Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Part 6

Tom Jones, the man so virile that saying his name three times makes you pregnant starred down into the steam filled cavern, what greeted his eyes sickened him. Hundreds of cult followers were crammed into the cave all facing the gigantic stone effigy of Latoya Jackson. Below the grotesque idol dressed in the robes of a Norwegian death metal bassist stood Icke revelling in the awe of his disciples.

“LATOYA MA!” roared Icke sending the assembled mass into further frenzied chanting. Clapping his hands in the air in signal two worshipers began to beat on drums whilst Mr Alan Titchmarsh appeared with a struggling prisoner.

Wee jimmy looked on in horror “what are they doing Dr Jones?”

“They pray to Latoya, goddess of terrible music, they mean to make a sacrifice” said Jones barely taking his eyes of the scene below.

The prisoner had been stripped to the waist and had lost much of his spirit; Titchmarsh slapped him across the face and forced him to towards the crowd.

Jones made an intake of breath; it was mild mannered reporter John Craven formerly of John Cravens Newsround. He had retired from journalism some time ago but it was often said that he carried on his search for the truth despite his retirement. It seemed that his search would end tonight in the depths of the castle.

Mr Alan Titchmarsh locked Craven into a cage suspended on long iron chains over a door in the floor of the evil alter.

Icke loomed in close to John Craven and began to recite “LATAOYA MA, LATOYA MA” over and over whilst holding his hand against the mild mannered reporter’s chest.

Either to block out the noise or to somehow protect himself Craven began to call out his own mantra “Krishnan Guru-Murthy, Krishnan Guru-Murthy, Krishnan Guru-Murthy….”.

Without warning Icke plunged his hand into John Cravens chest and pulled out his still beating heart “LATOYA MA!!!” he screamed.

His audience went crazy, gripped in their fervent fanaticism they beat their chests like gorillas and shouted back the unholy name of their god.

“My God, he’s still alive” commented Jones to Wee Jimmy who was dry retching in the corner.

John Craven continued to chant despite having no heart and Titchmarsh ordered men to lift up the cage and open the trapdoor. Hot gasses vented up out from the now open passage and more red light spilled out.

“We must be directly over the Isle of Wight volcano; it has been thought to have been extinct since the birth of Bruce Forsyth over a million years ago”.

The chanting had reached fever pitch now as Icke whipped up the crowd, then with a sudden downward arm slash he signalled the men to drop the cage into the molten rock below. In his other hand he held aloft the heart of the bastion of children’s news until it set alight the moment its owner hit the fiery hell below.

The show over the worshippers started to file out below and Jones could see many more familiar faces than at dinner: Pete Waterman, Simon Cowell, Rick Astley and Sonia.

Once the cave was completely empty Jones turned to Wee Jimmy “I’ve got to get down there Boyo” he said stripping off his shirt to reveal his luxuriously hairy chest.

“But why Dr Jones, lets just get out of here, this place is crazy!” pleaded Jimmy.

“For them” said Jones simply, pointing to the alter below. Jimmy peered down and saw the object of his interest, a turntable and collection of records.

Using his natural Welsh strength Jones easily scaled the glass like walls of the cavern and made it to the alter. The hideous figure of Latoya Jackson grinned manically down at him over its inhuman features. Slowly with many furtive glances around Jones walked towards the turntable a faint sound of static in the air. On the table were three albums on vinyl by: The Who, The Doors and Jimmy Hendrix. It looked as if there was a place for two others as well but they were missing. Slowly revolving on the turntable was the single Nutbush City Limits by Tina Turner, Jones grabbed this as well and stuffed them into the Netto bag Jimmy had supplied him with.

Jimmy could do nothing but bite his nails with apprehension whilst watching from above. Jones gave him a wave then disappeared behind the alter into the tunnels beyond.

“Where the hell you going Dr Jones” Jimmy exclaimed softly but Jones was too far away to hear. Sitting down grumpily he didn’t see the massive shadow pass behind him until it was too late and a chubby hand grabbed at his soldier. He spun round to face the podgy grimace of Phil Jupitus “Gotcha little spy, we are going to have fun with you!”

Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Part 4

It took the party several hours by giant dormouse to reach the castle along the overgrown islands roads. Wee Jimmy sweated profusely, unused to the near tropical climate of 22° “Dr Jones are we nearly there, this mouse is starting to smell almost as bad as me”

Jones, twice winner of the special services to the knickers industry award, turned to their guide Trevor who pointed into the distance.

Through the vegetation they saw the tower of the castle, a flag depicting an upright lizard could be seen fluttering in the afternoon breeze.

A figure loomed out of the bushes ahead, meeting the travellers head on “Greetings, and welcome to Carisbrooke Castle, My name is Alan Titchmarsh, but you may call me Mr Alan Titchmarch”.

Trevor screamed and reigning in his mouse, escaped as fast as he could, leaving Tom and Wee Jimmy alone with Mr Alan Titchmarsh.

Titchmarsh smiled greasily “I was out picking flowers for the castle; I am the masters head gardener. If you would follow me I will escort you to the castle and you will be made welcome. There is to be a feast tonight”. He bowed low and it was only then that they noticed his strange garb. He wore only fishing waders and a bowler hat, his privates being covered in a hunk of mud.

Wee Jimmy made to say something but was silenced with a look from Jones who answered the insane gardener. “That would be lovely, please lead the way”.

After a few moments they reached the castle grounds, it was not the ruin Tom had been expecting, everywhere hippies were at work rebuilding walls or toiling in the gardens.

They were shown to rooms in one of the guest wings of the castle and given fresh clothes, though pleasant Dr Jones and Jimmy couldn’t help but feel a shadow of malevolence over the entire castle. At six o clock they were invited to the great feast, Tom strode down the castle corridors like a man at home, however Wee Jimmy shuffled with great trepidation.

As they sat down in the great hall, Wee Jimmy took note of the assembled diners; it was a demonic guest list. Mr Alan Titchmarsh sat at one end then down from him were, The Osbournes, Mark King of Level 42, Jeremy Irons, Phill Jupitus and Ellen MacArthur. On the other side were people he didn’t recognise, they may have been politicians as they had an air of corruption about them. Somewhere a tubular bell tolled and the assembled sycophants rose to greet the new Lord of Carisbrooke Castle, David Icke.

Icke’s deranged eyes went round the table taking in the faces, momentarily stopping on Jones though he showed no reaction. Then he smiled seating himself at the head of the table and indicating everyone else should sit too.

Phill Jupitus rubbed his hands together his bearded face shining with unconcealed glee “This will be a real treat” he proclaimed as hippie servants entered carrying covered silver platters. Despite his fears Wee Jimmy’s stomach begins to rumble and he decided that eating whatever delicacies were offered should be his first priority.

The servant removed the lid; it was a platter of square sausages, turkey twizzlers and chicken nuggets with clear pus leaking from them.

Wee Jimmy gagged, even in his most depraved Scottish moments of deep frying boiled eggs he would never touch a turkey twizzler. Jupitus had no such qualms and quickly demolished the whole portion, belching loudly much to the amusement of Ellen MacArthur.

Jones ignored the food and engaged their host in conversation “We came from a village, they said a sacred album had been stolen, and their weed taken”. A cold silence engulfed the table as eyes searched around the guests. Mark King quickly piped up “Rumours Dr Jones, nothing more. These Hippies are little more than animals they…”

Jones quickly cut him off “They said a new evil had come to Carisbrooke Castle, that the Carisbrooke cult was again growing powerful.”

The next plate of food arrived, Wee Jimmy was hopeful for something edible, but his request was soon dashed as the cover was removed to reveal, Dr Brains Faggots in gravy.

Icke turned his solemn eyes on Jones. “I too have heard these rumours of an ancient cult and such, I though they were told to frighten celebrities, then later I found out that they were true. Let me assure you Dr Jones, and everyone here, that whilst I am Lord of Carisbrooke such things can never happen again.” With that he returned to his meal leaving Jones no option but to do likewise.

“Ahh dessert!” exclaimed Jupitus, gravy smothered over his face.

“What is it” asked Wee Jimmy carefully.

“Sarah Lee chocolate cake, it has been out for an hour and is still frozen in the middle, mmn delicious”.

After the meal Dr Jones and Jimmy returned to their rooms to discuss what they had each found out. Jones the Welsh Legend was sure something stank, and it wasn’t just Wee Jimmy.

Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Part 3

Tom Jones twice winner of the Nobel Love Prize, climbed down from Wee Jimmy’s shoulders onto the soft white sand of the Isle of Wight.

The windswept hippie ancient was babbling incoherently now, with only snatches of words and band names making sense. Tom cautiously padded over and with great tenderness punched him in the face. “Stop talking like a pepper mill boyo, what is the matter with you?”

The flower power disciple picked himself up from the sand and wiped his blood smeared mouth “Thank you venerable master Jones, it has been so long since I have been in the presence of greatness that I forget myself. Please follow me to our village and you will find refreshment from your travels.” He bowed low then turned and disappeared into the undergrowth.

“I don’t like this Dr Jones, that thing was creepy” stated Wee Jimmy.

“Don’t fear them Jimmy, they were men once like us. Besides we will need a guide out of this godforsaken place.”

They followed the surprisingly sprightly pacifist into the dense Wightian undergrowth until they emerged into a clearing. In its centre was the hippie commune, a dirty ramshackle excuse of a village, it seemed that due to lack of building materials they had built their homes from excrement. Wee Jimmy caught a whiff on the breeze and quickly vomited his breakfast of porridge and iron brew all over a kneeling woman. She didn’t even react but simply continued to rock back and forth chanting.

They were escorted into one of the larger poo huts and given a meal of sticks and hand collected rainwater. After a few moments the village elder came in, he was a short man naked save for a ginormous beard that covered most of his body. He gave the visitors a low bow and seated himself cross legged before them, after a moment he indicated they should speak.

“Morning Hippie Lord, we are travellers in your land and need to return to the mainland, have you someone who could guide us to the port at Norton? Enquired Jones.

“Trevor will guide you, on the way you will stop at Carisbrooke Castle”,

Jones looked puzzled “but Carisbrooke is not on the way to Norton, and anyway the place has been abandoned since the mutiny in 1975 hasn’t it?”

The old village chief shook his head morosely “No, a new Lord resides in Carisbrooke Castle now and the castle is powerful again. It is Carisbrooke that kills my village.” Indy shook his head to explain he didn’t understand and the old fruit continued. “The evil starts in Carisbrooke, then like a light drizzle it moves discontent over the island. They came from Carisbrooke and took the ‘Live’”.

Wee Jimmy gave Jones a quizzical look forcing him to explain. “It’s a sacred album, The Who Live on The Isle of Wight”.

The naked chief looked deep into Toms eyes “Its is why The Who have sent you to us, you will go to Carisbrooke, find the ‘Live’ and bring it back to us”.

Jones shook his head softly. “Sorry pops but we just need to get out of here, besides why would this new Lord take the album?”

The elders face grew dark and he answered “The Lord uses it bring forth evil, he says we must pray also. We said no, then he took the sacred disc. That is when our crops die and the women deny us free love. Then…..” the hippie suddenly had huge tears in his eyes and his head dropped. “Then they took our weed”.

Tom almost fell backwards in shock, truly this was evil. To steal the weed from a hippie village was to tear its heart out. With grim determination he stood up in the sewage made house. “Ok old fella, I will find the ‘Live’ and bring back your weed”.

The village elder stood also and bowed saying “We knew you would, for you are the Tom Jones”.

Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Part 2

Dr Jones (presented with an honorary doctorate in “Deep Love” by Bangor University in 1987) sat on board Nails Lear Jet sipping Dom Perignon from a pint glass. The sky had started to lighten outside and dawn would soon break over the country. Jones had instructed his sidekick Wee Jimmy Krankie to fly them to the south of France. Tom had been without a woman for almost twelve hours, it would now take the combined efforts of the Monaco Ladies Beach Volleyball team to return him to full strength.

Suddenly whilst Tom daydreamed of the frolics to come the cabin lost all pressure and the plane began to go into a steep dive, before Jones had time to ask Wee Jimmy what had happened a shot was fired just above his head. Turning he saw just by the open cabin door the symbiotic hit men Robson and Jerome. Both were wearing parachutes and I ♥ Soldier Soldier T-shirts. Tom realised that they must have been hiding in the toilets the entire time and had soon discovered that Nail was not on board.

Robson stepped forward waving his pistol at him before Tom had time to react.

“Not so fast Jones, we have the last two parachutes and have cut the fuel lines, soon our master will reward us for destroying you”.

Jerome the “host” of the relationship poked his head round from behind Robson and shook his fist menacingly.

Just then Wee Jimmy burst out of the cockpit running at full pelt into Nails henchmen, Robson tried in vain to get out of the way but was caught up in the legs of his partner causing them to topple out of the open door, quickly swept away into the clouds.

“Good job Jimmy, can you get this crate back in the air?” asked Jones relaxing his coiled physique.

“No Good Dr Jones, no fuel and this plane no built for gliding!” said jimmy picking up his school cap.

Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully then began to rummage through the cupboards and overhead lockers.

“Aha! Quick Jimmy try to get us as low as possible, I think I have an idea” explained Jones starting to pull things out of a cupboard marked “Private”.

Within moments Wee Jimmy was back after levelling out the plane and setting it to autopilot. He returned to find Jones lashing together blow up dolls with dental floss.

“Hey Dr Jones this is no time for love!”

“Shut up Boyo and get on” cried the Welsh legend.

Jimmy obeyed and Jones used his powerful abdominal thrust to force them through the cabin door and out into the awaiting sky.

Freefall.

The sea rushed up to meet the escaping heroes hitting them like a solid wall, luckily the blow up dolls took the brunt of the impact and they were able to hang on.

Several of the less well made dolls had burst, however the sturdier vinyl ones held and Jones instructed Wee Jimmy to start paddling them into the coast while he rearrange his hair.

After about an hour they reached a windswept sandy beach and Wee Jimmy waded ashore with Dr Jones on his shoulders. Jones passed his enquiring eye over the terrain “This isn’t France Jimmy, I think we landed a bit prematurely”.

Just then a figure dressed in ragged flairs and bright orange shirt shambled out of the bushes. He was in his sixties with a long white beard and had laurel of plastic can holders around his head. He saw them on the beach and began running towards them shouting. “Have you brought it back? Please I have been here for so long, have you brought it back?”

Jones’s eyes went wide with comprehension. “My God! One of the Lost Festival People of 1970, we thought them extinct”.

Wee Jimmy looked puzzled and said “but where are we Dr Jones and what does it mean?”

Jones’s face turned grave. “We are on the Isle of Wight Jimmy, and it means…..trouble”