Warren is not the brightest adept you ever met but his heart is in the right place. This is from a game I ran about 8 years ago. It is very English.

Well, there I was sitin’ in front of the box. I’d got a Lamb Passanda perched on the arm of the chair and a six-pack of Carlsberg for a footstool when Kelly appears.

And I don’t mean “turned up” kind of appeared, I mean “appeared” appeared. Like on Paul Daniels magic show.

“What the fuck …”, I start, and then I get Lamb Passanda all over my crotch. “What the fuck …”, I try again but at this point Kelly chooses to walk through the TV and I figure once more would be too much. So I just sit there with hot curry steaming in my lap, my mouth wide open and Kelly glaring at me from kinda inside the TV.

“I’ll give you ‘What the fuck'”, she says, “I’m fuckin’ dead – that’s what the fuck!”

“No fuck”, I say, “Well piss off and let me finish me curry in peace.”

But it’s no use. She doesn’t go. She just hangs around staring at me all evening. Put me right off my curry and right off my evening’s entertainment – Jo Guest, some KY and a new Mansize box of Kleenex. With Aloe Vera, I might add. None but the best for his nibbs.

So anyway, it appears that, whilst on her tour round Europe, she has ended up dead. She don’t really know how it happened and she don’t really know what I’ve got to do with it. But the fact is she’s back in London and she’s haunting me. Which is a right fuckin state of affairs if you ask me.

So it’s left to muggins here to sort it out. Apparently the last place she remembers is Vienna. Nice place she says, lots of old things. She’d hooked up with this weird couple. Old bloke with a nice line in whistles and some bird who looked a bit peaky. Kelly reckon there was some aura about ’em and she’s not usually wrong in that respect.

So I have to get to Venice, Vienna, I mean.

I mean I know that now.

IT’S AN EASY MISTAKE!

I changed me trousers and decided to fly out. I was a bit strapped for cash so I popped out down Broadgate and soon found a wallet that some city ponce musta dropped. Snakeskin too. Nice.

I dropped the cards in with my mate Luigi at the Elephant, he can usually find a use for them and that left me with a monkey in folding.

The tickets were no problem. First black cab – only too happy to be heading back to the safe side of the river – on the back seat, briefcase. Two tickets to Venice, first class, and a copy of Playboy. American Playboy. Result.

So we nip up to the city airport and there I am, 3 hours later, sipping bloody moccachino in St fuckin’ Marks square, when Kelly pops up to ask where the fuck I’ve been. Apparently she’s been waiting for hours on the tarmack in VIENNA. So we have a bit of blarney. And everybody is looking at me like I’m some kind of nutta. Then it hits me that, what with Kelly being a ghost and all, I probably do look like a nutta.

Fifty minutes later, I’m squeezed into the cabin of a truck heading north. The geezer’s Albanian and I can’t understand a fuckin word he says. He’s got this raghead music on the stereo and his missus is squeezed in between us. Apparently she’s learning English by correspondance and finks that I can help her with ‘er pro-nunce-e-hay-shun. Her teacher’s gonna ‘ave a bit of a shock when she starts talking all Tottenham like.

To make matter worse Kelly is perched on the dash making like the geezer’s eating ‘er out. It’s the best I can do not to fuckin kill meself.

I tell you now, when she gets her body back, I’m gonna kill ‘er.