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”.