He needed to know what he was doing here and if he was meeting any of his contacts new or known. He followed his man discreetly round the store pausing here and there to appear to be shopping normally. Quite suddenly the man headed towards the checkouts he moved to intercept him. The man called out to the girl on the checkout “Fire call I’ll be back later.”
Fire call I’ll be back later? Tim looked in his trolley what the hell had he got in there. Cat food, they hadn’t got a cat. Nappies, their youngest was sixteen. Steradent, they both had their own teeth. Pipe cleaners, he didn’t smoke. Sheepishly he went round and put the contents of his trolley back on the shelves.
Monsieur Tim cast his eye aloofly over the supermarket’s shelves. It was a nuisance but the challenge had been made and someone had to teach Gordon Ramsey a lesson. Gordon Ramsey had three Michelin stars but there again so did Monsieur Tim and Tim had been awarded all three stars thirty years ago before his nineteenth birthday and he had held them ever since. It was necessary for someone to show Mr Ramsey that you could teach and run a brigade of chefs without all the insults, shouting and bad language and he, the world’s finest chef, was the man to do it. He had only the one restaurant which was called “With a Twist” in recognition of his genius for taking classical recipes and other chef’s signature dishes and improving them with a twist. He would prove clear concise instructions coolly and calmly given along with faultless demonstration of the various techniques required would accomplish far more than Mr Ramsey could hope to achieve in his wildest dreams. He heard a voice say that will be Two hundred and fifty four pounds please.
Two hundred and fifty four pounds? What the hell had he bought? Hastily he produced his credit card and then signed for his purchases still not sure of what he had bought. As he put his purchases in the car boot he realised the sheer expense of the items he recognised but then again there many things he had never seen before and hadn’t got a clue what to do with. It was going to be a rough old evening. He turned on the car radio just as a plug was being made for the American President’s interview by Jeremy Paxman.
His chauffeur driven Rolls Royce cruised to a stop outside the BBC’s recording studio. As usual these days his services were required to protect the President from Jeremy Paxman ruthless questioning. His language skills, insight and sensitive understanding of world affairs meant he was frequently called in to “ride shot gun” as the Americans called it. But his services were called on by all senior political figures not just Americans. Jeremy hated it, he was not used to having to deal with a superior intellect. But he had a healthy respect for the formidable language skills of Sir Timothy Brown. “Where on earth have you been“?
Where on earth have I been? He looked round. “What the hell I’m back in my own driveway.” He looked at his watch he’d been out for just over five hours. This was going to take some explaining especially when Mrs Brown saw what was in the boot. “I had trouble with the car”, he said, “and the supermarket was crowded”, he added sheepishly. “What do mean supermarket I did the shopping yesterday. You went out to go for your dental check-up.”