Written in 2006, this series follows a selection of beloved TV detectives as they crash headlong into bizarre plots, obscure in-jokes and terrifying thought processes.

A sequel was started, re-started and then abandoned around 2007. At some point I may hash together the fragments as an amusing “what if” along with the notes on where it would have gone, but I doubt I will ever actually write the full thing. Not least because I’m not sure I could keep up the pace of the insanity in Volume 1.

Naturally, I cannot claim ownership of any of the TV detectives depicted in this story, and I stress this effort is strictly non-commercial and humourous in nature.

Part 00 - One Of Those Days

Miss Marple looked up at what had just appeared in her back garden. She thought back to the man in the Tea Rooms, and the dream. She knew that what she was thinking might get her into trouble. Her conscience was going overtime, telling her not to do it. Just walk away and call for a skip. But would it fit in a skip?

Whilst her inner thought processes went around in circles wondering about the internal volume of a skip, Miss Marple decided to live a little. She picked up her knitting needles and set off.

Elsewhere, in London, an alarm clock went off and a Belgian Detective stirred.

The series that has been reviewed as “sensational”, “amazing” and “pure crap” premieres soon.

Part 01 - Up For Breakfast

The main gist of our story begins in London. It’s a sleepy Tuesday morning, and the hustle and bustle of the day is beginning to start.

In a medium-sized Art Deco flat, a slightly portly Belgian gentleman was getting up. His name? Hercule Poirot - private detective, loved by Scotland Yard, hated by criminals everywhere, winner of last year’s Best Investigative Method Award, and winner of the year before’s Crap Combover Award.

He kept both awards, framed, in his hallway, of course. So that visitors would be suitably impressed and hopefully would bring better wine next time they came. The standard of polite gifts of wine and chocolate in London appalled Poirot. ASDA plonk and Tesco chocolate. Did these people have no sense of style?

Poirot pottered down the hallway, ignoring Inspector Japp pleading to be let out of the wardrobe. He found that having a Police officer held captive made sure that London’s juiciest cases came to him first.

Breakfast was as it always was. Two boiled eggs and two slices of toast. Toast toasted for 45 seconds on each side, eggs boiled for 3 minutes exactly. It was a shame Miss Lemon had left, and as such stopped making breakfast. The few days after had been pretty chaotic. Burnt toast, untoasted toast, unboiled eggs, boiled toast, burnt eggs, boiled plates…

In the background, a sound was building up. Now, this wasn’t your common or garden sound that you might find eating your socks, but something much more sinister. It was a noise - most evil of all the matter-carried longitudinal waves. Poirot ambled over to the window and looked out. What he saw was not only a surprise, it was a damn big one.

A giant cup of tea was hovering above the Houses Of Parliament.

This may have surprised Poirot - but don’t mistake that for him being interested. He wasn’t. He was around to deal with murders and plots. Demons, aliens, evil scientists - they were dealt with by the FBI’s X-Files department. For now, it was back to breakfast.

Sadly, the rest of the breakfast was not to be. Every radio and television up and down the land switched on as one - all showing and playing the same thing.

“Hello there. My name’s Miss Marple. You might have noticed that I’ve bought a spaceship shaped like a cup of tea and parked it above the River Thames. Now, unfortunately, if you don’t meet my demands I shall have to do something very naughty.”

Every radio and television up and down the land switched off. And back on again.

“Silly me! I forgot to tell you my demands. I demand a complete CD set of Mike Oldfield’s back catalogue, and Hercule Poirot. You have 12 hours to send them to me.”

Miss Marple smiled sweetly as only a lovable old lady can, and then switched off the communications circuit. She turned to the master mind behind the plan, and he nodded his approval.

Poirot, on the other hand, was still totally disinterested. It was still X-Files business, and he was not going anywhere near Dana Scully. He still had the bruise from last time. He got up, and noticed one of his very expensive plates was perilously close to the edge of the table. He moved to pick it up.

On board the cup of tea, Miss Marple watched as her crew flew the contraption. It came with a crew of recruited telephone salesmen and the computer had been told to interface with them via Voice Recognition. Sadly, the previous owner had chosen the cheapest possible solution, which was only good for 98% of all words. This meant they should normally be within 2% of their course at any one time, but it always felt like they were veering off into the distance. At that point, someone slurred, and the whole craft lurched downwards and brushed the ground.

Poirot looked out of the window and saw the shock wave ride along the ground, towards his flat. The whole block wobbled slightly, and the plate wobbled with it. This wobble moved it off the table and on to the floor with a degree of force that plates are unaccustomed to, resulting in a slight chip to its edge.

The plate was suitably irritated by this. Poirot, however, was far more irritated. Before, he wasn’t interested. Now it was personal.

Part 02 - War

The Story So Far… Miss Marple is hovering above London in a giant cup of tea. One of Poirot’s plates is slightly chipped. “Gripping but crap.” - The Radio Times.

Poirot was now in a Bad Mood (TM). He stormed down the hallway and picked up his suit jacket, bowler hat and cane. He paused at the door, deciding that Japp might be useful for this investigation. Gradually, he extended the cane’s handle towards the wardrobe door handle. He gave a small tug at it, and Japp bounded out like an irritating puppy.

“Right, Poirot. What’s the score?”
“Miss Marple is demanding me and a complete copy of Mike Oldfield’s back catalogue, or she will destroy London.”
“Let’s get on the case!”

Japp ran full tilt at the front door and knocked himself out on it. Poirot grimaced.

After the arduous task of getting out of the house was completed, Japp and Poirot decided that the situation was so dire, they must call an emergency cabinet meeting. It is, of course, important to note that a detective of Poirot’s standing was able to have Her Majesty’s Government at his beck and call day, night or otherwise.

The walk from Poirot’s apartment to Downing Street was bracing for late summer. Miss Marple’s Cup Of Tea had been playing silly buggers with the atmosphere.

When our two heroes arrived at 10 Downing Street, they were quickly ushered into the Cabinet Meeting Room. A lady stood up and introduced herself.

“Harriet Jones, Prime Minister. We need your help, urgently.”
“Hercule Poirot, Private Detective. And Inspector Japp of New Scotland Yard.” Japp nodded. The Prime Minister was clearly in a flap.
“Well, the problem is very clear and you have to do something! We are in the grip of the greatest terror Britain has ever faced! Miss Marple is bent on destroying us! And I do not look tired!”

“Shut up, you stupid woman.” All eyes turned to the source of the mysterious voice. It wasn’t any of the cabinet. It had come from the corner. Poirot stepped towards it.
“Monsieur? I am Hercule Poirot. Where are you?”
“Under your nose.”
“Why, sir, are you inside the drinks cabinet?”
“I’m not inside the cabinet. I AM the cabinet!”

With this, the drinks cabinet charged towards Poirot, doors and drawers flailing. Poirot dodged the bottle of Merlot that flew at him and pushed Japp out of the way of a very large and heavy crystal decanter.

“Good God, Poirot, we’re being attacked by an evil drinks cabinet!” The drinks cabinet heard this and paused.
“No, not evil, just irritated that I’ve been dragged out of bed so damn early! You realise how hard it is to maintain the cover of a democratically elected government? Well, I am the controlling power behind Britain’s Golden Age - not that silly cow.” Harriet Jones slunk off into a cupboard and started blabbering about how she was being used and really wanted to be an accountant.
“So, Monsieur, you run Britain? What do you propose we do about this crisis?”
“We must lure Miss Marple into the open with an offer she cannot refuse.”
“But, what could be such a lure when she is preparing to take over the world?”
“Well. Why don’t we see what the vegetables think?”

Poirot, Japp and the drinks cabinet turned to look at the cover cabinet. They all pretended to not be interested and tried not to make eye contact in the hope of not being picked on. It was like watching a class of children who don’t want to answer a maths problem.

Finally, the Home Secretary piped up.
“How about a large pizza?”
The drinks cabinet scoffed.
“A new car?”
“A new cup of tea?”
“An Ikea bookcase?”
“A pre-assembled Ikea bookcase?”
“An Ikea bookcase with hacked off limbs on it?”

All eyes turned to the Secretary of State for Food. He flicked a V-sign at the cabinet and ran off. Distant howling was heard outside in Downing Street.

Finally, the Culture Secretary stood up and announced something momentous. Something that would shape the entire course of this tale.

“We could lure her in with the promise of an ITV “An Audience With…” Special.”

Part 03 - Driven By You

The Story So Far… Poirot and Inspector Japp have popped in to see the cabinet and found that Britain is actually run by a drinks cabinet. Miss Marple is hovering above London in a giant cup of tea, demanding Poirot and a complete copy of Mike Oldfield’s back catalogue. And the heroes want to lure her into an ITV “An Audience With…” special. “Who writes this rubbish?” - The Daily Mail.

Poirot and Japp gasped at the idea the Culture Secretary had put forward. Firstly it sounded ridiculous. But then, secondly, it sounded brilliant. They were speechless. As they stood there, mouths hanging open like codfish, the cabinet stared at them for what felt like an eternity. The moment was difficult - how does one politely tell the men trusted with saving the world that they are looking like idiots and holding the story up? You’d have to be a oaf with the manners of a kangaroo to do that. (You think kangaroos have good manners? Have you been to dinner with one? Didn’t think so.)

Luckily the Deputy Prime Minister was the token working-class guy to appeal to the voters. He piped up with a quick “You two look like right witless nutbags.” This snapped Poirot and Japp out of their trance. The Drinks Cabinet added that he thought that (a) the plan was brilliant, (b) they did look rather stupid and (c) Poirot should clean his teeth more often, before hustling both of them out of the door with a good luck card and a bunch of cannabis plants.

Standing in Downing Street, our heroes were consumed with an overwhelming desire to smoke said plants to see what drug induced stupors were like. Since they were both rather awkwardly sensible children, neither had tried drugs, and they had to admit a mild curiosity.

However, many miles away, a man lit up a rather dodgy spliff and sat back to listen to some Pink Floyd. The ensuing high caused him to truly believe that his stereo system was actually David Gilmour. This man did what any Pink Floyd fan would do when confronted with David Gilmour in their living room - try to give him a hug. Now - hugging stereo systems is not recommended without expert supervision and a pre-ordered ambulance. The corner of the amplifier poked the man in the thigh, the volume knob got twirled to 10, the record deck stylus scratched his arm and the screech that resulted blew up the speakers. Poirot wasn’t sure why or how he saw this in his head - but it made him realise that smoking the cannabis now would be a very silly idea - whoever heard of a stoned detective with record deck scratches saving the world? He handed the plants to a passing policeman.

The policeman was understandably surprised.
“Where did you get these, sir?”
Poirot thought for a second.
“The cabinet room. Arrest the drinks cabinet in the corner.”
“Have you been smoking these, sir?”
“No. But I think the cabinet has.”
The police officer started contacting his station to ask for backup to raid 10 Downing Street for drugs. Poirot realised he might have accidentally given the impression that Her Majesty’s Government were stoners. He and Japp slipped quietly away.

The dreadful duo set off towards what they thought were the ITV studios.
“Japp, it occurs to me that we may not be heading in the right direction,” said Poirot, looking at the wall in front of him, on which was graffitied “Lick me.”.
“You could be right there, Poirot. We need some kind of map or something.”
“Chief Inspector - you are the Chief Inspector. You could call up a fleet of cars at any point to whisk us to our destination.”
“Cracking idea.”
Japp whipped out his radio.
“HQ. Come in HQ. We are facing a wall with “Lick me” gaffitied on it. We need transport to the ITV studios. Over.”
“Righto. We can probably locate that. Fast and dangerous or slow and sensible? Over.”
“Better be fast and dangerous. Time is of the essence. Over.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
“My dear Japp.”
“Yes, Poirot?”
“Fast and dangerous?”
“Yes.”
Poirot poked Japp in the ribs with his cane.

The wall conveniently had a coffee shop situated in it, just below the “Lick me”, so Poirot and Japp took the opportunity of a brief rest before putting their plan into operation. They had decided to play down the Culture Secretary’s input to make themselves look better.

Gradually, a low rumble started to build. It got louder and louder, and the crowds began to mill around in fear that Miss Marple was about to strike again. Whilst what transpires may seem like a fairly big event, take my word that it was a huge anticlimax in relation to this rumble which I possibly haven’t played up enough.

A Ford Cortina crashed through the shop window. The driver surveyed the destruction, then rolled down his window.

“DI Jack Regan. Sweeney. Which one’s Japp?”

Poirot turned to Japp.
“Chief Inspector. If we die, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Part 04 - Life In The Fast Lane

What’s happened? Miss Marple is flying around in a giant cup of tea and demanding Poirot and Mike Oldfield’s back catalogue. Poirot is bumming around with Chief Inspector Japp, trying to save the world. He’s just managed to get Her Majesty’s Government arrested for being stoners, and his lift to the ITV studios so he can lure Miss Marple into an “An Audience With…” special has just arrived through the window of a coffee shop, driven by Jack Regan. “You’ll read it, then tell your friends you didn’t. They’ll all be doing the same.” - Financial Times.

Japp and Poirot gingerly picked their way through the wrecked shop towards the Ford Cortina.
“‘Op in the back.”
Our heroes decided very quickly that getting on the wrong side of Regan would be a Very Bad Idea (TM). So they obidiently ‘opped in the back and discovered to their dismay that there were no seat belts.

“Monsieur, should there not be seat belts in here?”
“Seat belts in the back? Ha!”
“In which case please drive carefully.”
“You saying I can’t drive?”
“You parked through a coffee shop window. I am saying you should not kill us all.”
“Shuddup.”

Poirot was not used to being spoken to like this. He was Belgian! However, the force with which Regan propelled the car backwards out of the coffee shop was enough to convince him to keep quiet and to hold on for dear life. The car lurched over the windowframe and screeched to a halt on the road outside. Regan floored it and the terrible trio set off in a cloud of smoke with a squealing that would make Jeremy Clarkson come over all feint.

As they flew (metaphorically) around the streets of London, handbrake turning into stacks of cardboard boxes, Japp reflected how well the investigation was going. Poirot reflected that the real lunatics weren’t being locked up, they were doing the locking up. And Regan tried to hit yet another stack of cardboard boxes.

On one attempt, however, he swung out too wide, didn’t break enough and spun the Cortina into a side street, where he came to a halt just as the side of the car hit a passer by. Poirot leapt out to try and help the poor man, but accidentally opened the door and hit him in a very sensitive and personal area. He fell over and lay on the ground mumbling about how the cops were getting too rough.

As Poirot was wondering what was going on, a small brown vintage sports car screeched to a halt in front of him, running over the invalid’s left foot. The invalid yelped and began to confess madly that he did hold up the post office and would they please stop torturing him. The driver of the brown sports car walked up.

“Jim Bergerac. Well done.”
“Hercule Poirot. And this is Chief Inspector Japp and the gentleman with the death wish is DI Regan. Who is this man?”
“Petty thief. I’ve been chasing him all the way here from Jersey.”
Regan got out of the car, got a rope out of the boot and started tying the thief up.
“Monsieur Bergerac, would you consider helping us with our investigation into Miss Marple’s cup of tea?”
“Why? You all seem capable of managing.”
“You have a car and could not possibly drive as madly as this lunatic.” Poirot poked Regan in the ribs with his cane. Regan grabbed the cane and snapped it in half.
“Very well. What should I do?”
“I shall come with you in your car. Follow DI Regan and don’t kill us.”
Japp piped up at this point with “What about me?”
“You’re expendable, Chief Inspector.”

All parties boarded their vehicles, and made ready to set off. Readers should, at this point, take a moment to consider the situation. A posh Belgian detective, the rough-but-not-too-rough head of Scotland Yard, an ex-copper from Jersey and a hard-as-nails DI from the Flying Squad. If you, dear readers, were in this situation, what would you do? Run Like Hell? I know I would. However, with no thought for their egos or their budgets, these four are preparing to save the world. They are all that stands between Miss Marple and the fruition of her terrible plot.

We’re doomed.

However, there is the small matter of the petty thief tied up in the side street. Well, as luck would have it, he was noticed by a policeman driving a van full of people who had been arrested for possession of cannabis. The policeman was mildly perturbed by the discovery of a tied up man clearly in great pain with a note attached to him saying “If found, please forward to New Scotland Yard”. But he decided to to the decent thing, and popped the man in the back with the others.

What the thief thought when he woke up in a van full of dope and cabinet ministers is anyone’s guess.

Part 05 - Welcome To The Jungle

Prior Developments: Poirot, Japp, Regan and Bergerac are heading for the ITV Studios to try and lure Miss Marple into an ITV “Audience With…” special. The cabinet have been arrested for posession of cannabis and Regan is approaching a personal best for cardboard box crashes. Miss Marple is still flying around in her cup of tea, and is likely doing some knitting. “Dross of no literary merit whatsoever.” - The Reader’s Digest.

Our heroes careered down the blissfully clear London roads towards the ITV studios. Ken Livingstone’s new policy of shooting anyone who drove around in London but didn’t live there was really clearing the congestion. However, the pavements were getting more and more clogged up, and the Mayor was having to consider congestion charging them. Well, he’d asked his deputy to do a feasibility study. It was being held up by the fact the deputy was a newt, though.

Back to the quartet. Their convoy arrived at the ITV studios in relative safety, Regan having decided to drive sensibly to irritate the Belgian prat. Bergerac, on the other hand, was driving dangerously to show off to the Belgian prat, who had never even attempted to drive a car. Poirot staggered out of the car and was sick in the flowerbed. He covered it up with some soil and slinked off.

The desk receptionist today was having a bad day. She’d broken a nail, and her boyfriend was back in the slammer. So you might imagine that she was rather irritated to see four detectives walk in. Her heart sank as Regan approached.

“‘Ello darling. We’re the Sweeney. We’re investigating the cup of tea hanging over London. We need to commandeer one of your studios to lure the suspect into a position where we can interrogate her.”
“I’m sorry, sir, you need an appointment and the appropriate authorisation to do that.”
“Authorisation from who?”
“Well, not sure exactly who, but the Prime Minister would be a good bet.”
Poirot piped up from across the lobby. “Erm… the cabinet may have been arrested earlier.”
“Well, even if we forgo the authorisation, you still need an appointment.”
Regan stormed off in disgust, and Japp decided to try his luck.
“Now, I am the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, and we need that studio.” He showed his ID.
“That’s your MasterCard.”
Japp tried again and got the right card.
“Well, that’s a lovely portrait, but you still need an appointment.”
“Listen here. This emergency arose this morning. 2 hours back. When did you want us to make the appointment?”
“Just telling us you were coming would have been nice.”
“What if we go away, make an appointment, and come back?”
“The earliest we’ve got is…” She thumbed through a diary. “… next Thursday.”
“That’s not really soon enough.”
“That’s the earliest we’ve got. We’re very busy producing Celebrity X Factor Wrestling On Ice.”
Japp stormed off in a huff.

The plan was in jeopardy. There was no way that Miss Marple would settle for an interview on the Breakfast sofa at the Beeb. Poirot suggested that maybe they should go over the receptionist’s head to the Director of ITV. Japp, unfortunately, took this literally and jumped over the receptionist, and landed in the broom closet.

Regan decided that the only way that anything would get done was to smash some stuff up. He picked up a rather nice glass table and threw it over the desk after Japp. The receptionist hit the emergency button and ran out of the building screaming. Good for her.

Whilst Japp called in to Scotland Yard to tell them not to respond to the alarm, Poirot and Bergerac called up to the Director’s office to ask to speak to him.
“Hello, Director’s office.”
“Madame, my name is Hercule Poirot. I must speak with the Director of ITV urgently. It is a matter of national importance.”
“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting now. Can I take a message?”
“Madame, he is not in a meeting. I can see him leaving the Men’s room in the lobby.”
“Well, that’s where the meeting was, then.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“You believe what you want. Can I take a message or not?”
“No.”

Bergerac jogged over to the Director as he was walking towards the lift. “Excuse me,” he said, “My name’s Jim Bergerac. I’m here because we need to use one of your studios to catch and interrogate a master criminal, without her noticing.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“We went through that with the receptionist. We don’t, because the emergency arose only a few hours ago.”
“I’m afraid that without authorisation, I cannot allow use of…”

The Director’s eyes focused behind Bergerac. He saw something truly terrifying to anyone who had worked on The Sweeney. He saw Regan, hand clasped into a fist, arm pulled back, ready to strike. Time seemed to slow down as Regan threw the punch and it connected with the Director’s temple. He fell backwards and landed on the couch that Poirot hastily rolled into place behind him.

“That’s… good… enough.”
He flopped back, hoping that his unconscious acting was better than his Director of ITV acting.

Part 06 - Are You Sitting Comfortably?

What’s gone on before? Poirot and his partners in fighting crime, Japp, Regan and Bergerac, have smashed up the lobby of ITV’s headquarters to get “An Audience With Miss Marple” into pre-production. The Director of ITV is pretending to be unconscious to avoid the further attentions of Regan’s right fist. And the cabinet are being questioned on suspicion of growing cannabis. “As enjoyable as sitting on a lampshade.” - National Trust Monthly.

Poirot surveyed the scene of destruction in the lobby of ITV’s headquarters. There were smashed tables, screaming secretaries and an unconscious board member. The director’s PA hurried out of the lift and over to the detectives.

“You did this?”
“Monsieur Regan did this, madame.”
“Then he’d better leave. I shall make the arrangements for your show, but not with him around to punch everyone in sight.”
Poirot opened his mouth to protest, but the icy stare of a PA who clearly had no emotions between the hours of 9 and 1 and 2 and 5:30 quickly changed his mind. A few moments later he decided to shut his mouth to avoid looking like a fish.

The negotiations with Regan that Poirot imagined would end in him getting hit turned out not to be necessary, as Regan received a call to go back to the station to interrogate some drugs suspects. He left a Police radio with Japp for use in an emergency, and zoomed off in his Ford, demolishing the exit barrier on the way out.

Whilst Poirot and Japp talked over emergency plans with Regan, Bergerac had been telling the PA what exactly was needed for “An Audience With Miss Marple”.

“We’ll need a studio and an audience to begin with.”
“We can re-dress the Saturday Night Takeaway set and wake the audience up early.”
“You have them ready?”
“Well, we could only find about 150 people who were willing to watch Ant & Dec live, so we simply cryogenically freeze them between episodes. We’ll get the waking up started in a moment.”
“Good. Now it doesn’t actually need to be broadcast - by the time she finds out, it’ll be too late.”
“We’ll record it for future transmission. Might be worth a go in the Saturday evening graveyard slot.”
“Surely that’s the primetime slot of the week?”
“Anything we put there always goes down in flames, so we don’t really try anymore.”
“Hence Celebrity Wrestling?”
“No, that was actually to try and attract the viewers who wanted a bit of flesh on view away from the other channels. Then the opposition came up with omnisexual time travellers. Would you credit that being a success?”
“No.” Bergerac shook his head and tried to return to the subject in hand. “We also need a hippie costume.”
“Right. Why?”
“Well, there’s stories of great rivalry between Poirot here and Miss Marple, so we need to disguise him, and she’d never think of looking for him in disguise with loads of hair and tie-die clothes.”
“I’ll start filling out the forms. Please don’t try and help us - you’ll get in the way. Just sit there for an hour and a bit and we’ll send the costume down. And please don’t break the last surviving table.”
The PA turned on her absurdly high stiletto heels and walked quickly away.

Bergerac took a seat with Poirot and Japp and began explaining what would happen. Now, to tell this bit of the story would require a huge duplication of what’s been said above, so I suggest you simply read the Bergerac/PA dialogue again and imagine Bergerac explaining it to Poirot. Don’t worry about imagining it with Japp as well, that’ll just complicate things. Just imagine him being distracted by a bee.

Meanwhile, down at the station, Regan was interrogating a suspect arrested in the drugs bust in Downing Street.
“This is DI Regan interviewing Harriet Jones. Time: 14:11. Right, madam. Tell us what the cannabis plants were about.”
“Well, you see Mr Regan,” began the woman, talking so fast it sounded like she were a 33 rpm LP being played at 45 rpm, “It’s all the fault of the drinks cabinet in the corner. He, I mean it, was growing them in its bottom drawer and we didn’t know anything about it!”
“Drinks cabinet growing cannabis. When did you find out about this?”
“This morning, when it came to life and gave Mr Poirot a plant.”
“What happened just before it came to life?”
“We were having a cabinet meeting.”
“Had you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Had you been taking any drugs at all?”
“No!”
“Well, I can’t say I believe you. Frankly, that story is utter crap!”
“I am the Prime Minister!”
“That you may be. But I can’t believe drinks cabinets come to life and grow illegal drugs in their drawers.”
The interview room door burst open and an officer handed Regan a note. It said “Don’t you think she looks tired?” in black felt tip. Regan concluded that the Prime Minister did indeed look tired, and decided to send her off for some rest.
“Right. I think you need to stay in a cell for a bit and try to make out what reality is. Interview suspended, 14:13. Reason: suspect appears to be under the influence. Take her away.”
Harriet Jones screamed. A cold, empty, lonely scream. She was going to be a laughing stock.

Part 07 - Keep Talking

You weren’t paying attention? Well. Poirot is to be disguised as a hippie whilst Miss Marple answers questions from the now-being-woken-from-frozen Saturday Night Takeaway audience, Regan has concluded the Prime Minister is stoned, and the heroes are not organising the main event, they are merely drinking coffee. The buzz should keep them awake for hours. “Not remotely dirty. Just brainless.” - MediaWATCHuk.

Bergerac put down his wonderful Cafe Latte for a moment and thought hard.
“We’re going to need to lure Miss Marple here.”
Poirot sat up painfully. He’d had too many coffees.
“But of course! We cannot bring her here. Someone else must do it. Someone suave and sophisticated.”
“Glamourous.”
“Sweet-talking, I think you say?”
“But who?”
Japp took his hat off his face.
“I think I know just the people. I’ll get on to the Ministry.”

Miss Marple was getting irritable. She wasn’t the centre of attention at the moment. This was the difficult period where the initial shock of the world had worn off, but the terror of what she would do had not yet set in. She considered making another broadcast to see if she could get the attention figures up again. No, best not. People would start accusing her of over-exposure - a move that was career suicide for a TV Detective.

She reflected on how she got into this position. The acquisition of the cup of tea had been one of those odd coincidences. A chance encounter with a man in a long black cloak in some rather upmarket tearooms. He’d offered her a big cup of tea, and she accepted, thinking he meant something along the lines of double the normal size. Little did she know that a cup of tea the size of a second division football stadium would be parked in the fields backing on to her cottage the next morning, with a note pinned to it saying “Crew included. Don’t drive too quickly. Mr. B.”

The plan to take over the world came to her in a dream that night. She was dozing fitfully in front of a late night re-run of Countdown, and she thought she heard Des Lynam say “Miss Marple, would you kindly take over the world. Thank you.” She woke up and saw that Countdown had finished and some bizarre program about how to remove objects from your ears had started, hosted by Richard and Judy. She switched the TV off and went to bed, concluding it was just a nightmare.

However, as she slept, she saw a thin, bony, almost skeletal face loom out of the conveniently placed mist at her. “Good grief! It’s Adam Rickitt!”, she thought, but the face had other ideas. “Take over the world,” it said, “You shall demand Poirot and Mike Oldfield’s back catalogue on CD. Take the Cup Of Tea,” it said. She wished she hadn’t listened to it and had demanded some Led Zeppelin instead. She didn’t even like Mike Oldfield.

Her thoughts were disturbed by the Cup of Tea’s doorbell ringing. She shuffled off downstairs to answer it. Some would say she was foolish, but she thought it showed she was a caring tyrannical dictator. She opened the door to find a man and a woman, dressed in a fetching suit and bowler hat and a slinky leather catsuit.

“Good evening. Mr and Mrs…?”
“I’m Steed. John Steed. And this is Mrs Emma Peel.”
“We’re here to whisk you off to the ITV studios for your very own special.”
“You don’t mean…”
Mrs Peel stepped over and put her arm around Miss Marple’s shoulders. “Yes, An Audience With Miss Marple!”
“Oh my!”

Japp hurried back to the others.
“They’re on their way. Miss Marple has insisted on bringing two guards, so we need to be prepared.”
“Good, Chief Inspector. Now, Poirot. You need to be disguised.”
“Oui. I thought maybe as a dashing Musketeer?”
“Well, I thought maybe you’d be safer disguised as a hippie.”
Poirot gasped as Bergerac showed him the dreadful tie-die T-shirt, jeans and gown he’d have to wear.
“Monsieur Bergerac! I cannot wear those!”
“Wear these or get caught by Miss Marple’s guards. And you know what they’ll be armed with.”
Poirot shuddered and took the disguise. He walked stiffly towards the toilets to get changed.

“I thought he took that quite well,” whispered Bergerac.
Japp whispered back, “£50 says he’ll go into the toilets and cry now.”

Miss Marple and her guards crowded into the back of Steed’s open-top Bentley, whilst Steed drove and Mrs Peel rode shotgun.
“So, tell us all about the latest gossip in the TV Detective world.” She said, in a decidedly conspiratorial manner.
“Well, I heard that Inspector Lynley had been arrested for stealing props after his last series.”
Mrs Peel gasped, then grinned and handed Miss Marple a glass of champagne.
“Thank you, dear. And what are you and Mr Steed up to these days?”
“We tend to take care of the more oddball crimes now. Downright paranormal goes to the X-Files, of course, but we get the offbeat, like that strange case of people who were being murdered, but living to tell the tale.”
“Oooh, lovely.”
“So what do you see as being your next big career move?”
“Well, I’m currently involved in a big project, which I can’t really discuss at any length, but suffice to say everyone will know about it, dears.”

Miss Marple smiled sweetly, whilst Mrs Peel exchanged a nervous glance with Steed. This sounded bad.

Part 08 - I Predict A Riot

In the last 7 parts… Miss Marple is now on her way to the ITV Studios for her Audience With special. Poirot, Bergerac and Japp are waiting for her. The audience have been defrosted. Regan is interrogating cabinet ministers on suspicion of growing dope. Poirot is dressed as a hippie. “The writer is clearly in need of help.” - Freud.

“Here we are, Miss Marple - the ITV Studios! Let me help you down from there…”
Steed took Miss Marple’s hand and led her into the open doors of Studio Takeaway. Mrs Peel followed, leading along the heavies the old bag had insisted on bringing. Goodness only knew why they were armed with knitting needles.

The audience cheered as Miss Marple took to the stage and sat down in the leather armchair provided. The studio monitors were showing pictures of Ant and Dec’s backsides, but she didn’t know that and thought they were pleased to see her. The chair creaked amusingly as she sat down and she giggled a little and smiled. The audience giggled because Ant had just been painted purple.

Bergerac, Japp and Poirot were hidden amongst the audience ready to throw questions at Miss Marple. Some ITV secretaries had also been concealed with questions to ask.

“Hello dearies, my you all look nice tonight. Well, let me tell you all about myself. I’m Miss Marple, and I do like solving crimes and knitting…”

The story of Miss Marple’s life went on for a not inconsiderable amount of time, during which the audience by and large nodded off, and even her eyes were spotted to be perilously close to closing on occasions. Thankfully, the question and answer session arrived before Bergerac expired from boredom. He looked across at Japp. The lucky sod had remembered to charge his palmtop computer and was playing solitaire.

“Who wants to ask me a question, then?”
Hands went up around the audience. Miss Marple pointed at Bergerac.
“You at the back, there. Oh, it’s Bergerac, isn’t it? What a lovely surprise.”
Bergerac stood up nervously. “Yes, it is. Can you tell us anything about the current project you’ve hinted at?” He added “all bloody evening” under his breath.
“Well, it is all very hush hush about what will happen if everything goes as planned, but I suppose I could reveal what happens if my demands aren’t met…”
The audience made excitable sounds at the picture of Dec wearing a costume fashioned from tomatoes. Steed stood up and hyped the moment a bit.
“Well, well, well, an exclusive - you heard it here first!”
Miss Marple stood up and pottered over to the front of the stage.
“Well, dearies, if my demands aren’t met by midnight tonight, I shall park my cup of tea on the polar ice caps and melt them, flooding most of the Northern Hemisphere.”
The audience gasped. For once it was actually at Miss Marple. She, however, was staring at the shifty-looking hippie when he gasped. She thought it odd that a hippie’s hair would fall off. They normally had real hair. But that balding head and the terrible combover underneath… she knew them from somewhere. Someone.

Poirot scrambled to put the wig back on. His heart was racing. He knew deep down in it that he was balding and that the wig would slip off and he should have stuck it on but he vainly thought the combover had enough hair gel in it to stick a tortoise to his head…

But all was lost. Miss Marple turned to the heavies and gave The Order.
“Get that hippie!”

Japp and Bergerac knew what to do. Run like hell. They jumped up and started politely excusing themselves past the audience. This didn’t work, so they decided to fight fire with fire and adopt the heavies’ tactic and just push across. They fought through a mass of legs and crisp packets to the end of their row and belted for the exit. Poirot, meanwhile, had a better idea, and simply body-surfed down the rows of unsuspecting Ant and Dec lovers to the front of the studio. The heavies, on the other hand, had fought their way halfway up the tiers of seating and now had to fight their way back down again. Miss Marple had just found out that the monitors were showing Dec’s feet being massaged with a teaspoon. Japp was screaming into his radio for an emergency escape vehicle.

Total sodding chaos.

Our heroes bundled through the door marked “Not the exit. Not at all.” and found themselves in the lobby. They dashed towards the huge glass doors that led out to the car park.
“Someone’s locked them!” screamed Japp.
They looked around and saw another exit leading to the underground car park. They were halfway across the lobby when the door from Studio Takeaway flew open and the heavies stormed out, armed with very long and very pointy knitting needles. Bergerac kicked the remaining table in their direction, and it glided gracefully across the carpet before meeting an untimely demise underneath 15 stone of what could have been Ross Kemp.

The other heavy ran after our heroes and started down the staircase to the underground car park. He saw the trio at the bottom.

Bergerac stopped at the bottom of the stairs and shouted to Japp and Poirot.
“You two get out! I’ll hold them off!”
Japp looked stunned.
“It’s suicide - you’ll hardly buy us any time!”
“Any time is better than no time. Go!”
“Good luck.”

Japp and Poirot saw a familiar flash of dull green as they burst into the car park. Regan’s Ford screeched around the corner and they piled in. Regan floored it and sped up the ramp, towards the streets of London. Poirot stared out of the back window, and saw Bergerac being pursued by the heavy. Bergerac caught his foot on a speed bump and tripped. The heavy stood over him, brandishing a knitting needle. The Ford jumped over the ramp at the exit and sped off into the night, and Poirot could see no more.

Part 09 - Let’s Get Ourselves Together

What has been? The Audience With Miss Marple plan went badly wrong when Poirot gasped so hard his wig slipped off and the cover was blown. During the escape, Bergerac sacrificed himself to let Poirot, Regan and Japp get away. They have managed to get Miss Marple to reveal what she will do if her demands are not met, though. She will use her cup of tea to melt the polar ice caps. “I mean, what kind of sick mind dreams this up?” - The Good Food Guide.

Miss Marple stormed out of the studio. She had been taken for a ride - literally. The heavies had called the cup of tea to come and pick them up. The wait was uncomfortable, particularly as the Saturday Night Takeaway audience had begun to escape. Oh, they weren’t the problem - it was the ITV bosses trying to round them up and throwing evil glances at Miss Marple and the heavies. It was incredibly hard to blank an entire room of people.

Poirot and Japp finished bringing Regan up to speed on what had happened. They stopped at a newsagent on the way out of London to order a bunch of flowers to be sent to the car park where Bergerac tripped up. It was the least they could do - the car park would be devastated.

“So, messieurs, what do we do now?”
The silence that followed was oppressive. Japp muttered something about geniuses.
“Chief Inspector - I think you may have an idea. We need geniuses of the highest caliber to defeat Miss Marple. I, myself am one,”
Regan scoffed.
“And I can think of another two who will be able to assist us. Monsieur Regan, head for Baker Street!”

Baker Street was a little bit of an oddity. The street Baker Street, that is. Not the Gerry Rafferty song that gave the world an instantly-known sax lick. Actually, sax lick could sound rather dirty if misheard, couldn’t it?

Anyway, whilst the rest of London seemed to be a hybrid of modern chic, 2000s style, modern chic, 1970s style and modern chic, 1920s style, Baker Street was modern chic, 1880s style. A small haven of the old times, holding out against life outside. A thin fog lay on the cobbled streets, gas lamps shone brightly, horses peed on piles of hay, piles of hay smelt like they’d been peed on by horses.

Regan promptly parked a Ford Cortina in the middle of the period illusion. Whilst the trio hustled over to number 221B, onlookers wondered what this green carriage was, and how you attached the horses. Onlooking horses reveled in the possibility that they might not be pulling carriages in the future. They spoken in hushed whinnies of an uprising - pull this dirty little backwater kicking and screaming into the days of the Ford Cortina.

Poirot rang the doorbell. The door opened slowly, seemingly of its own accord. Inside, in a cluttered and dusty study, sat a man wearing a silk dressing gown and a rather fetching fez. The fez had other ideas, though, and thought it was wearing a rather fetching man in a silk dressing gown.
“Come in, come in.” Said the fez.
“Come in, come in.” Said the man in the silk dressing gown.
“What brings you here?” Said the fez.
The man in the silk dressing gown stood up, opened the window and dropped the fez out. It was later spotted sporting a rather fetching horse.
“Sherlock Holmes at your service.” He intoned so smoothly that it flattened Poirot’s combover. Poirot stepped forwards.
“Good evening, Monsieur Holmes. I am Hercule Poirot, this is Chief Inspector Japp, and this is Detective Inspector Regan.”
“So you’re the team investigating the villainous Miss Marple.”
“You have heard?”
“I read it in the evening paper. Your television special plan failed, then?”
“Indeed. We’ve come to ask what you think.”
“I think I’d like to know… what you think.”
Japp piped up with a rallying “We think she’s messing with the wrong TV Detectives!”, but this was not the answer Holmes wanted.
“That’s all well and good, but do you have a new plan?”
“Not as yet. We were hoping to form one with the help of you and another genius we need to pick up.”
“Another? Well, with two of us, we should be able to manage something.”
“Three, surely?” said Poirot, looking flushed.
“Oh. Maybe. Just let me get changed and we shall set off. You have a carriage?”

Regan saw the opportunity for a delay here. He was an impatient type, and wanted to get on with the job in hand. He tapped Sherlock Holmes, possibly the world’s greatest detective, on the shoulder, and picked him up as he turned around.
“No time for that, carriage waiting.” growled Regan as he carried Holmes down the stairs to the Cortina. Japp and Poirot followed, picking up a pair of shoes and locking up on the way out. No sense in letting the poor chap get cold feet or be burgled.

They bundled back into the Ford and Regan turned the key in the ignition. He engaged first gear and moved off gently. The car seemed to be a bit sluggish. Surely Holmes couldn’t weigh that much? He leant out of the window and saw the car was riding very low, as if some huge weight was pressing down on it. Then, suddenly, he knew what the weight was.

The most colossal fart came from above him. He turned his head and saw a horse standing on top of his car. Rather than do what a normal British driver would do and ignore it and try to find a low bridge, Regan grabbed the fly swatter from his door pocket and started swatting the horse’s hooves. The horse resisted for a few seconds before it finally lifted a hoof. That was Regan’s moment. He swerved the car to the left and the horse toppled off and into a pile of hay. He floored the accelerator and they were off into the night to pick up the next addition to the team.

Part 10 - Windmills Of Your Mind

Previously… this time it’s in the bloody story. Read it yourself! “The writer has taken some of the greatest literary creations ever and used them to make fart gags. He is the worst kind of plagiariser.” - William Shakespeare.

Regan hadn’t slowed down to drive across the field to the quartet’s next destination. The Cortina bumped and rocked and swayed and moved in dimensions Holmes thought he couldn’t possibly experience. Poirot opened the window and leant out to be sick. The trail of vomit hit the rear wing of the green car, but he didn’t think Regan would notice. There was mud all over it anyway. And something that could have been congealed blood or a melted Cornetto.

Regan braked hard and Poirot bumped his head on the window frame. They all looked at the building in front of them. In the middle of a field, just to the east of the total middle of nowhere at all, was a windmill. Painted up perfect white, it stood there and scowled at them. As much as to say “You’re not worthy of meeting my owner.”

Our heroes, luckily, were imbued with the most monstrous egos. They decided they were most certainly worthy of the attention of the owner and stormed across to the front door. Holmes knocked, Poirot rang, Japp knocked and rang and Regan kicked it. The door squeaked open, protesting all the way, and a man with a huge mass of curly brown hair peered out from behind it. Regan turned to Poirot and growled at him.
“And how, Mr Poy-rot, will Brian bloody May be able to help us?”
The man behind the door tapped Regan on the shoulder and tried to explain, in an oddly nasal voice.
“I’m not actually Brian May. I’m Jonathan Creek.”
“So we don’t even have a decent guitarist. Fantastic!”
Poirot carefully nudged Regan out of the way and took charge of the situation.
“Monsieur Creek. I am Hercule Poirot, these gentlemen are Detective Inspector Regan, Chief Inspector Japp and Sherlock Holmes. We have come to beg your help to defeat the menace that faces Britain and the World.”
“I’ve told you before. I am not giving you any money unless you guarantee it will be spent responsibly. Charity is all well and good, but there’s too much corruption in Africa.”
Creek slammed the door.

Poirot knocked again and shouted that they were actually talking about him joining a crack team of TV Detectives to fight Miss Marple’s plans for world domination. The door opened again.
“Crack team of TV Detectives?”, asked Creek, “You lot?” He snorted in a giggly sort of way and invited them all in with a huge grin on his face.

Japp, Regan and Holmes made themselves comfortable with a few beers whilst Poirot put BBC News 24 on and explained their now-ludicrous adventures to Creek.
“Right, Monsieur Creek. This morning, as you can see, Miss Marple arrived over London in a giant cup of tea. She made an announcement demanding myself and Mike Oldfield’s back catalogue. As she left, the cup of tea brushed the ground and caused one of my plates to fall off the table and become chipped. As such, I and Chief Inspector Japp went to 10 Downing Street to meet the Cabinet. We discovered they were no more than a front for the drinks cabinet in the corner, who actually runs the country. A plan was formed to entrap Miss Marple in an ITV Audience With special, but this ended in disaster when the wig to my hippie costume fell off. This is why I am here wearing these rather nasty clothes. We managed, however, to find out that Miss Marple will melt the polar ice caps if her demands are not met. Detective Inspector Regan has been our transport throughout the misadventure. Along the way, we were joined by a Mr Bergerac, who very nobly sacrificed himself to save us during the escape from the ITV disaster. We have also picked up Mr Holmes to help with plan mark 2. The drinks cabinet handed us a cannabis plant as we left 10 Downing Street, which we turned in to a Police Officer, to whom we mistakenly gave the impression that the Cabinet were stoners. They were subsequently arrested. How are they doing, Monsieur Regan?”
“Well, the Prime Minister has definitely been puffing on something. She was spurting some rubbish about a drinks cabinet…”
The cogs turned in Regan’s mind as he realised what had happened.
“Good Lord, I’ve had the Prime Minister locked up and she was telling the bloody truth!”
Regan dashed for the phone and made several very groveling telephone calls to his station, the Cabinet Offices and the Queen. The Queen didn’t take the phone call personally, of course. She did, however, take the mistaken arrest of her Prime Minister personally, and the expletives she threw down the line, via her butler, at Regan were some of the most colourful and exotic he’d ever heard.
“Any questions, Monsieur Creek?”

The quintet gathered around the dining table to discuss the situation. Creek was the first to give his opinion.
“I think the Cup of Tea isn’t very big. It’s just very close to the camera.”
BBC News 24 flared into life, and as if to spite Creek, showed film of the Cup Of Tea landing on and crushing the new Wembley Stadium.

Miss Marple resented having to walk all the way from the ITV studios to Wembley Stadium, but the driver was adamant that he couldn’t find anywhere else to park. She decided that she had to get rid of the meddling detectives.

Back in the windmill…
“Messieurs, I believe that our next course of action must be to destroy the source of Miss Marple’s power - the cup of tea.”
“But how?” asked everyone in complete unison and correctly pitched to sound like a barbershop quartet. Japp decided to point something out.
“We have to take these demands to Miss Marple, right? So let’s put a bomb in Poirot.”
Poirot’s mouth dropped open. Regan closed it and said something that seemed very nice for him.
“No. In a Poirot, yes, but not this one. He’d be all gloopy and make the tea taste of blood.”
“Huh?”
“Think about it - this tea is going to rain down wherever we blow the Cup up, so why not make it drinkable and solve Kent’s Great Tea Shortage at the same time?”
Regan really had a point there. Kent had lately been in the grip of the greatest tea shortage known for 7 generations. The plan made sense on all counts. Poirot stood up and struck a pose.
“So, we are agreed. A robotic me shall carry a bomb on board the Cup of Tea to destroy it and provide free Tea for all of Kent!”

Part 11 - Stuck In The Middle With You

And? Well, Now the heroes want to send a robotic Poirot to Miss Marple, complete with concealed bomb and Mike Oldfield CDs. “As the episodes go on, it becomes as impenetrable as an impenetrable thing.” - Edmund Blackadder.

The quintet piled into Regan’s Ford. Now, you’d think that one of Poirot, Holmes or Creek would have had the sense to call shotgun to try and avoid the 3-people-in-the-back squash, but no. It was Japp who calmly walked over to the car, and with a smirk said “Shotgun” and got in the front.

The realisation dawned on the remaining three that they were all going to be in the back with each other. They all dashed to try and not get the middle seat. In the end, the poking and shoving got so bad that Regan had to turn around and tell them to behave, in his own inimitable way.

“Shut up the lot of you!”

They settled with Poirot on the left, Holmes on the right and Creek in the middle, because he was scrawniest and least likely to put up a fight. Japp turned around to see the vaguely comical scene, but disguised his sniggering under his ample moustache.

“Where first?”
“We’ll need a Robot Me. Where can we get one?”
Creek piped up with “IKEA!” and everyone laughed. Then got embarrassed because he was right.
“Right, IKEA it is!”

Regan stamped on the accelerator and the car lurched away and off through the field towards the road, bouncing away. Once again, Poirot opened the window and was sick down the side of the car. This time he managed to hit the rear tyre, and a small glob of carrot spun around the wheel and flew up his nose. He pulled his head back inside and wiped it out. The Ford reached its natural territory - the road. Land of the saloon, the estate and the school run 4x4.

Now, dear reader. Would you think that 3 geniuses on a mission to save the world would put their differences aside and just get on with the task in hand? Maybe. Do you think that that would happen in this tale? Of course not. The first signs of the squabble came when Holmes started reminiscing about his cases and how he thought they were more intelligent villains than anyone else’s. Poirot took exception.
“Monsieur Holmes, are you suggesting I deal with inferior criminals?”
“Yes, in a sense. Have you ever had the head of an international crime syndicate for a nemesis? Whose activities you had to thwart at every turn?”
“Well, I did a fairly good job of annoying Japp, but…”
Japp turned around in his seat. “Stop it, you two! Or we’re stopping the car and you’re getting out!”

Poirot and Holmes sat back and glared at each other. Creek broke the silence with a badly-thought-out “Well, actually, I reckon I had the cleverest ones…”
The fight that broke out was making the car bounce up and down. Not a pleasant experience when you’re bombing down a motorway at 90. Because there were no seatbelts in the back, the three brawling geniuses rolled around the limited legroom behind the seats and caused the back end of the car to slide left and spin off the motorway, and into a field. Which was on a hill. The whole car rolled down the hill and landed in a bush.

Now, convenient plot twists abound in this story, so that bush just so happened to be in a field outside an IKEA store. Would you believe it? I would. IKEAs are everywhere, and usually have fields around them.

The quintet struggled out of the upturned Ford and surveyed the damage. Other than being upside down, it didn’t look too badly off. They all lined up down one side and gave it a hefty synchronised kick to turn it back right way up. Regan walked over to a large stain down the rear wing and studied it.

“Who was sick down my wheelarch?”

Poirot considered his options, and decided that running for IKEA, producing a megaphone and shouting “Sorry!” backwards at Regan would be the best option. He grabbed the megaphone he kept in his pocket for just such an occasion, and started sprinting backwards towards IKEA. He was about to begin apologising, but he tripped over a rock and fell flat on his back. A pigeon perched on the megaphone. Poirot apologised right up the pigeon’s backside. Holmes and Creek wandered off towards IKEA and pretended not to know the embarrassment lying in the mud.

It was agreed that Japp and Regan take a well-earned break whilst the geniuses try to work out IKEA’s bizarre filing system. They tried and tried to find what the MD5 hash of the second triplet of letters in “Blank Robot” was, but they failed. Now, the geniuses were men. This meant they were incapable of asking directions. So they just wandered around in the warehouse for half an hour, following people who looked like they might be buying a blank robot.

After 3 false leads, they picked up on a couple who were trying to buy a new armchair in the shape of a cucumber. It so happened that they had calculated their MD5 hash wrong, and had come up with the location of the blank robots. Poirot picked up the blank robot package. All the parts needed to make a blank robot were packed into an 8-inch cube. There is the urban myth that IKEA regularly redefine the laws of physics to flatpack furniture. I would hate to comment on it - but suffice to say that if I were a physicist, I’d be spending a lot of time in the IKEA loading bays.

Meanwhile, Japp and Regan were sitting in the IKEA cafe. Somehow, they had convinced the staff that they were actually the Dutch Royal Family, and were as such sipping champagne from Faberge eggs and saying “Don’t you know?” a lot. When the geniuses arrived back, they said hello and what on earth were the detectives doing? They were given the response “Drinking champagne, don’t you know?”, followed by a huge burst of laughter. It was totally obvious to Poirot that Regan was drunk. And he was going to insist on driving.

The three geniuses supported the totally drunk detectives and half-dragged them to the car. They seated Regan in the driving seat, with Japp shotgun. Poirot protested that this was a dreadful idea, but Regan threatened to hit him. This was all getting very tiring to Poirot, so he resolved to buy a baseball helmet with visor when they reached London.

Regan popped the keys in the ignition and slurred “Where we going again?”, to which Japp replied “London!”. Reagn slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the car, its drunken driver and navigator and payload with IQ of 450 and value of £29.99 swerved back onto the motorway they spun off only 40 minutes ago.

Part 12 - In The Lap Of The Gods

So far? Poirot, Japp, Regan, Holmes and Creek are bombing back to London with a blank robot from IKEA. Regan and Japp are utterly drunk, and Poirot has been sick down Regan’s wheelarches. As of the moment they still need a bomb and some Mike Oldfield to carry out their devious plan to foil Miss Marple. “This gets worse every week!” - The Sun.

On the return to London, the now hugely tired and emotional heroes of this piece find a small abandoned warehouse to assemble the robot they bought in. Poirot and Holmes take care of the assembly, whilst Creek makes a few calls to arrange a bomb, and Japp and Regan hug each other a bit.

“Insert pin A into slot B.”
“It won’t go in.”
“Monsieur, it says it should here. Try again.”
“It won’t go in. Pin A is square. Slot B is triangular.”
“The instructions show both as being circular.”
“Well, they aren’t.”
“Moving on. Screw screw C into hole D.”
“We haven’t got a screwdriver.”
“Bolleaux.”

Meanwhile, on a mobile phone not so far away…

“Hey, Adam, how are you? Good. What’s the number for the guy who does your pyrotechnics? Lovely. How’s the tiger working out? Oh. How badly? Well, if she would try and get it to do that - of course it’ll choke on the catch. I say just try the old £10,000 to sht up and not go to court. Well, good luck with that. Bye, then.”

Jonathan dialled in the number he was given, and waited, with bated breath, to see if it was in fact the number of the pyrotechnics company or a chat line. The prefix looked distinctly Adult-oriented.

“Hello, Bangs R Us.”
Gah! It was a chat line. Creek tried to think of a way out of this. He’d heard of these places, but never actually phoned one.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I think I must have got a wrong number.”
“Why? Whatcha looking for?”
“Well, I need a bomb, you see…”
“Oh well, we’re your place. Why’d you think you had a wrong number?”
“Well, your name. It sounds a bit… like…”
“Bit like what?”
“Well, somewhere that might offer certain services not best discussed in polite company, shall we say?”
“Are you saying we sound like a naughty shop?”
“I didn’t mean that in a bad way…”
“You sicko!”

The operator slammed the phone down and Creek was left wondering how it all went wrong. Barely two hours back, he was sitting at home, and now he was in a disused warehouse telling pyrotechnic designers that their businesses sound rude. He dialled the number again.

“Hello, Bangs R Us.”
“I’m really really sorry please can you sell me a huge bomb!” blurted Creek. The operator sighed and got out her sheet of questions to ask.
“Is this for terrorist purposes?”
“No, we’re saving the world.”
“Whatever, mate. Are you a member of a terrorist organisation?”
“No.”
“What kind of bomb?”
“Something that can demolish a cup of tea the size of a football stadium.”
“Oh, after that Miss Marple, are ya? Well, far be it from me to recommend, but I reckon a Redeemer.”
“A Redeemer?”
“Yeah, one of our more popular items. Designed from the blueprints included with Unreal Tournament, complete nuclear warhead.”
“That sounds ideal. Can I get it delivered?”
“Yes. For an extra £25.99.”
“Fine. What’s the total?”
“£497.98.”
“Do you take Visa on delivery?”
“Sure. But we prosecute anyone who tires out their explosives on the delivery boy.”
“No, we need it for the cup of tea.”
“Yeah, heard that one before. Delivery in 30 minutes.”
“Don’t you need the address?”
“Nah, we’re just over the other side of the warehouse. Maybe next time you should switch the lights on.”

Creek hung up, embarrassed, and looked across the warehouse to see the operator waving and pointing to a Redeemer. Meanwhile, Poirot and Holmes had found an emergency “Press to self-assemble” button on the robot, and pressed it. The robot gently unfolded itself across several different dimensions and stood up. Poirot reached out and pressed the “Press to copy” button. The robot shimmered and turned into an exact duplicate of Poirot, right down to the crap combover. Creek loaded the Redeemer into the slot marked “Not to be used for carrying bombs ever ever at all!” and they were all set on one half of the plan. Now came the real challenge - getting Mike Oldfield.

Part 13 - Time

And what’s happened? Well, with robot Poirot prepared and carrying a fully-armed nuclear warhead in his (ample) stomach, all that’s left to acquire is the Mike Oldfield CDs. Simple. Too Simple. “Immature twaddle.” - The Chancellor Of The Exchequer.

Poirot and Holmes picked up the now-sobering-up Japp and Regan and carefully slid them into the car. Creek, meanwhile, loaded Robot Poirot on to the roof rack.

“Nnnni’m too tired to drive!” slurred Regan, before he rolled over in his seat and went to sleep. Poirot and Holmes looked deeply and meaningfully at each other. Their eyes connected, and they fell into the voids within each other. Each saw the other, and yet himself at the same time. They turned inside out and upside down within their own minds and saw the totalness of creation, where it came from, where it has been and where it is going. They saw time looped around from beginning to end in seventeen different dimensions. They saw all. They knew all. They promptly forgot all when Creek pushed Robot Poirot too hard and he landed on them.

Since Creek couldn’t drive, Regan and Japp were in no fit state to drive and Poirot and Holmes were in the land of the pixies, Creek loaded Real Poirot on to the roof rack, Japp, Regan and Holmes in the back and Robot Poirot in the driving seat. He sat shotgun and gave Robot Poirot his instructions.

“Robot Poirot - drive us to the biggest Virgin Megastore in London!”

Robot Poirot’s Wi-Fi connection buzzed. He found the nearest unsecured wireless network and logged in. He opened Wikipedia and started looking through the articles about Virgin Megastores. He found the largest by stock and floor space and moved to Google Maps. He plotted a journey that took them around known traffic hotspots and was set up for as much possible speeding as… erm… possible.

“Why-ay man!” he said, in a bizarrely Geordie accent, and drove off.

The drive was interesting for the passengers in the car. They were treated to destruction even greater than that which they witnessed earlier with Regan in the hotseat. Red lights were run, cafe tables were knocked down, garden walls shunted into the owner’s kitchen. How may a graden wall be shunted into a kitchen? Well, imagine a car hitting a garden wall, and pushing it through the front of the house and leaving it behind, in the kitchen, as it exits via the back wall.

Then of course, the drive was far more interesting for Real Poirot on the roof rack. He held on for dear life as his robotic doppelganger smashed them through yet another wall. At the end, his face was totally devoid of all colour, apart from the myriad array of dust and dead insects that had collected on him. The Crap Combover, however, was unharmed due to the extreme use of hairspray prior to setting out on this ridiculous adventure.

Robot Poirot had parked the car outside the largest Virgin Megastore in London. Well, on the steps into it would be more accurate, but they were close enough. Creek and Real Poirot ventured inside to look for Mike Oldfield’s Back Catalogue. They were fairly confident of finding it, too. There were rumours that this Megastore was so vast that its vaults held 5 copies of every release on DVD, CD, Betamax or VHS back to 1981, and every LP back to 1962.

They looked around for the “M” section. They rifled through the racks looking for “Mi”. They eventually found the card with “Mike Oldfield” printed on it, and behind it, a large stack of CDs. They picked up one of every one they could find and called a member of staff over.

“Madamoiselle, please could you find us a list of all Mike Oldfield’s releases on CD?”
“Why?”
“We wish to buy one of each.”
“Oh… you’re sorting out that Miss Marple, ain’t ya? Yeah, sales of Oldfield have grown 800% since this morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, yesterday, we sold 1 of his CDs, and today we’ve sold 8. And if you buy them, well…”
“Madamoiselle, we do not have time for maths. Please fetch up the list.”

The young girl returned a few minutes later with a list and began checking off each CD. There was quite a collection, and Poirot could feel his wallet getting lighter. But, disaster struck.

“You’ve got ’em all apart from Amarok.”

Poirot gasped. Creek gasped. The whole damn shop gasped. Which is pretty hard for a shop.

“Oh, no, that’s over here under Goldfrapp.”

A sigh of relief was breathed all around.

Part 14 - Little Green Bag

And so far in this merry tale… Our heroes have acquired Robot Poirot (complete with stomach-bomb) and a full collection of Mike Oldfield CDs. They are currently en route to Miss Marple’s Cup Of Tea, which squashed Wembley Stadium a few episodes back. “What a loser!” - The Jeremy Kyle Show.

Robot Poirot pulled the car up outside the Cup of Tea with a huge screech of rubber skidding on concrete. Real Poirot was once again on the roofrack, except this time he was hidden inside a Post Box to stop Miss Marple working out that what she was being handed was an IKEA robot.

Japp and Regan were sufficiently sober by this time to get out of the car by themselves, and they and Holmes, Creek and Robot Poirot walked towards the ship in slow motion. They cut an imposing sight, 5 heroes standing tall against the evil that threatened the world. Of course, TV News crews had surrounded the Cup Of Tea as soon as it landed, and the pictures were broadcast live around the world. Prime Minister Harriet Jones watched from her office, having been released from prison with a very nice apology. The German Chancellor watched and wondered what was in the red and yellow carrier bag. The Chinese Premier watched and admired the rather natty combover the one on the end was sporting.

Regan knocked on the door of the Cup and shouted at it “We’ve got what you demanded! Open up!” The door obliged and opened with a large sigh, as if it was suddenly relieved about something. And it actually was. It had been stuck in that ill-fitting doorframe for hours - and that hurt like nothing else for a door. Having your edges squashed and squeezed every which way to keep the cold out. Well, it wasn’t having it any more. It opened all the way out, undid its hinges and shuffled off into the waiting TV News crowd, ready to be a media celebrity. It could see the headlines now - “Miss Marple’s Door Tells All - Exclusively!”, “Door Reveals Wild Exploits That Went On Whilst Its Back Was Turned”, “Door’s Stories Of Drug Stir-Fries Shock Nation!”. Not that there had been any drug stir-fries, but no-one would realise that until after the correct payments had been made.

As the door shuffled off, Regan lead the others in through the hole it had left behind. They saw the bizarre porcelain corridors that made up Miss Marple’s ship. Each was perfectly white, and rather slippery. They also leaned outwards slightly to accommodate the curvature of the cup. Doors lead off into equally curved rooms full of machinery and buzzing. The whole cup vibrated slightly like a car idling at traffic lights.

A figure stormed purposefully down the corridor. He looked like a telephone salesman, all suit and charm. And pink shirt.

“If you would follow me, please.”

The Five followed the One up various flights of stairs and down various corridors towards the bridge, which was fashioned to look like a large glass sugar cube floating in the tea. Miss Marple sat in the middle, on a very big chair that looked like it had been built to seat William Shatner, rather than a sweet old lady.

“Hello, dears.” She said, sweet as sugar, but icy as ice. Regan took it upon himself to conduct the negotiations, as he was wearing his “mean bastard” underpants.
“We’ve got what you wanted. Mike Oldfield CDs and Poirot.”
He dropped the carrier bag of CDs and pushed Robot Poirot towards Miss Marple.
“Seeya!”
“Oh no you don’t. Not until I’m satisfied that this is the real Poirot.”

Miss Marple walked up to Robot Poirot and poked him. He emitted a cry of “Ouch, man!” and ran off to the other side of the bridge whittering “Hello and welcome to Saturday Night Takeaway! I’m Ant and Dec…”
“Oh great!” Growled Regan. “It thinks it’s Ant and bloody Dec! We forgot to switch the personality!”

The Four detectives and geniuses made a break from the bridge and into the Cup Of Tea’s innumerable corridors. They ran at breakneck speed from the Heavies Miss Marple sent after them down a flight of stairs and into a small room that seemed empty and disused.

Japp started screaming things like “Well that was a pig’s ear!” at Creek.
“Why are you shouting at me?!”
“You’re not going to hit me!”
Creek tried to hit Japp, but missed and hit a button on the wall. A huge beam of light flared into life and a postbox appeared in it. Out of the slot peered a familiar pair of eyes. With a little bit of jiggling, the box was removed and Real Poirot was revealed, in all his craply combed over glory.

“How did it go?”
“Badly. Robot Poirot thinks he’s Ant and Dec.”
“Oh dear.”

Poirot sat down on a convenient panel of buttons. Even more conveniently, this didn’t send the ship into self-destruct mode. And finally - and as cherries on the cake go, this one is pretty sweet - they teleporter that brought Real Poirot aboard beamed them back outside the Cup of Tea. The scene that greeted them there was one for sore eyes. The British Army had surrounded the Cup of Tea and were broadcasting demands for Miss Marple to come out and give herself up. A middle-ages man in a suit who looked oddly familiar shouted to the various detectives and geniuses.

“Miss Marple didn’t finish me off properly!”
Poirot grabbed a megaphone and shouted back.
“Monsieur Bergerac?”
“DCI Barnaby now! New career!”

Part 15 - Fight From The Inside

Previously? Well, Miss Marple now has to deal with Robot Poirot (who contains a bomb) running around her cup of tea believing himself to be Ant and Dec, the fact that the Heroes have escaped with the aid of her teleporter AND Bergerac returning. With a new career as DCI Barnaby. FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE!!! Sorry. “Delete it!” - Cyber Controller.

Poirot and Regan were rather happy to have their old partner-in-stopping-crime back, but Japp didn’t quite understand the significance and ran off shouting “I see dead people!”. Creek ran after him and managed to rugby-tackle him and keep him pinned to the ground so he didn’t hurt himself too much.

Miss Marple, meanwhile, was not entirely happy at having her ship invaded by a multiple-personality Robot Poirot, and the meddling detectives responsible simply vanish from under her nose. She ordered that they all be teleported back on board straight to the bridge, so that they can re-appear back under her nose where they left from.

The heavies carefully reprogrammed the teleporter and reversed all the polarities they could find, crossed their fingers and hit the big red button. The detectives and geniuses were returned in only a mildly scrambled mass to the bridge, along with some traffic cones from the road and a rather puzzled rabbit from the south of France.

Regan appeared face-to-face with Miss Marple. He picked up one of the traffic cones and pointed it at her. She drew her knitting needles and started trying to poke Regan. She shouted for backup, but the heavies were enjoying a nice swim in the south of France. She didn’t stand a chance. Regan advanced, traffic held out to keep the knitting needles away from him. Miss Marple slashed wildly, but only managed to scratch the cone. Then, she ran out of space to retreat and was pinned against the wall.

Poirot and Barnaby followed Regan’s lead and started rounding up the pilots of the Cup Of Tea. If you cast your mind back, you’ll remember that these were telephone salesmen, so none actually put up much of a fight at all. They tried to sell their captors things, and when they’d all been herded into a corner and coned in, they tried to sell each other things.

Regan quickly tied Miss Marple up with a few ties stolen from the Salesmen, and put her in the coned-off prison. Poirot watched, but his attention was caught by a wire that ran across the floor of the bridge. On one end, the main fight control console. The other end ran around behind the desks and ended in a USB plug. Which was plugged into a bread making machine. Which was producing loaves in the shape of chess pieces.

Poirot’s famous Little Grey Cells started working overtime. The navigation system plugged into a bread maker? And was that not the unmistakable feeling of the Cup Of Tea taking off?

“Good grief!” He exclaimed. “Miss Marple was only a front for the real villain!”
Creek had been studying a pair of odd doors that seemed to serve no purpose at all.
“I wonder what these are for.”
He started picking the lock with a spare penknife and felt a cool breeze wafting out of the keyhole.

As he worked, he was sure he heard shuffling inside. At the same time, the Cup Of Tea started to rise into the air and set a course. Creek had a dreadful sense that whatever was in this cupboard was far more dangereous than a sweet little old lady.

Regan, Barnaby and Japp, meanwhile, were arresting the Telephone Salesmen en masse. Barnaby tried the official method.
“You are all under arrest. You do not have to say anything…”
The response was muted. The salesmen didn’t understand. Japp tried to be slightly more direct.
“You’re all coming down the station with us to answer a few questions.”
There was muttering about quotas and sales, but it took Regan’s touch to bring them into line.
“You’re all nicked!”
The salesmen all looked at each other and started blathering about not being involed and how it was all just a job and they couldn’t be held responsible. Japp sighed and started taking statements. He knew this case was going to be a bugger to write up.

Holmes watched the action unfold from the chair Miss Marple had occupied. Being in his dressing gown, he was really feeling that cold breeze across the room. Suddenly, he felt the breeze become a gale as Creek managed to open the hitherto uninteresting doors, and as such made them incredibly interesting.

An icy wind spilled out of the closet and the geniuses and the detectives looked in. They gasped. Not for the first time, but this time it was so hard that Poirot’s Crap Combover became dislodged. The sight within was truly terrifying. It introduced itself.

“Good evening, Gentlemen.”

Part 16 - Mr Brownstone

And as yet, what has been? Well, Miss Marple is decidedly vanquished, but she seems to have been a front for a far greater evil, who is currently loitering in the closet on the bridge of the Cup Of Tea introducing himself to the heroes. There are also a lot of telephone salesmen who have been under the misapprehension they were piloting the Cup Of Tea, when they were in fact controlling a USB Bread Maker. “The end is nigh. And in the case of this story, we should give thanks.” - Nostradamus.

As our heroes looked into the closet, they saw a horrifying sight. Surrounded by control consoles and switches and levers of all descriptions sat a grinning skeleton with long black curly hair, wearing a cloak and a top hat. This was disturbing enough, but more was yet to come. The skeleton decided to introduce himself.

“Good evening, Gentlemen.” His voice was incredibly smooth and calculating for a skeleton.
“Good grief!” Exclaimed Poirot. “It’s Adam Rickitt!”
The skeleton was not best pleased at this.
“No! My name is Mr Brownstone. But you may call me… Mr Brownstone.”
“Very well, Monsieur Brown…”
“MR! Mr Brownstone!”

Mr Brownstone stood up and pulled out a very long knitting needle, which he carefully manipulated through various dimensions to point at all 6 detectives and geniuses at once.

“Now that’s clever!” sniffled Creek, trying to hold back tears at the double whammy of disillusionment he was feeling. Not only was he having a knitting needle pointed at him by a mad skeleton in a top hat, the skeleton was also disassembling the laws of physics.

“Now, Gentlemen, I would like to thank you for bringing my plan to fruition. The irritating Robot Poirot you provided is currently contained in a cell downstairs - and thank you ever so much for the bomb, by the way. That will come in very useful. But I now have what I really wanted - Tubular Bells.”
“But why?” asked Poirot, calmly trying to stay on top of the situation.
“Because, Mr Porridge…”
“Poirot.”
“…Porridge, Mike Oldfield created a monster when he wrote this album. The opening theme has the unusual property of being able to create a super-receptive state in the human consciousness. As such, if I play it from the quite simply amazing Bose sound system installed in this cup of tea - I can make the whole world my slaves!”

Mr Brownstone threw his head back and laughed long and hard. Poirot saw his opportunity. “But - those CDs are sealed in plastic wrap. That’s impenetrable to humans, let alone skeletons.”

Mr Brownstone looked as angry as a skeleton with no facial muscles or tissue could be expected to look. He dropped the knitting needle and grabbed a razor blade from his pocket. In the time it took Regan to get to him, the evil mastermind had managed to find the Tubular Bells CD and slash through the plastic wrap. he opened the case and made to load the CD into the Cup Of Tea’s player when Regan rugby tackled him and he fell to the ground. The CD teetered on the edge of the console, about to drop into the disc tray.

Barnaby dived towards it, but he was too late. The CD fell, the tray closed and the sounds of the opening theme of Tubular Bells rang out across the world. Everywhere, people heard the soothing melody and their brains started to shut off. They just stopped, their minds awaiting instructions from their new master.

Mr Brownstone managed to break free of Regan’s grip and grab the microphone. He prepared to make his victory speech from the Cup Of Tea that hung in the air exactly the same way a brick wouldn’t.

“People of Earth, your attention please. My name is…”

Sadly, the rest of the speech would never be heard. Which was a shame, as it was a very good speech setting out how Mr Brownstone would remove evil and ensure the world lived together in perfect harmony and peace. But it was not to be. Regan hit the skeleton.

“Ouch! That really hurt!” screamed Regan. Luckily for Mr Brownstone, he no longer had a nervous system, so he didn’t feel a thing. He just fell over and Poirot sat on him.
“Argh! Get off me, you fat lump!”
Japp and Holmes ran into the closet to try and land the cup of tea, whilst Barnaby tried to change the CD, Regan nursed his fist and Creek broke down and sobbed with glee in the corner.

Japp and Holmes looked at the screen in front of them and were utterly lost. They had both had reasonable experience with computers, but the training course for dealing with evil supervillain computers had told them in no uncertain terms that they would only ever come across standard Windows machines with custom user interfaces.

It was just their luck to find the one evil supervillain that was a Mac devotee. They tried clicking a few icons and managed to bring up a web browser and a system setup panel. They clicked more buttons and iTunes flared into life, revealing a huge selection of bootlegged MP3s. Bergerac had managed to extract and destroy the Tubular Bells CD, so they scanned the list for anything that looked reasonably loud and raucous. They found what they were looking for under T and clicked it until it played.

All over the Earth, the super receptive trance was broken as T. Rex’s classic “20th Century Boy” screamed out of the Cup Of Tea. All seemed well until Robot Poirot burst through the wall of the bridge shouting.

“Why-ay, man! Detonator countdown started!”

Part 17 - Communication Breakdown

Current status? The evil skeleton Mr Brownstone is trapped beneath Poirot’s backside, The Earth has been hypnotised and snapped awake with Tubular Bells and 20th Century Boy respectively. However, this has sent Robot Poirot into detonate mode, and he’s just burst through a wall shouting about it. “And still there is more?!” - Abstracts of the Papers Printed in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, 1823.

Robot Poirot stood looking at the stunned bridge, expecting everybody to be happy that he was about to detonate a nuclear warhead next to them. He was mildly surprised when they all ran for their lives.

Real Poirot and Bergerac began herding the Telephone Salesmen towards the teleport room, and Japp followed with Miss Marple in custody. Regan dragged Mr Brownstone kicking and screaming out of the bridge, and Holmes and Creek tried to remove all of Mr Brownstone’s computers as evidence for the impending court case. They managed to extract two PowerBooks, but agreed that the huge array of electronics, cables and speakers would have to be left. Which was too bad, because Holmes rather liked the burnished wood colour of them.

With crew, prisoners, detectives and geniuses amassed in the teleport room, Poirot sat on the button he had sat on earlier, and they were beamed down to the street below. They looked up to see the Cup Of Tea rising ever higher above London.

On board, Robot Poirot sat down and wondered what to do. He wasn’t feeling all that comfortable, so he decided to go to the toilet to make himself a bit happier for his last few minutes. He finished off and flushed, but noticed that there was something big and nasty stuck in the U-Bend. No matter, he thought, it’ll be destroyed in about 2 minutes. Then he realised that he had, in fact, just dumped the nuclear warhead he had programmed to explode.

He ran full tilt for the teleporter, obeying the Third Law of Robotics as fast as his legs would carry him.
“I’m saved, man!” He shouted at no-one in particular.
He jumped at a panel of buttons and was teleported out and straight into the postbox next to Real Poirot. Real Poirot didn’t notice, of course. He was watching the Cup of Tea be blown into little pieces by Robot Poirot’s nuclear dump. The radiation expelled was absorbed by the Cup Of Tea, and mutated it as it fell out of the sky. Packets of tea bags rained down over London and half of Kent. The Great Tea Shortage was over! Crowds took to the streets and partied like tere was tea falling from the sky.

Robot Poirot struggled out of the postbox and hugged Real Poirot. Real Poirot refused to be surprised and simply patted the Robot on its lovably Crap Combover. A few metres away, Mr Brownstone kicked Regan in the nuts and ran off laughing maniacally.

---

Two Months Later…

---

“Arise, Sir Hercule Poirot.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”

Each of the detectives, geniuses and robot followed and was duly honoured for saving the world from the dreadful Miss Marple. Of course, the escape of the real villain had been covered up, and no mention of him occurred in any public documents. The witnesses who saw someone who looked oddly like a cross between Slash and Adam Rickitt running off had been told to get a good sit down and relax.

Regan walked up to collect his honour. The Queen moved backwards slightly as he approached. She was worried he’d sit on her again. Stupid man couldn’t tell the difference between her dress and the sofa. She knighted him, containing the urge to lop off one of his suit shoulder pads “by mistake” as revenge. He trod on her foot as he stood up, and she could contain herself no longer. A quick wave of the sword and Regan had a very embarrassing split down the back of his trousers. He didn’t notice. That made it twice as good.

At the photocall later, the seven looked suitably photogenic, answering questions and cracking vaguely amusing jokes. Real Poirot broke off for a moment to answer a call.

“Hello.”
“Poirot?”
“This is he.”
“I’m with the Miami Crime Scene Investigation Unit. We need your help…”

Poirot nodded as the case was explained to him. He closed the phone and talked in hushed tones with the other heroes. The reporters saw Japp, Holmes and Barnaby shaking their heads. They all shook hands and Poirot, Regan and Creek left. Japp stepped up to the microphone and spoke to the eagerly listening world.

“Erm, they’ve gone to sort something out.”

The anticlimax was felt all over the world.

“Something about people in America being murdered and not dying…”

All over the world, several billion jaws dropped.

TO BE CONTINUED…