Chapter Five: The Adventures of Councillor Yellowhead: The Case of the Pam-Dimensional Pothole

Chapter Five: in which, at a loss-end, our intrepid hero has no other choice but to go for a pint in a local Weatherforks……

There was no divinely erotic dream of imbibing on one of the many lactating teats of a larvae queen with the head of Margaret Thatcher in a sado-masochistic pupae dungeon this time for Councillor Yellowhead. In his uneasy slumber he envisioned nothing other than a dark void of aloneness, a dreaded solitude.

He awoke aware the feeling remained. Prior to opening his eyes, he smelt the wet dog hair, the woodburning smoke, patchouli oil, burning cannabis leaf and the body odour of female hippy elders. The concept he would awake from the nightmare and things would be back the way they once were had shattered. He focussed on Briggs, standing over his sickbed, grinning.

Trainee councillor Grant Briggs was shirtless, his body tanned and nipples pierced. He wore the slight headdress of a native American brave, torn denim shorts, and little else. “Like, hey dude,” he purred in a rougher tone, with a broken accent, “you’ve been, like, out for some time!”

Yellowhead sat up in alarm, observing his whereabouts. He was in a tipi; a few hammocks lie circular around the edges and the middle was warmed by a firepit where kettles hung from branches above it. Topless old ladies cared for folk on the hammocks, both their beaded necklaces and breasts flopping over their faces as they tended to their needs. “Am I in hell?” he whimpered.

“You’re in the natural healing tipi,” Briggs proudly informed, “I recommend the Buddhist head massage, it’s boss!”

 “How long have I been, out?”

“A few days,” Briggs replied, “to be honest, I kind of lost track.”

Yellowhead let out a deep sigh of dread. “What has happened, Briggs? Has the whole world gone as mad as the March hare?”

Briggs stuck a hand pipe to his lips and inhaled. “I have a theory, man.”

“What happened to the days when you called me sir?” Yellowhead asked, “rather than man?”

Briggs exhaled, filling the area with smoke. “It’s a good theory……”

Another sigh, deeper this time, Yellowhead regretfully requested more information about it. “Out with then, if you must.”

Briggs waited a moment, for effect, then said boldly, “I think, that wasn’t a pothole at all, rather a porthole, a porthole to another dimension……” The last word hung in air akin to a Labour Party manifesto presented to the Chipping Norton Town Council.

Yellowhead snarled, “really, is that the best you can do? I strongly suggest you give up the funny-fags, remember you are a trainee councillor, and as such you have certain obligations to adhere to good old conservative philosophy, for the sake of your county, your country, and the Queen!”

“Like, seriously,” Briggs continued unperturbed, “the multi-verse theory has relevance with many renowned scientists. A bubble of dimensions, billions upon billions of them, each with a decisive tangent which branches from each other at every possible decision ever made. Suppose, for a moment, here is a universe in which Miltshire has adopted a more, shall we say, leftist ideology, a more freethinking ethos, for the people rather than capitalism, a socialist haven!”

“In which case I stick to my original query,” Yellowhead groaned, “am I in hell?”       

“No, man,” Briggs responded, “quite the opposite. There’s a lot to be said about life here, dude. I’ve been, like, living it, experiencing it first-hand.”

“I’d feel for you,” Yellowhead sighed, “if I was in any way concerned for your welfare or sanity.”

“The pace of life may be significantly slower here,” Briggs continued his pitch, “but surprisingly, society functions effectively and fairly. Small communities such as towns have no national political party affiliation, rather than an elected council they’re run by a diverse independent group; local volunteers, willing to share their time and expertise to really make a difference. The words ‘manifesto’ and ‘marketing campaign’ have no meaning here. There are no constraints of a party doctrine, decisions are made without a concern of retaining power. They call it a flatpack democracy, sir.”

“Quite,” Yellowhead snarled his discontent, “and akin to anything sold in a flatpack, most of the screws and washers are missing. Does anyone here know what a bathtub is? What these wet dreamers need, Briggs, is Jeremy Clarkson, in a Range rover, with a shooting rifle and unlimited champagne to pop their grotesque bubble.” He swung his legs off the hammock and placed them firmly on the ground.

A nurse waddled over, her breasts and beads swaying. “You cannot go anywhere, delirious like that; you need rest.”

“What I need is a pint of bitter,” Yellowhead asserted, “at the local Weatherforks; the Sulk Mercilessly is the closet, I believe. I hold faith the tacky establishments of Sir Timothy Martian will at least hold the final outpost of jingoistic indoctrinated knuckle-draggers who conceal their ill-educated grammatical errors by memes and typing with caps-lock on. There I will build a Boris army, and march to County Hall to take back what is rightfully ours!”

Briggs corrected him in an anxious whisper. “Sir,” he murmured.

“What is it now, Briggs?”

“It’s like, County Hall, man.”

“What about it?”

“Well,” Briggs slurred.

“Out with it!” Yellowhead snapped, “I haven’t got all day, Briggs. If all hope in you is truly lost, I must lone defend the righteousness and decency of conservatism, and for which I need a militia!”

Briggs closed his eyes and declared, “there is no County Hall, dude. I travelled to Trow Vegas via our van. While a Miltshire Council exists, only in an online sense, it serves the independent group I aforementioned, with, erm, well, rather insignificant and trivial issues, recycling collections, public sawdust toilet locations and so forth. Where County Hall is located in our dimension, an ecological    dome exists here, housing thousands of plant species within an enclosure emulating a rainforest biome.”

“I refuse to except such an eyesore could ever exist in Trow Vegas, unless I see it with my own eyes, Briggs,” Yellowhead responded with tenacity. “I’m not even going to inquire as to the fate of Nandos.” With that, Yellowhead marched out of the tipi and headed off in the direction of the Sulk Mercilessly. Unwillingly but supposing it’s for the best, Briggs followed behind him.

The doors of the public house burst off, as Yellowhead bounded inside yelling, “COME, my worthy purists, and hide no longer! Your new leader is here to reclaim this disgraced town from its depths of depravity and sin! Together thou shall build an army of virtue and morality, on England’s green and pleasant land, we will restore faith in traditionist and capitalist conception, for the good of the county, the Queen and humble Prime Minster, Sir Boris Johnson. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each Johnny foreigner’s stroke, Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves Britons never, never, never will be slaves, Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves, Britons never, never, never will be slaves!”

A scrawny hippy cleaning tables looked up in shock, “Boris who?”

“Wasn’t there a famous clown called Boris Johnson?” the only punter in the establishment thought out loud.

“The prime minister!” Yellowhead asserted, “Sir Boris….”

“Like, sorry to have to correct you, pal,” the hippy replied, “Greta Thumberger is the prime minister of Britain, deffo. Now, if you’d like to take a seat, the special today is a vegan emerald dal.”

“I demand British beef!” Yellowhead irately ordered, while Briggs facepalmed behind him.

“They won’t sell meat, sir,” Briggs said, “no one does here.”

Backtracking the discussion to a point his mind originally refused to allow his ears to fully register, Yellowhead looked aghast at Briggs, “did, did, did he just say, Greta Thumberger is the prime minster of Britain?”

“Steady yourself,” Briggs replied.

The chief councillor felt faint once more, perching a hand on the nearest table. “Did you keep Nora’s cyanide pill, Briggs?”

“It seems a liberal system is nationwide, at the very least, sir,” Briggs explained, “here, Greta was born in Surrey, and became prime minister aged thirteen.”

“And a damn fine one she is too,” remarked the hippy employee, “our boss is friends with her, great woman, makes sure we all get our national living wage and all branches adhere to the global minimum labour standard.”

“National living what now?!” Yellowhead outraged, “Leftie piffle! You mean to tell me such is this wretched gangrene economic and socialist revolution, you all accept the same wage, despite I might be in a managerial position of power and responsibility, and you, you, plebs clean tables in a bar?!”

“Hey man!” the employee stressed, “we work together, no one is any better than anyone else, no clean table, nowhere nice for the dude in a managerial position of power and responsibility to eat his lunch!”

“On an equal national wage,” Briggs informed his boss, “everyone is content, everyone does a job they like, least don’t mind, and there’s no hierocracy, so there’s no revolution needed, there’s no contempt or jealousy for someone higher up the ladder, because to them, there is no ladder.”

Yellowhead took his time to look around. The pub décor was well worn, antique without the phoney standard kitsch traditional model Weatherforks is renowned for. Briggs thought it was quaint, Yellowhead wouldn’t confess, but as a traditionalist, he felt it the only genuine place he had seen since falling into the pothole. Then, he noted a Guardian newspaper on the oak table, and any hope he would feel at home here vanished. 

“Well, dreadlock my pubes and call me Billy Ocean!” Yellowhead exclaimed, getting further and further irate. “Just what the blazers is going on in here? I thought this would be the place, I really thought, if there’s anywhere in this crazy perdition left with decent, conservative morals, it would be here. But you tell me ecowarrior snowflake Greta Thumberger is prime minister, she gives you all the same petty wage, from plate-washer to managing director, and you’re all happy with that, and, it’s no wonder, really, isn’t it? It’s no wonder at all when you’re filling your head….” The chief councillor repeatedly beat the newspaper with his index finger, “…. with this sadistic liberalistic permissiveness and radicalised exuberant balderdash!”

“Stand back,” advised Briggs to the worker.

But Yellowhead defused. “Fine! I will take my campaign elsewhere! Weatherforks indeed, weathercocks more like!”

Briggs called his boss back; in hope he might respond well. “Man, you’re gonna like, have to get on groovy train and like, yeah, like dig it pretty soon, man. This is, like the way it is here, and that’s, like, that!”

Yellowhead turned on his foot and pointed a stern finger at his senior. “I will never, ever accept it, you feeble-minded, incoherent jester!”

“Where will you go? No one can, like, help you, man.”

Yellowhead held his breath, “I will bite my bottom lip, as I never thought I’d ever suggest such a desperate concept as this, never dreamed I’d be in such a dreadful position to do so, but the time is nigh, I swallow my pride, forget my deliberations and call to order the single most desperate cause of action a county councillor could, ever! I will call for a meeting, and I will listen to the others!”

Briggs laughed, “is that it?! Who with? Yourself, Yellowhead?!”

“No, traitor!” Yellowhead nodded, “with the Davizes Town Council!”

“No!” Briggs cried, “how could you stoop so low?”

“I am and I will!” Yellowhead asserted. “I will face the music, head-on, I will seek council with the ones no one dares do business with, the Guardians of the Galaxy!” And with that closing statement, councillor Yellowhead stormed out of the Sulk Mercilessly.”

“Man,” Briggs sighed, “I think they’re just the Davizes Guardians, rather than, like, the, you know, guardians of the, as you said, galaxy!” 

“Bad karma,” added the Weatherforks worker, handing Briggs a joint.

Will our intrepid hero survive a face-to-face with the Davizes Town Council? Is there any hope for his trusty sidekick, or has he been fully brainwashed by leftie terrorists? Will this story ever truly end, because you’ve the washing to do? Find out next Sunday in what we can only hope and pray will be our finale episode of The Adventures of Councillor Yellowhead: The Case of the Pam-Dimensional Pothole!


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