BEHIND THE MASK

Traditionally, it was a Plague Doctor's role to assess and treat victims of the plague. It was a thankless task - and a dangerous one - but at least each Plague Doctor was provided with an outfit which afforded some protection.

The costume would usually consist of a thick overcoat - sometimes waxed - or perhaps a cowl, like something a monk would wear, only made of a thicker fabric. A Plague Doctor would also wear a mask, which inevitably made him look rather fearsome, but the mask was shaped like a beak with good reason: the nose cone was stuffed full of scented materials - rose petals, cloves, camphor, amber and more - which would ward off infection. At least, that was the idea.

On this particular Saturday, this particular Plague Doctor had been summoned and so, without ado, he prepared to go out.

First he donned his cowl, which was long and black and covered his entire body. Next he picked up his mask - the most striking part of his costume - and pulled it down over his face until all that could be seen of him was his eyes, staring through those two round sockets.

With the mask securely in place, the Plague Doctor lifted the cowl's hood so that it covered those parts of his head not already protected by the mask. He glanced at himself in the mirror - it was like looking at some perverse human approximation of a giant crow! He shuddered, then made for the door, picking up a pair of gloves and his leather satchel on the way out.

Twenty minutes later and the Plague Doctor reached the town square. He crossed it without hesitation and then made to enter the shopping precinct, only to find his way barred by a burly security guard.

"Sorry pal, you can't come in here dressed like that," the guard informed him.

"What?" the Plague Doctor responded.

"You'll have to take that hood off if you want to come in here," the guard explained and indicated a sign which was displayed on the wall next to the entrance. The Plague Doctor squinted through the mask's eye sockets until he could read what the sign said:

NO HOODED TOPS TO BE WORN IN THE PRECINCT.

"That is so unfair!" the Plague Doctor declared rather grumpily, before stomping off back across the square.

Finding a wall to sit on, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a mobile phone. He dialed a number, waited, then began to speak when his friend answered.

"Benny?" said the Plague Doctor. "Yeah, alright mate, it's Stewie. I'm not allowed into the precinct. What? No. Some fascist on the door says no hoodies. Meet you in McDonalds instead? Yeah. Cheers mate. See you in ten."

Moral of the story? Don't wear your cowl if you're going shopping.

LONG LIVE THE KING!

The government was in crisis. With a very solemn look on his face, the Prime Minister glanced around at his cabinet.
"Good morning everybody," he began, unusually quietly. "Welcome to this emergency cabinet meeting."
The Prime Minister lowered his head respectfully before continuing. 
"As you will no doubt be aware, the Royal Family have all been wiped out." He paused, lifting his head to meet the gaze of each person gathered around the table. "We are assembled now to decide how we appoint a successor to the throne. Does anybody have any ideas?"
The leader of the Liberal Democrats began to open his mouth, but Cyril Burgess MP twatted him over the head with a briefcase, knocking him out.
"Thank you Cyril," said the Prime Minister. Then to the room in general, "Ideas, anybody?"
The cabinet debated for several hours. They made no progress whatsoever - at least, not until the Right Honourable Sir Charles Frottom-Twaddlebush MP made a suggestion.
"There's an old English legend," Frottom-Twaddlebush told the cabinet. "It concerns the village of Long Compton, in South Warwickshire. Some centuries ago, Long Compton was held to be the very centre of England. The legend states that whoever climbs the hill above the village - where the Rollright Stones stand - and gazes down upon the village, that person shall become the King of England."
The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. "Sounds simple enough," he said, drumming his fingers on the table. Then he leaned forward again, having come to a decision. "That is our solution, then."
The Prime Minister turned to stare directly at the Minister For Buggering Up Public Services And Turning The UK Into A Third World Country. "Derek. Mate. Pal. You don't seem to have much to do at the moment. Pop up to this Compton place, wait for somebody to climb the hill and appoint a new monarch, without delay. Off you pop."

Some three hours later, Derek Branston-Chutney MP sat on a camping chair next to the Rollright Stones, waiting for somebody to turn up. He was just polishing off his fourth herring sandwich when a walker appeared and came straight towards him.
"I claim the throne!" the walker announced loudly, as he approached the MP.
Clearly word has got out! Derek Branston-Chutney MP thought to himself, as he hurriedly and rather awkwardly got to his feet, knocking over his flask. He gulped down the last of his sandwich and asked, "Your name, sir?"
"Neville Higginbottom," replied the walker, Neville Higginbottom.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP sucked in three of his chins, straightened himself up and then, in his poshest voice, declared, "Neville Higginbottom, it is my pleasure to pronounce you...King of England!"
The new King of England grinned. He was about to say something of great import, when one Gordon Flatwick of East Hagbourne emerged from behind a tree, brained the King with a brick and killed him.
"I am King of England!" declared Gordon.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP shrugged. He was used to seeing people being bumped off - what with being in charge of public services - and he did not bat an eyelid. "I suppose you are," he agreed. He smiled. "And your name is...?"
"Gordon Flatwick," declared Gordon Flatwick.
"Your highness, henceforth you shall be known as...King Gordon of England!" the MP pronounced, before noticing a group of very determined walkers coming up the hill. He could see that at least one of them carried a shotgun, and it was only a matter of moments before that man blew King Gordon's head off with his gun and claimed the throne for himself.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP bowed to the third person to have become King of England within two minutes. "Your highness!" he said. Then he noticed the camera around the King's neck, the golfing trousers which adorned the royal legs and similar attire modelled by the King's companions. "Ah, your highness," said the MP, "if I may be so bold - are you an American?"
The King grinned like a loon. "Yes sur-ee!" he replied, gleefully.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP pulled out a pistol and shot them all. "We're having none of that," he muttered to himself.
He turned and spotted at least two dozen more walkers coming up the hill. Most of them looked fairly normal, if a tad zealous in the way they climbed the hill, although one carried an axe, another was ginger and at least one other was clearly German.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP checked his pistol and weighed it in his hand as he thought about his options.
In no time at all, the first of the walkers had reached the top of the hill.
"Alright?" shouted the walker, thumbs aloft, in a broad Brummie accent.
Derek Branston-Chutney MP sighed. "It's going to be a long day," he observed quietly, as he reloaded his pistol.

AN EXCERPT FROM THE ROYAL LINEAGE, SHOWING THE NAMES OF THOSE WHO SAT ON THE THRONE FOR THE FIRST HOUR, FOLLOWING 'THE GREAT BRAINWAVE'
Higginbottom, Neville (Neville the First)
Flatwick, Gordon
Bradley-Spazpecker, John J. (Yankie the First, and Last)
Harris, Phillip (Brummie the Only)
Cartwright, Jenny Samantha
Partington, Neville (Neville the Second)
Hucknall, Michael
Koch, Klaus
Postlethwaite, Ernest P.
Booker, Cedric
Elms, Mary Elizabeth
Lloyd, Boyd
Griffiths, Geraint Meredith
Higgins, Kirstie
Edwards, Edwin (Edwin the Short)
Niss, Peter
Samson, John
Chuffington-Crump, Neville (Neville the Third)
Owen, Timothy (Timmy the Great)
Spot
Wright-Corker, Angela
Jones, Terrance 'Teabag' (Teabag the First)
Jones Jnr, Terrance 'Teabag' (Teabag the Second)
Lincoln, Steven
Thelwell, Mark 'Tomptus' (King Tomptus)
Beecham, Leonard
Badger
Dong, Arthur
Smart, Marcus
Mann, Huan
Hemmings, Doris
Santana, Ronald
Wiener, MC "Big Boy"
Dave (King Dave the Illiterate)
Millward, Emma Jane

YOU. ARE. IT.

As I emerged from the house that morning, it became clear that something was seriously wrong with the world.
I should have guessed when I awoke to static on the radio. Or when I opened the curtains and didn't see, or hear, any traffic. Perhaps the lack of a TV signal should have given me cause to worry. 
But no, I'm always a bit slow to wake up properly in the mornings. It takes me ages to notice anything.
Yet, as I emerged from the house, I could hide from the signs no longer. There were at least three dozen people in the street, with torn clothes and palid faces, staggering around like zombies. 
I have to admit: it was pretty scary.
What could have happened? Has Mrs Dixon farted? I wondered. Is Steve Lincoln's new album out?
I noticed that one of the shuffling, fetid people in the street had spotted me and begun to stagger in my direction. Was that a zombie? Or perhaps Dave Evans...? I could not work out which - Dave had always looked like that, so it was impossible to tell.
He - or it - mumbled something to me, but I could not make out the words. But I did not like his tone, so I started to back away nervously.
Just then the creature stopped, at least five metres away from me. He began to gesticulate, in a rather agitated fashion. He was clearly pointing up the street, trying to draw my attention to something which I could not see from where I stood on the doorstep.
I had to make a decision: barricade myself in the house, or take a look at what the creature was pointing at. It was so hard to choose, but finally I decided to take the plunge because, for the moment at least, the beast did not appear to be a threat.
I took one step outside, trying to see what the creature was pointing at. No, I still could not see anything. I tried standing on tiptoe. Still, no good. But the creature continued to gesticulate, more urgently now, so cursing myself under my breath, I let curiosity got the better of me and took a few further steps away from the house and into the street.
That was my undoing. 
Suddenly, without warning, the creature came alive. It moved like lightning, far too quickly for me to react. The monster lunged towards me and slapped my arm.
"TAG!" cried Dave, for that is who the creature was - I could see that now. "YOU'RE IT!" he hollered in my face, grinning from ear to ear. Then he legged it, before my mind could even register what had happened, and all the other so-called zombies ran off too, laughing and squealing.
I sighed and shook my head, disappointed with myself. I should have realised.
They take the game of 'tag' ever so seriously in our town.

THE LAST TRAIN

Somewhere between Purgatory and Hell, there lies a town called Redditch. People tend not to talk about the town very much, because - let's face it - if you leave Purgatory and find yourself in Redditch, then you know that the next stop is not going to be a good one.
Fortunately for the little Chinese lady sat half way along the second carriage, the train on which she travelled was heading in the other direction. 
As the train pulled out of Purgatory, the Chinese lady, who was known as Bob (long story), breathed a sigh of relief. The ordeal was over - no more having to look through Peter Seago's extensive collection of photographs for her.
Bob glanced around the carriage. 
Odd, she thought, as she spied a morris dancer in full costume, sat at the back. Surely he should be heading the other way...?
"Tickets please!" declared the conductor, interrupting Bob's train of thought. (Train! Geddit?) He had just entered the carriage from a doorway at the front.
"Ta love, that's great," said the conductor, after he had punched Bob's ticket. Then he continued down the aisle towards the morris man.
"A day return to Ripley Bottom please," said Morris. Yes, that really was his name.
The ticketmeister just stared at him for a moment.
"You want a return ticket to Purgatory?" he asked, with more than a hint of disbelief.
Morris nodded.
"Pull the other one mate, it's got bells on," said the conductor.
So that is precisely what Morris did, complete with a little dance and much waving of handkerchiefs.
Suddenly the train lurched, slowed, then stopped.
Oh, good grief! thought Bob. They're going to take us back to Purgatory - the photographs! Or on to Redditch and beyond!
Suddenly there was a knock at the train's window. A very persistent knock. Bob tried to ignore it, but it would not go away. Bob began to panic. Her eyes opened wide, and she sat bolt upright.
She was in bed. It had all been a dream.
There was a persistent knock on the bedroom door.
"Come in," she said.
A tall, demented looking man came in carrying a mug of hot tea and a bacon sandwich.
"Breakfast time!" declared Peter Seago, as he set down Bob's breakfast on top of the drawers next to her bed. "Get that down you. Then we can crack on with some more of my photos. I bet I haven't shown you the ones of me on my latest trip to a bothy in Wales..."
Bob picked up the bacon sandwich and stared at it dejectedly.
More photos!
Bob thought for a moment about making a break for it and climbing out of the window. But where could she go? The road outside led only to Redditch.  It was either that, or keep looking through Seago's photographs. How many more could there possibly be?
It was going to be a tough choice...