Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Season Finale

Tom Jones the mightiest man dragon ever produced by the nation of Cymru, strode away from the alter of Latoya Jackson. In a side room he found the sacred records of the Isle of Wight Festival as well as the curious Tina Turner single “Nut Bush City Limits”. Looking about the room for a carrier bag to put the records in, he opened a battered looking locker. It was stuffed full of Iceland bags but before he took one Wee Jimmy cried out, “wait Dr Jones. In the bottom lookie”.

There at the base was a rather worn MkVII British Gas Mask Bag, obviously a relic of the castles war days. Jones sighed, if he had been seen carrying an Iceland supermarket bag he would have never lived it down, forced to do hideous commercials in an effort to sell frozen death to mothers.

He quickly threw the bag over his muscular shoulder and deposited the precious vinyl inside.

Travelling down a roughly hewn stone corridor they nearly stumbled into the dastardly Mr Alan Titchmarsh. He was too busy whipping a poor hippie into unconsciousness to notice when Jones plucked the long leather whip from his upraised hand.

“Now then Boyo, I think your bulbs need planting” said Jones smiling as Mr Alan Titchmarsh turned to face the welsh legend with a quizzical look on his face. Tom swiftly kicked the green fingered sadist square in the testicles. Titchmarsh’s eyes crossed and he let out a low keening noise, before Tom could pretend to stop him the Hippie was on the gardener like a flash of fury.

“Looks like a private fight to me, lets move on Jimmy,” Tom eyed the whip in his large hands. “Think I’ll keep hold of this though”.

As they moved further into the depths of the castle the smell of wizard’s pipeweed grew stronger, its pungent odour indicating they would soon reach the underground plantation.

A voice could be heard up ahead, it seemed to be someone practising a meeting….”Hello…..Hel-lo” they gave a phlegmy cough “Hello, I’m Allan”

Peering round an opening in the side of the tunnel, the duo looked into what must be private quarters. A man stood in front of a full length mirror, holding out his hand as if offering it to his reflection to shake. He wore a dark suit and his face was obscured by a brown fedora hat. Slowly the figure raised its chin revealing a smooth face; the top lip sported a crudely drawn biro moustache. A malevolent eye shot into a corner as it saw the figures observing from the doorway. The suited figure spun with fists raised to reveal Ellen MacArthur beneath the fedora, her cheeks burning red. “I’ll kill you before you are able to speak of this Jones!” Screamed the sea faring man-she.

The circumnavigating female came at them like a tsunami, arms flailing and foaming at the mouth.

Jones raised an eyebrow, “Normally I would never hit a woman, however I don’t think you count…Allen”. With that the Welsh legend let fly a devastating haymaker punch instantly knocking Ellen MacArthur unconscious. Jones rubbed his knuckles, and noticed the hat at his feet. Placing the dog eared fedora on his head he glanced back at MacArthurs crumpled form. “Thanks for the hat sailor”.

It took twenty minutes to reach the ganja cavern were the hippies were still hard at work under the malevolent gaze of their task master, Mark King of Level 42.

One gentle flower power child had fallen behind in harvesting the green gold. King pounced on the man, savagely beating him with the neck of a bass guitar.

Mark King glanced up from his re-educating of the bearded weirdy, into the smoky light of the tunnel to see the illuminated form of Jones in his fedora hat, whip at hand.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

“I’m Tom Jones, and I’m going to teach you some lessons in Love,” with that Jones flicked his whip knocking the guitar from Kings hand, “Someone should have done that a long time ago” roared Jones moving in for the kill.

Brief moments later the Level 42 front man was making his way through a wood chipper to the tumultuous applause of the joyful hippies.

Tom shook a lock of the pop rockers hair free of his fist and climbed onto a nearby rock. “Hippies, listen to me, you are now free. Take all this weed back to your love camps and be happy. The Latoya Cult is finished.”

The hippies cheered but were soon harvesting the wacky backy faster than they ever had for their oppressive masters. Once they had several kilos each they made for a large mineshaft exit to the left of the cavern.

Jones stood guard until the final child of Aquarius gleefully ran from the plantation. “Ok Jimmy lets get out of here, and if we meet Icke on the way, all the better”.

“Not so fast Jones!” came an almost incoherent call from the stone passageway they had recently come down, there stood the whole tribe of Osbourne.

Jimmy started to square up but Jones placed a warning hand on his shoulder, “It’s no good Jimmy there are too many of them, plus Ozzy is practically indestructible without heavy armament. Quick lets head for the mineshaft.” He turned to the wobbling Rocker, “Hey Ozzy, isn’t that Bob Daisley behind you?”

With the tribe distracted the duo made for the exit the hippies had disappeared down.

After a few wrong turns they found some tracks and a couple of rickety looking carts, the sound of swearing was drawing closer as the Osbournes closed in.

“Quick into the front cart Jimmy, we have to get out of here fast”, said Jones pulling some levers.

Wee Jimmy jumped in as ordered shortly followed by Tom. “Hey Dr Jones, this cart it say ‘Brighton Ghost Train’ on it?” but his voice was drowned out by swearing as the Osborne family arrived just as the crap ghost train judderingly set off.

They flew down the tunnel at slightly faster than walking pace, passing a plastic skeleton and a curtain made of wet woollen strands.

The Osbournes were left to argue amongst themselves as the Welsh legend made good his escape.

After a mere two hours the cart came to a halt, bringing the riders out of their slumber in the bright Isle of Wight sunshine. They had exited just next to a deep ravine on a steep cliff face, the only exit was a tiny rope bridge across to the other side. It had recently been erected to help the Red Squirrel population traverse the gap without resorting to the use of the busy road deep below.

Slapping Wee Jimmy awake Jones then led his diminutive sidekick out across Squirrels doom. Five steps from freedom David Icke stepped out of the rhododendrons “That’s far enough Dr Jones, Ill be taking back the records in your bag now please” drawled Icke brandishing a pearl handled pistol. Tom glanced over his shoulder the Ozzy tribe were approaching from the other side.

Jones backed away back across the rodent rope bridge, unlslinging the bag he held it over the side. “Any closer Boyo and the records fall” threatened Jones.

Icke grinned “Drop them Dr Jones, I have them on cassette” he said moving out onto the bridge.

Jones withdrew a manicure set from the pocket of his skin tight trousers; selecting the nail scissors he held them against the delicate ropes of the bridge. He nodded his head to Jimmy and spoke to him in his own language. “Laddie get a bosey on with that rope, we are gonna put this galoot into the glen”

Jimmy nodded and wrapped his tiny child arms around the rope of the squirrel bridge.

Jones cut the bridge…

The Osbournes were caught totally unaware and tumbled into the ravine with barley a snatched insult as they went. Icke seemed to be heading the same way but as he passed the Welsh legend he grabbed and caught hold again, coming face to face with Tom. He immediately began his evil mantra. “LATOYA…LATOYA…LATOYA” he screamed with a hand over Jones’ chest, his pistol discarded in the fall. Tom fought the demonic forces that ripped at his chest and head butted Icke. Icke screamed as his nose burst like a beetroot, but he just frantically clawed at the bag of records. “Give them to me Jones, give me Tina”.

Tom’s mind reeled as he gasped for breath. Tina, of course that was the power that would link the records, the single that could ignite the magic.

Icke began his chanting again, drawing on the vast well of evil that was Latoya Jackson but Tom now had his answer and began repeating it. “You betrayed Tina, Tum Tina ke vishwaas karte ho!”

Power emanated from the bag of records and it began to smoke, Ickes eyes went wide and he recited his words again, but Jones was ready for him. “You betrayed Tina, Tum Tina ke vishwaas karte ho!”

The bag burst into flames and the records began tumbling out, ready to be smashed to pieces on the traffic below. Icke grabbed the album ‘The Who – Live At The Isle Of Wight Festival’, the last to fall out. As soon as the sacred vinyl touched his hands it burned with the power of Rock, and he dropped it into Tom’s waiting hand. Suddenly off balance Wee Jimmy saw his opportunity and pulled of the evil priest’s pants, the force was enough to dislodge Icke and sent him screaming to his death on the tarmac below. Though surely dead his fate was sealed as an Iceland home delivery van drove over his corpse.

A few hours later and Jones was back at the Hippie village eating a meal of quorn and rocks. The sacred record had been returned and the gentle villagers were getting off their tits on weed.

Jones smiled “Well its all back to normal Jimmy, we best be off”.

Wee Jimmy smiled back “But where are we going now Dr Jones?”

Jones grinned showing his perfect teeth “I still have an important engagement with a certain ladies volley ball team. Those ladies need my love, and God knows after the last couple of days I certainly need theirs”.

FIN

Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Part 8

Drums rumble like angry beasts, setting the rhythm for the evil congregations incessant chanting. “LATOYA….LATOYA….LATOYA….”

Wee Jimmy Krankie is shackled to an iron cage at the centre of the dastardly dais; he struggles furiously against his bonds, but to little avail.

David Icke, master of the Latoya Jackson cult and evil mastermind behind the hippie’s herbless enslavement, calls to his followers across the room on the other side of a moat of lava.

“Behold! They came to steal from Latoya, but now they will die for her!” He shouts to the crowd who increase in volume their rabid chanting. Signalling to his lackey, Phil Jupitus, Icke continues to stir the congregation into frenzy.

From a side chamber the pie loving Jupitus leads Dr Tom Jones, last of the Welsh Mohicans and five times winner of Bella magazines arse of the year. The Pop God shuffled out, his upper torso naked and shiny from sanctifying oils. Several ladies have to be removed from the audience due to nymphomatic shock, a startling side effect to Tom’s presence that threatened to break their conditioning.

Jones was not himself, his mind was addled by the sodastream evil he had been force fed hours earlier.

“See the non believer had been awakened to our cause. Now Jones, close the cage and send him into the arms of Latoya!” roared Icke, foam flecking his chin.

Jones moved Zombie like to the cage where Wee Jimmy was shackled; it could be only moments before his tiny midget heart was ripped from his body. In his fogged mental state Jones began checking the shackles and Jimmy tried to reason with the singing legend. “Tommy, please Tommy, snap out of it!”

Jones turned his dead eyes upon his half-pint sidekick and simply muttered “Latoya!”

“Noooooooo, Dr Jones, I gotta snap you out of this, there must be a way” pleaded Jimmy but Jones continued his mantra, reciting the queen of bad music’s name over and over.

Jimmy wracked his brains and tried words almost at random “Wales….Singing….Records……err…..Girls” at the last word Jones’ head twitched, Jimmy pushed home his new found advantage.

“Sex, sexy ladies, err…..” Jimmy not being even half the man in stature or bedroom experience of ‘The Jones’ stumbled to find more power words. Tom was starring at him now an inquisitive look on his broad features.

Jimmy tried one last effort “Err….Big….Big….BIG FAT TITTIES!” He yelled.

Tom’s eyes refocused losing their light glaze and he shook his head. In the background Icke was looking troubled. Jones gave him a quick glance and then recited aloud “LATOYA.”

Jimmy’s hopes crashed at the sound of that terrible name, tears welled in his eyed and he looked into his role models face. Jones winked.

“Now Jones, step aside and I will take his heart for Latoya” cried Icke allowing the Welsh legend to pass behind him.

As soon as he was past, Tom quickly set in with the kidney punches, a special move learnt in the working men’s clubs of Cardiff. Icke went down like a sack of leeks.

Phil Jupitus his face slick with sweat waddled over to come to his master’s aid. With a right hook more powerful than a Shirley Bassey Medley Tom sent the fat comedian tumbling to his doom, down the trap door under Wee Jimmy. The Crowd of Smash Hits readers on the other side of the moat could do nothing but shout and throw arm bands for various charities.

Tom swivelled, ready to finish off Icke only to find the crazy cult leader had vanished. Realising they were now alone on the alter, Jones strode over to free his diminutive sidekick. Jimmy grinned at his boss, relief showing in his eyes “What now Boss?”

Jones smiled “Now were getting out of here, all of us”.

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”

Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Part 1

Its 1995 and everyone’s favourite welsh pop singer is halfway through a powerful performance of Delilah at Newcastle’s top venue The Stage Door. Tom is as ever wowing the ladies with his patented hip gyrations when suddenly the notorious gangster Jimmy Nail bursts in scattering the assembled lovelies.

Jimmy’s goons (the cast of auf wiedersehen pet) quickly surround the stage and aggressively point their automatic weapons on Wales’s number one son.

“Way Aye Jones, you stole me Crocodile Shoes Man! I want em back” screamed the furious Geordie.

“Those shoes are a crime against fashion Boyo, I destroyed them as you should have done long ago Jimmy” Tom calmly explained whilst secretly motioning to the karaoke machine behind his back.

Nail exploded unleashing a tirade of insults that would put Dockers to shame, meanwhile behind the stage Tom’s sidekick Wee Jimmy Krankie carefully made his way to the fat bird magnet.

“Hadaway man, you must by lying, cos if your not you’re a deed man. Oootside Noooo!” cried the tragic pop crooner Nail.

“Now Wee Jimmy!” roared Jones to the karaoke machine in the corner.

Suddenly the air was filled with Gazza’s rendition of “Fog on the Tyne” and the Geordie mobsters were transfixed by their regional anthem, forcing them to salute, a single tear rolling down Nails cheek.

Jones losing no time ran from the nightclub with Wee Jimmy following as fast as his diminutive stature would allow.

Outside they found two bouncers who were still dealing with the riddle Nail had bamboozled them with to get past.

“Is it a Coal ship do ya think?”

“Nooo Man he said, on what kind of ships do students study?”

Tom saw that they were both on the verge of mental collapse and would be of no use holding off the chasing goons. Luckily Wee Jimmy saw their escape route parked on double yellows across the street. Nail had left his private Lear jet open with the engine running.

“Quick Mr Jones, to the Jet”

“You’re a marvel Shorty” complemented Jones

“I keep telling you, you listen to me more, you live longer!” explained Wee Jimmy racing to the plane.

Within minutes Wee Jimmy had the plane ready for takeoff, having learnt to fly whilst accompanying Jones on his many international travels.

“Step on it Wee Jimmy” called Tom whilst trying to find something to drink that wasn’t Newcastle Brown Ale in the bar.

“Okey Dokey Mr Jones, hold onto your leeks!”

Nail stepped over the unconscious bouncers into the crisp nigh air just as the jet took off. He watched it climb away into the murky night sky and began to laugh.