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  Monday 19th September 2005  Yeast Logic   Powered by Yeast Logic
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Unravelled: The tangled truth about S Kerry

Chet Dixie goes deep undercover in St Albans
by Chet Dixie

The latest in our Turner prize-winning Rockall Reports, sees our intrepid reporter Chet Dixie blow the doors off yet another ancient urban legend.

As our Thameslink service idles into St. Albans station, the graffiti is plain to see from my vantage point in the toilets of coach C. "S Kerry is a Slapper" it reads. Scrawled in a bold Century Gothic font, the rude decoration is first visible from a distance of 12.36 yards. Legend maintains that the etching first appeared in 1998AD though the precise date of the marking continues to be a popular source of debate for those who frequent the many pubs and clubs in the Hertfordshire town.

Clutching the Book of Mormon close to my chest and straightening my fedora — its brim turned down for this occasion — I eased my way onto the station platform and asked a number of people to describe their views on the S Kerry matter. Kenyangi Walumoli, a cleaner at the station who had been a doctor in his native Uganda, said he had never heard of S Kerry and that his deep-rooted Christian beliefs precluded him from considering the topic of women of easy virtue. Instead, he showed me pictures of his four wives and 18 children who continue to live in a Baganda suburb of Kampala. I took my leave when he started dancing. Another passer-by, 46-year-old Nankunda Katangaza, said she had seen the inscription many times but did not know the meaning of the term "slapper". Katangaza, who is Irish, said she had not met anyone by the name of S Kerry.

Undeterred by my lack of success, I dialled BT's new directory enquiries service 118 881 811 181 999 118 118 118 4 and spoke to William Penry-Jones at BT's Darjeeling HQ. I was enthusiastically provided four inactive numbers as well as the digits for Quentin Pelly of Ashington, Northumberland. Sadly Mr. Pelly had not seen nor heard from S Kerry for some time and was not able to assist with my enquiries.

Leaving the station to take forensic samples of the "S Kerry is a Slapper" markings for study in the Rockall Times laboratory, I walked along the railway siding - being careful not to be decapitated or further injured by the 10:16 high-speed service to Edinburgh. Having gathered my evidence and relieved myself against a fence post, I made my way into the centre of the historic Abbey town. While enjoying a light refreshment, I engaged a couple of working men on the topic of the world-famous urban legend of S Kerry. One of the men, local aerobics instructor Jean-Luc Bouton, said he knew a man who claimed to know S Kerry. Finally a breakthrough in the Rockall Times investigation. Finishing my pint of sherry, I commandeered a limousine to transport me to meet The Very Reverend Mi Lao Shu, Bishop of St. Albans.

Cloistered within a selection of uncompromisingly explicit pornography from the Netherlands, I found Bishop Shu researching a sermon on modern morality. "Meine Nummer ist null eins sieben eins zwei drei vier fünf sechs sieben acht, Durchwahl neun," said Bishop Shu. "Können Sie mir die Einzelheiten sobald wie möglich mitteilen? Fish don't have fingers." With my help, The Very Reverend Mi Lao Shu was able to untie himself and as we applied a soothing balm to his lacerations, the man of God explained to me the legend of the "S Kerry is a slapper" inscription.

With renewed vigour and my head ringing with hymns, I travelled by hovercraft to celebrated St. Albans disco Radio Days in the hope of meeting S Kerry. Having finally been allowed past the doormen on condition I surrendered my parachute to the cloakroom staff, I found a seat and searched the throng of sweating, gyrating, lithe bodies on the dancefloor for someone matching The Very Reverend's description. I hadn't long to wait. For there right in front of me was the venerable S Kerry herself. Surrounded by admirers and slugging on an alcopop, S Kerry was holding court from her wheelchair as potential suitors jostled one another for position. Announcing my presence and proving my credentials by flashing my press corp standard-issue framed diploma, the crowd quickly dispersed, leaving me alone for the first time with S Kerry. Continuing to follow the advice of Bishop Shu, I ordered us a crate of Blue Nun wine with two straws and charged it to my Rockall Times expense account.

After a whirlwind evening of dancing, tequila slammers, flaming sambucas, Sex on the Beach, Slippery Nipples, Screaming Orgasms, Strawberry Daiquiris, June Bugs, Long Island Iced Teas, Margaritas, Lynchburg Lemonades, Chocolate Monkeys, FBIs, Paradise Punch, brandy and Michelob Low-Carbohydrate lager, we left the club and went in S Kerry's "V" reg Humvee to her castle in Hemel Hempstead.

Once home S Kerry felt comfortable enough to open up to me and readers of The Rockall Times. Her story is a classic saga of neglect, heartache, abuse, pirates, shattered dreams, Johnny Hates Jazz and ginger hair we can all, I feel, relate to. And the truth behind the famous "S Kerry is a Slapper" graffiti? "I was young, naive and desperate to meet someone special," S Kerry told me. "I think it's important your readers don't feel sorry for me though. It's not something I regret," she said softly as she caressed my thigh with a tenderness I must admit to not having felt since the death of my dear mother from an infection of Cryptosporidium. " If anything else I've met a great number of interesting people as a result of my notoriety."

In next week's installment The Rockall Times' intrepid Turner prize-winning reporter Chet Dixie uncovers the mystery behind the inscription "West Ham r Shit".

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