---

I’m at work. I’m bored. Make me laugh.

---

Trawl Rockall for:

---

Grandmother bakes cake

I am sure that more affluent readers will agree that it is in fact an Englishman's holiday home that is his castle. Only here can a man feel truly secure from the slings and arrows of outrageous deadlines, far from the madding rabble of ill-educated media proprietors and their loutish editorial staff.

Indeed, it has long been my custom to take extended refuge at my Minorcan latifundia — a modest dominion of 300 acres where the artist might clear his mind of the detritus of an ever more punishing journalistic schedule.

This is not say that the life of a feudal lord is without its heavy responsibilities. On the contrary, even those of humble origin whose agricultural domain extends merely to a small allotment will be only too aware of the necessity to protect their lands from hostile forces and ensure a bountiful harvest.

It was, therefore, practically an act of war that my estate's annual lemon festival, during which the simple peasants present me with a ritual offering of bread and olive oil in recognition of my vital contribution to another successful citrus harvest, should have its revelry dampened by a silly little Spaniard on a bicycle bearing a breathless telegram from the offices of The Rockall Times.

"QUEEN MUM DEAD. STOP." it read. "LOCAL WOMAN PLANS TRIBUTE CAKE. STOP. IMPERATIVE OBTAIN EXCLUSIVE. STOP."

Despite not inconsiderable inconvenience, especially so given that I was obliged to make my way to the local telephone kiosk in full ceremonial robes astride a mule, I was curtly informed that my presence at the aforementioned woman's kitchen was immediately required, whatever the current state of the citrus fruit market.

I protested in vain and was soon bidding farewell to my tearful tenants with the promise that I would return shortly to deflower the virgin olive crop, as my duty requires.

But, as I proceeded to the port from which I might obtain swift passage back to England, my anger was gradually tempered by the creative journalistic possibilities of the challenge ahead. For it was not the first occasion on which the fate of a nation had hinged on an old woman's baking skills.

The nation in question was, of course, the kingdom of Armedmobistan. This volatile conglomerate of belligerent factions headed by tribal warlords had long been considered a white man's grave for aspiring foreign correspondents.

And while many young reporters might have considered an editor's invitation to spend a little time in that troubled land no less than a convenient method by which to rid themselves of a tiresome and argumentative cub reporter, I embraced the challenge with relish.

For, unknown to my then superiors, my father had obtained a favourable Tarot reading shortly after my auspicious birth. I would, insisted the drink-ravaged Romany hag who performed the divination, suffer no harm at the hand of man, marked as I was for greatness. On the contrary, she added in hushed tones, men would whisper my name in awe, a prophesy which has been borne out by destiny.

Thus armed with a quasi-divine immunity from physical peril, I made my way directly to Nobul, ancient capital of Armedmobistan. I carried with me a letter of introduction to tribal chief Moribund al-Fayed, known to his closest friends as "Al". Al had recently seized control of Nobul in a manner befitting his family's legendary status as patriots and defenders of the faith. Indeed, his grandfather had once clubbed to death 30 defenceless British soldiers' wives with a shepherd's crook during our own unhappy and ignominious retreat from that fierce land.

What I could not have known, however, was that Al himself had been deposed just days before my arrival in a daring coup executed by his savage half-brother Taz al-Fayed, known locally as "The Avenger". The name was apparently well warranted, given that his followers were disposing of any opposition by hanging them from construction cranes, as is the local custom.

My letter of introduction, therefore, hardly kindly disposed Nobul's new ruler to my mission. Quite the contrary: I was dragged by my heels to the central square by a malodorous turban-topped howling mob who expected, no doubt, that I would shortly be dangling from a piano wire.

Thrown half naked and bleeding at the feet of The Avenger, I was conscious of the need to establish my credentials. "I am a member of Her Imperial Majesty's press Corps and this is an outrage," I declared, pulling myself defiantly to my feet. "Ah, I see," smirked The Avenger. "You have, how do you say, balls... But not for long, my friend."

This threat provoked the crowd to the sort of raucous laughter normally heard only from the followers of Mexican bandits in films of that genre. "And what, might I enquire is your name?" continued this barbarous buffoon, affecting a convincing Oxbridge accent. "André Sikorski," I replied. "Journalist."

Instantly there was silence. "Surely not the Sikorski who wrote the definitive account of the coronation of my second cousin princess Abundencia of Fatwahabad?" enquired an amazed Taz. "The same," I affirmed. "And can it be that you are the André Sikorski who saved the life of my life-long friend prince Faisal O'Reilly after he fell down an inconveniently positioned well?" "I had that honour," I confirmed, deftly retrieving my wristwatch from one of my now-trembling captives. "Bring gin! Bring tonic! Bring sliced lemon!" roared The Avenger, gently lifting my shattered body onto a pile of shot-silk cushions.

The fortunes of war are strange indeed. For as in one instant a man might find himself clubbed with the butt of an assault rifle, the next his wounds are being tended by serving virgins bearing precious oriental unguents.

I hardly considered myself lucky — few indeed are the lands in which the name of Sikorski does not inspire respect, even fear. I did, nonetheless, allow myself the indulgence of satisfaction that this uneducated brute might have felt the hand of terror clutch his black heart at the utterance of my title.

The celebrations continued long into the night. Within hours I had acquired not inconsiderable wealth in the shape of Russian electrical goods looted from local shops and presented to me by the genuflecting citizens of Nobul.

At midnight a huge cheer erupted from the crowd. Taz's men had apparently captured Nobul's mayor and his family. This ill-starred man had thrown in his lot with Moribund al-Fayed. For three days he had hidden in the basement of a fancy goods emporium until betrayed by an ambitious cleaning lady.

Although he knew his fate was sealed, he disgraced himself further by begging for his life. In a fit of rage at this cowardice, Taz ordered that he be immediately executed by means of "dead man dancing". This creative local ritual involves a quick decapitation after which petrol is poured into the stump of the neck. Once ignited, it causes the corpse to "dance", a sight guaranteed to provoke squeals of delight from onlooking children.

Although I felt no pity for the man nor his family, I will confess that the hideous circus disgusted me profoundly. I thanked God that we in England had the good taste to confine our executions to our jails, thus depriving the proletariat of their vicious pleasure. This must stop, I concluded.

Enquiring politely as to the current whereabouts of Moribund al-Fayed, I was informed that he currently languished in the local prison. "He too will dance for us tomorrow," chuckled Taz. I asked if I might see him, carefully explaining that I wished only to savour his despair. My wish was granted immediately.

It must be said that the man's condition was lamentable. He wept openly, insisting that a new dark age would descend upon Armedmobistan. He spoke of his cordial relations with several multinationals, and his hope that closer links with the West might enable his land to enjoy a new golden era of democracy and unlimited access to advanced consumer technology.

His case was convincing. Having myself witnessed the devilish cruelty of his opponent, I resolved to facilitate his escape. He thanked me warmly, and asked that I go to a loyal baker's shop nearby. The old lady there would, he assured me, know what to do. I told him I understood, and left forthwith.

The plan was as simple as it was cunning. Deprived of access to television or film for more than ten years, Moribund's jailers would be unaware of the simple conceit of concealing in a cake some tool by which the condemned man might make good his escape.

Presenting myself at the baker's, I offered a nail file from my own personal grooming kit. This was no small sacrifice, since the snakeskin bound set had been a personal gift from President Adolfo Chupacabras III of Costa Caray in recognition my curing his wife of a terrible fungal infection which threatened to destroy her entire collection of Italian footwear.

I was amazed, then, when the baker's elderly mother rejected this, and swiftly produced a recoilless rifle from a crate in the attic. Skilfully dismantling the weapon, she concealed the whole apparatus in an enormous fruit cake.

The rest of the story has been well told. Upon receiving this condemned man's last supper from my own hands, Moribund al-Fayed blew his way through the prison wall and, his remaining supporters inspired by this miracle, quickly regained power in Nobul.

The following day it was Taz al-Fayed who entertained the crowd with his dancing, along with three thousand of his troops. And each year upon the anniversary of his restoration to power, Al gathers together his loyal followers who hang one hundred petty criminals from Nobul's lamp-posts and fire several thousand rounds of small-arms fire into the air in my honour.

The cake baked by the grandmother to commemorate the death of Her Majesty Elizabeth the Queen Mother did not contain any military hardware, but boasted 2lb of raisins and almonds. A "guess the weight of the cake" challenge raised £22 for an animal charity.

Previous insights from our Senior Reporter:

Vicar opens fete

Council unveils bench

Woman has baby

Youth steals phone

Royal exits gracefully

Couple get married