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Chairman Humph lived for the Great Game. His mastery of MC was non pareil over four continents and he was working on his strategy for the Asian Mornington Crescent Championships, to be held in Bangkok, later in the month. Airports are agonisingly dull places to be and therefore perfect for freeing the mind from mundane shackles, the better to invent fiendish new curves to throw in Premier League matches of MC. When he had been younger and his mind keener, before the BBC went to Hell with the departure of Tom Coates, the BBC canteen had been his MC War Room of choice but, alas, no longer.
The Costa Coffee outlet in Terminal 2 was buzzing but Humph was unaware of it as he ploughed manfully through a weighty, weighty tome he’d borrowed from Mordant (Jenkinson's unabridged Green guide to the Chalk Farm rules). He was up to page 144 and the blasphemous Brook-Taylor infringement of 1978 by the time concentration slackened and he began to woolgather.
A sudden shaft of sunlight through a far, high window struck his venerable octogenarian countenance, his bushy eyebrows shading those ancient eyes, as he glimpsed and registered his bookmark. It was a postcard from Mrs Trellis in North Wales, asking after Samantha, whose absence from Humph’s legendary show had been a sorrow to the listening nation.
The old man’s loins flushed with warmth as he saw his faithful protegée in his mind’s eye. She was now beyond his reach, perhaps forever, as she put all her efforts into the affair with Richard Whiteley and tried to break into hostessing on Countdown.
Humph’s heart lurched in his spindly, wheezing old chest as he realised it would take only one risky oyster canapé in some fashionable eaterie to lay La Vorderman low and Samantha’s big break would come. Then she could be irredeemably beyond his reach. Damn her ambitious bikini-clad failed super-model career pretensions!
Of a sudden, he knew he must straightway make a move to reclaim her. This time he would have the courage to declare himself and take her pneumatic body in his manly arms and press his suit imperiously. But for this damnable tube strike, he could go immediately to the Channel 4 studios and wrench his prize from raunchy Richard.
The sweet certainty of this moment evaporated in an instant, however, as his other startling young protegé appeared miraculously before him, breaking into Humph’s revelry. The older man’s pulse quickened as his gaze sharpened on muscular young Sven, resplendant before him, just back from visiting his family in Sweden.
Luscious Samantha’s cleavage and clever cuteness were, in that moment, forgotten as Humph’s eyes caressed the curve of Sven’s bubble butt and encompassed that broad Viking chest. The eager boy turned and Humph gasped, involuntarily, to discover the boy’s excitement to thus encounter his mentor evident under the fly of twisted jeans.
“Oh, curse my secret “invert” streak, this late-onset sexual deviance!” wailed Humph, inwardly. He owed it to Samantha to realise their enclenched destiny. He had an almightily alluring sexual imperative to fulfill with her! But, as the smiling Scandinavian love-puppet bent over Humph to kiss his cheek and muss his remaining strands of hair, the sexually charged octogenarian breathed in the aroma of Lime Shower Gel which Sven, customarily, exuded.
“Sir, I am trapped in dis place by de Tube Strike. But you look zö tired and stressed. Cöme wid me tö my Ikea-filled bachelör pad,” bubbled the eager Swedish puppy, “then ve can have a relaxing ströll ön de Heath. I vill make you förget your troubles…”
The die was cast! Sir Humph would go to the Heath with his Scandinavian ephebe and make Greek love to a Swede under a bush. Thailand and World Mornington Crescent Domination could wait! His brain feverishly reviewed his options, unable entirely to surrender the game.
To Mornington Crescent via the Heath? Hawking’s Quantum Dictum would allow a direct invocation of Hampstead but he had disallowed that when Willie Rushton tried it in 1984. Humph called on his wealth of inspired and subjunctive moves to navigate through the infinite possible routes.
“Terminal 2 to Hampstead?” He pondered, “Since Kit-Cat Club has already invoked the Tube Strike Utterly Dismal Shafting Amendment, the way is open for me to get a lift in Jeremy Sprake’s Lada (when he touches down shortly from Miami) all the way to Kensal Rise and then, when the 24 hour strike ends, it’s a short walk to the overland line. From Kensal Rise to Hampstead (and only two cunning moves from there to Mornington Crescent!)" Sir Humphrey chuckled gleefully, in anticipation of sexual and MC triumph, and slapped Sven on his steely butt.
He gathered up his belongings and followed his enticing prey to the exit. En route, he stopped at the internet terminal to check upon the progress of the game. “Bastards!” he cried, feebly. “Tezcatlipoca has stolen the game from me! Oxford bloody Circus!” Sven soothed his irascible master with tender but firm effleurage strokes of the upper back, under the tweed jacket. To himself Humph pronounced, “How that man’s game has improved. That move was poetry, audaciously ground breaking!”
Thoughts of Kensal Rise abandoned, the Heath still far away, Sven led Humph into the nearest Gents for a spot of mutual fellatio, which eased the older man’s frustration considerably. But, as Humph came to whimpering orgasm, masticated by thin Swedish lips, it was the thundering cheek and towering genius of Tezcatlipoca which excited him…
Somewhere entirely elsewhere, Samantha locked the fur-lined handcuffs round the Yorkshire sex monster's manly wrists and, ever hopeful, picked up the threshing flail, which was just where Carol had left it... |
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