A family practice

In a matter of seconds, the slumped figure of the doc was knocking out Zs, and despite rigorous shaking and shouting, the best we could rouse from the drunken quack was a stale belch. No practitioner of physic was required to see that his rum slumber was not so much catnap as catatonic stupor.

With such debauch epitomising the parlous nature of the modern NHS, the British taxpayer has every right to indignant hand-wringing and outraged correspondence with the Daily Mail. To be sure, times are lamentable indeed.

As professional picaroons, however, our record of tithe payments was not exactly spotless – in truth, mild harrumphing would have wildly exceeded the scope of our entitlement. Thus, in lieu of pique, we played to our strengths and looted the old soak’s desk.

Three rubber bands and a wet dog-end later, we were no closer to early retirement when our efforts were untimely stopped by the screeching yo-ho-ho of a feisty female brigand.

‘If it’s his pieces of eight you’re after, you’ll be tasting a piece of my steel first,’ she grinned craftily, pulling out almost 30 inches of glinting Persian scimitar. ‘And in case you hadn’t guessed,’ she cackled, ‘I fights dirty.’



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