All in One Night

I'll never forget the look of sheer anguish and pain that was etched on her face, as I think only then did Sophie truly realise all that she had lost by her past actions and would likely regret that loss for the rest of her life!.

So although I no longer loved her, I did nonetheless feel some compassion for the poor woman and said a silent prayer for her recovery before reflecting that although she had recovered from her physical injuries, she was nonetheless still a prisoner of her own mind, where that's perhaps that the worst prison of all!.

After that day I never heard from her or her family again and I think in retrospect that was for the best!.

As for Holgate and McCulloch, as expected they remained permanently crippled and in "care" for the rest of their worthless lives!.

Apparently, a clearly insane Holgate ranted to anyone and everyone about who "really" caused her injuries, but as I predicted she was treated like any other deranged patient with her ravings summarily dismissed and totally ignored.

Holgate was soon forgotten, as in truth, no-one cared or missed her at all!.

McCulloch just gave up on life, occasionally grunting and twitching but his perpetually vacant stare unsettled everyone who saw him, so he spent most of his days strapped to a bed totally naked as the lusty catholic nuns used him as a human dildo, first with a succession of blowjobs before riding him in the reverse cowgirl position as they repeatedly took turns pleasuring themselves!.

On a happier note, my mum was utterly delighted with Caroline and I getting together with the two women getting along very well and Mum treating Caroline like a daughter!.

I suspect too that mum has a number of "gentleman friends" that she sees, as she often has an enigmatic smile on her face that can't be fathomed!.

Good Luck to her I say!.

As for Rumpole, my ever amenable and flexible solicitor, well he's still a fixture at various elite gentlemen's clubs and inner-city 'watering holes' where he frequently 'goes to town' regaling to anyone who cares to listen, lurid tales about a certain well off and ruthless local client who can't be named!.

Suffice to say, as a result of my antics his standing in the local legal community has certainly gone up as a result of 'yours truly', the crafty old rascal!.

Also Rumpole's buxom secretary, Miss Funbags has done alright for herself too!.

Apparently, in the evenings she now poses part-time as a nude model in life drawing classes at the local technical college!.

Suffice to say, word of her presence in these classes has spread amongst the young men in town which has subsequently resulted in a sharp increase in the number of young men enrolling in these technical college night time art classes!.

Happily, this has lead to a reciprocally sharp decrease in crime and anti-social behaviour about town, so everyone's happy, especially the giggly Miss Funbags who nowadays certainly has a very 'full' social diary!.

Oh yes, the sexy and friendly nurse Nurse Sandra Crumpet has done pretty well too after she decided to pose nude in a well-known and pictorially "artistic" magazine called; "Top Heavy Nurses"!.

Suffice to say the local newsagents did an absolutely roaring trade throughout Launceston and indeed across Australia itself after Nurse Crumpet posed!.

I myself received a signed free courtesy copy of Nurse Crumpet's nude pictorial as well as a year-long subscription, which was most kind of her!.

She certainly has a fantastic curvy body and an even better set of knockers, that's for sure!.

Anyway, Nurse Crumpet's centrefold is now discretely pinned above my desk in my home office and always makes me smile whenever I happen to glance up from my work!.

Actually, what made myself and indeed everyone else laugh was one particularly inane caption in the pictorial that particularly highlighted Nurse Crumpet's big curvy knockers and unashamedly read;

"Sandra wants to marry a doctor and be a film star,

We certainly think she has big things in front of her"!.

Even now I still get the giggles as I think about that, as indeed does everyone else for that matter!.

Even Matron Belter who witnessed the marriage annulment papers in the hospital has had success in other ventures, away from her nursing!.

According to my medical friend, Dick Stuart-Clark, Matron Belter has appeared in several soft-core sex comedy films with lurid titles including; 'Busty nurses in heat', 'Lusty nurses run riot' and 'What's up Matron'!.

Suffice to say, all these films feature lots of topless young ladies cavorting about, curvaceous bottoms, lots of shapely legs and of course a bare breasted over-sexed Matron Belter running around in the midst of all this female lust!.

Who knew that such a respectable pillar of the hospital and wider community would get up to such things!.

All this medical hi-jinx leads me to the memorable "Doctor down under" himself, the affable Dr Dick Stuart-Clark, the man who almost steals the show in my story!.

Firstly, Dick and I have had repeated success on the track with our horse betting venture, where perhaps surprisingly, Dick's turned out to be quite a good judge of horseflesh as we've made a real financial killing over time with his selections!.

We've subsequently re-invested our winnings into even greater successes on the track as well as occasionally siphoning off some of our "hard earned" toward luxuries such as Dick's completely refurbished 1976 port-wine red Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow limousine (it suits him somehow), which he endlessly delights in regularly driving to the racetrack and invariably accompanied by a few pretty "fillies" who like to hang off his arms as he enjoys strutting about the place on weekend race days, totally in his element the lucky bounder!.

Frankly, I don't know how the blighter does it, but somehow he just keeps on doing it, both in attracting the pretty "fillies" and also regularly selecting the winning horses he tips!.

So life is very good for Dick nowadays, which he graciously attributes to 'yours truly' of course, so I'm rather pleased actually and glad to help out a mate!.

Indeed, not only is Dick a 'Doctor on the go', but these days he's increasingly a 'Doctor in charge', as his tipping successes have translated into greater personal confidence and application with his doctoring, so at last his medical career is flourishing as well!.

It's actually quite funny how Dick, with his invariable coterie of "fillies" in tow, plus Caroline and I, often meet at the weekend races where Dick endlessly delights in parading about in his top hat, red velvet smoking jacket and black bow tie, making a show of his growing wealth with a cigar and glass of 'sparking', whilst Caroline and I smile like loons at his melodramatic antics!.

Dick's still a showman of course and always likes to be seen with his clever "Aussie mate" and "business associate" at the track and yes his plummy language and posh accent is still the same as he endlessly cavorts with his friends (especially the lovely ladies) from his private marquee' beside his 1976 Rolls Royce in the racetrack carpark!.

So I'm very happy for Stuart-Clark as he's been a good mate, plus he's been very helpful to me in many ways and nowadays he's certainly very happy and truly in his element!.

Good luck Dick old chap and the best of British luck to you old man!.

Oh yes, I almost forgot about one other character.......

For a while I wondered about that milk tanker driver who inadvertently assisted me by boring ahead toward McCulloch whilst I had him trapped parallel to myself on the wrong side of the road and facing oncoming traffic, including that milk tanker, which ultimately caused McCulloch to swerve off the road and crash!

I was lucky to an extent in that the driver never stopped, even though with my headlights on full beam I doubt he would have seen anything recognisable!.

Anyway, about a year later one morning over breakfast, I read a story in the local newspaper about some African muslim milk tanker driver named Habib who was originally from Sudan.

Apparently, he took a liking to the local beer and frequently indulged in a 'tipple' or three as he erratically drove around on his nocturnal milk runs throughout the district!.

It seems the dairy company knew about his drink driving and being socially responsible would have liked to fire him, but they were afraid some 'busy-body' government 'rights' group would then descend upon them with fury and rage!.

Interestingly, when Habib was drunkenly staggering about the company depot, usually with a can of beer in his hand and insulting not only his fellow drivers, the milk company and Australia generally, but he'd also frequently tell a strange story about how he once caused a car to crash one dark, foggy night that probably killed a 'Skippy', whilst another 'Skippy' in an unidentified white car sped by at high speed!.

Everyone thought it was the booze talking, but because Habib was seen as a 'protected species' by the government 'public control' brigade, where even the 'rozzers' couldn't book him for drunk driving during their regular breath testing ambushes, no-one therefore said or did anything, instead merely laughing at Habib and letting the silly nonk rave on to anyone stupid enough to listen!.

Fortunately, the company's (and many would say Australia's) 'Habib problem' was suddenly solved one night when the drunken prat, after consuming a few too many of the local brew, decided he needed a 'slash' to relieve his bladder.

So after stopping by the roadside in a secluded rural area, Habib then partook in another of his dubious habits which involved him somehow climbing up the metal ladder at the back of the tanker, then staggering erratically along the top before opening a large hatch where he then fished out his 'gentleman's part' and proceeded to finally relieve himself with a long 'slash' into the full milk vat!.

Incidentally, Habib's dirty habit explained why company laboratory technicians, after conducting random tests of the tankers milk quality, always inexplicably found a small percentage of urine mixed with the raw milk in the giant vats!.

However on this particular night, Habib after imbibing too much of the local brew, with his 'gentleman's part' hanging out and him swaying erratically, somehow managed to fall through the open hatch and down into milk tanker's cold, darkened vat itself, where after a fruitless, drunken, flaying struggle, Habib finally drowned deep in the chilled milk!.

Suffice to say, the next day at the depot company officials received a real shock, followed by ill-disguised glee when the tanker vat contents were emptied to reveal a cold and milky white Habib dead within but still with his limp 'gentleman's part' hanging out from his trousers' zip!.

Not being an Australian citizen, Habib's body was finally sent back to Sudan where his family, feeling grossly cheated at Habib's failure to get them all into Australia as part of their "country shopping" campaign for a better life, quickly buried him in disgust and then began to work on a new way to reach Australia!.

Sadly for Habib, the circumstances of his strange death lead the local witchdoctors to the mistaken belief that the 'milky white' Habib, meant that he was really an albino!.

Thus for some time afterwards, Habib's grave was regularly robbed for body parts as part of the local witchdoctors 'practices', until eventually there was nothing left of Habib in the ground!.

Habib's story ended up as one of those stories in the national press warning about 'open slather' mass migration as part of the deranged 'Big Australia' aspiration as advocated by some influential businessmen, 'rights groups' and politicians who all seem to believe that by importing large numbers of poor and semi-literate migrants into Australia, somehow, magically creates a wealthier country, but what the public think is nothing less than 'voodoo economics'!.

Suffice to say, Caroline and I both had a laugh one morning over breakfast as I read aloud the story about 'Habib', the hapless milk tanker driver in the local newspaper!.

We both shook our heads and laughed together at 'some people', but I did privately wonder about this Habib fellow and how our respective lives may have crossed on one dark foggy night.

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An Ending

Driving alone in my McLaren 570GT-S one sunny, spring afternoon on an isolated, sweeping country road in Tasmania....

Speeding along this road, the turbocharged V8 roaring contentedly, 'Imogen' and I soar up and down the valleys and hills late in the afternoon.

I look around and see the bursting wildflowers growing by the roadside as I flash by, my mood content and reflective as the great car flashes by the countryside.

On the car speakers, I can hear the emotive strains of Brian Eno's classic music,

'An Ending (ascent)' which adds to my contemplative state as my speed increases around a corner, drifting somewhat as I follow a classic 'racing line' before roaring down the long empty straight, with all that lush green grass blurring by the roadside as my mind drifts as I consider;

Weeeeeeell, when all is said and done, I've certainly ended up in good shape!.

Let's see, I've got a sexy, beautiful and loyal English wife who, like me, enjoys driving very fast cars and without a doubt, her presence makes my life complete at my home, 'Hedgeleigh'.

I'm young, in excellent health and richer than ever with my business doing well. I'm respected about the town and now a member of various exclusive, establishment 'gentlemen's' clubs, so life has been very good to me indeed, indeed it's wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!.

So am I happy you ask?.

Of course I bloody well am, I'm deliriously happy but occasionally I think back to "that night" and contemplate my thoughts and actions then, including whether I may have gone slightly "off the rails", or not!.

In my defence and unlike some poor men one reads about, I never became fearful and wasn't thrown out of my home by that bastard McCulloch!.

I never once cried, as I still believe that "boys don't cry" as the song goes, so well done me!.

Also, I never became nauseous and vomited, I never drank to excess (as I only ever drink non-alcoholic Tasmanian apple cider) and unlike some feckless, bedwetting men, I acted swiftly and brazened it out as I dealt with and dispatched my three enemies in rapid succession and "all in one night" too!.

Importantly, I completely got away with it too, all via careful planning 'on the fly' and looking ahead, which is just what the very best test drivers and racing drivers in Formula 1 do, so once again, well done me!.

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As I leave the straight with a precise 'power slide' around another corner, I then accelerate toward another hill in the distance as the tune "An ending" continues to the sound of the mighty McLaren's engine in counterpoint as I gain altitude with the afternoon sun flitting amongst the white clouds as I smile feeling totally in my element.

Of course, being the kind of man who is quite comfortable driving at stupidly high speeds in European supercars, I now think that previous experience and test of nerve served me rather well on the night in question as my McLaren and I efficiently and systematically exacted revenge on my enemies!.

Granted, I'm far from the biggest man in the world, indeed below average height in truth, but that doesn't mean that I'm some kind of nutmeg-scented, piss-drinking weakling, as my success in business and life generally clearly attests!.

That said, nowadays I suppose that yes the affable, civilised man who drove south to look at a comet in my little electric French hatchback is back in control!.

However, that doesn't necessarily mean that another aspect of my character, specifically the ruthless fighter who never gives up and dispatches his enemies with a McLaren 570GT-S supercar has gone, oh no not by any means, rest assured he's still there in me and ready to be unleashed again if the need ever arose!.

In truth, I think that every man who has respect for himself, by definition has the capacity to stand up for himself and fight by any means he can if he's ever threatened or attacked!.

Speaking for myself and as strange as it may sound, but I actually think that James Bond "villain" Stromberg back in 1977 was right, in that a man should live life on his own terms and I pity those unfortunate men who lack that "ticker" (to use an Aussie expression to describe the heart) in their chest and invariably submit to the forces of repression and submission, the poor sods!.

Conversationally, nowadays I feel a certain nostalgia whenever I hear the song "Live and let die" on the radio for example, as suddenly I feel myself back in the McLaren on that chilly, foggy night patiently waiting for McCulloch as the song fills my mind as I hurry through the sequences to unleash the McLaren 570GT-S at her maximum speed to dispatch that subhuman nerk!.

That dramatic music accompanied by the deep roaring from the increasing power of the twin turbocharged V8 still sends a tingle down my spine as the memories engulf me and I suspect they always will!.

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Slotting into high gear, I top out onto a hill plateau in bright sunshine, the V8 behind by back roaring aloud as the speedo climbs ever faster!.

Every slight adjustment is precise as the magnificent car eats up the scenery as I flash past a magpie sitting on a fence post before entering a hill descent.

Despite the speed there is no risk, everything is wonderful as I push the great car through her paces, with man and machine at the very top of their game in this peaceful rural idyll.

Of course, I've kept my superb McLaren 570GT-S up to date and naturally she's as fast, beautiful and as dangerous as ever!.

The McLaren 570GT-S is special to me as I firmly believe that she saved my life under difficult conditions and where the odds were definitely against me!.

So no matter what happens, 'Imogen' always gets special treatment as I firmly agree with what our great leader Jeremy Clarkson says about cars;

They not only give us freedom of movement, but cars also open up opportunities throughout the many facets of life; from work, education and even finding love!.

The car shelters and protects us from the elements, it allows us to rapidly flee danger and reciprocally, as I ably demonstrated, it can even be used as a weapon to dispatch one's enemies, if used properly of course!.

Also, the car allows us to enjoy some of the finest moments in life too.

This truth is self-evident to any man who has ever driven a car with his woman seated beside him and together watching a sunset by the seaside and laugh, just for the sheer joy of being alive!.

So yes, a car can have a soul and it can become a mate, one that never lets you down throughout all the joys and challenges of life!.

They say you can judge a man by his shoes, his hands or the car he drives!.

They also say that humility and self-deprecation is healthy and builds character!.

So by this criteria, yes I'm the kind of man who drives a slow, little French Renault electric hatchback with all the supposed attributes about my character driving that car implies!.

Reciprocally, don't forget that there's another very different aspect to my character too!.

Specifically, the kind of man who drives a very fast and as it turns out, very dangerous McLaren supercar as well, with all the destruction at my hands testament to how I simply don't back down to threats or aggression!.