It is lucky for you that Brent’s 7 was comprised of Britain’s leading telehistorians. We are, in addition to being men of above average height and intelligence, chaps who understand the importance of writing everything down. I can, thus, provide you with excerpts of Ian Devine’s account of his mission at the Exotic Meat Factory.

Naturally, those used to my prose will find Ian Devine’s rather childish scribblings a little underwhelming but (and he’s my best friend so I’m allowed to say it) I hope you can try to gloss over his literary failures and enjoy his rather basic adventure.

I was sneaking crumbs from my muffin pouch while Miss Bobbins was explaining our duties. I happily skipped over Dennis Brent’s role in proceedings and was only aroused by mention of the exotic meat factory. Although virtually a vegetarian, I do occasionally enjoy a meat pie or two and this seemed like an excellent opportunity to broaden my horizons. Naturally, I would be essentially mission focused as there are more important things than my appetite. I was a little perturbed to be in a team on my own as I enjoy the company of my friends (especially Fatty Wicks who I find less teeth rottingly annoying than Dennis or Grantham). We went our separate ways and I decided to jog to the meat plant. I had missed my morning run over the previous few days and relished the opportunity to get the blood pumping.

With Take That’s second album pounding in my ears, I made it to the exotic meat factory in less than three hours. I had been told to be sneaky and to treat it as if it were a store house for rare archive film canisters. The guard on duty asked to see my name badge. Unfortunately I had snacked on the pass Miss Bobbins had drawn up (did you know eyebrow pencil is gloriously calorific?)

“My name is Dennis Brent” I lied cunningly. While he digested the information (mmm – digestion) I bashed him over the head with a leg of pork and stole his uniform. Then I finished the leg of pork and tried to get into his clothes. Not in a h*m*s*x**l way, obviously. Alas the man was a beanpole (mmm – beans) and I could only wear his hat. It perched atop my head like a flag at the summit of a mountain. I can’t abide skinny people.

I rushed into the factory and, with my official hat, no one bothered me until I reached an area marked ‘Secure – Do Not Enter’. There were two guards outside and both were armed with guns. Unluckily for them, my momentum as I hared down the corridor meant I was completely unable to stop in time and I smashed into the pair of them, reducing them to the consistency of jelly (mmm – jelly). The impact also broke the lock on the door and I snuck inside. The air was full of the stench of flesh. Or meat as it is otherwise known. I was in fleshy heaven. I had to pinch myself several times to prove I hadn’t died and gone to the great abattoir in the sky. I am not ashamed to say I licked some of the carcases (not Karkuses obviously <chuckle>) Mmm – they tasted so good. It is an unconventional position to take but if and when I die, I want to be strung up from the ceiling and left in a chilled room. It would be my way of giving something back. I pinched myself again to remind myself that I was on a top secret mission to do something. We weren’t quite sure what but I’m sure Dennis Brent didn’t just send me there to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I put my trousers back on and went looking for some fascinating technical documents.

I hadn’t long to wait before something happened. I was fondling an ex-caribou when I heard footsteps approaching.

“He is coming” said the first voice. An untrained voice, I couldn’t have made him a star. My stomach rumbled. They looked about them and muttered something about the plumbing being in a shocking state for such a new exotic meat factory.

“When will he arrive?” asked the second man, content that the plumbing wasn’t going to impinge too much upon his day.

“Tomorrow night – that is when the main plan goes down.”

“Since we have some spare time, why don’t we discuss the main plan in detail” said the first guard. He was just about to go into fascinating detail (I could sense it) when my stomach rumbled again. This time I added an unfortunate gas emission and they located me.

“Who are you?” demanded the larger of the two men.

“I am Dennis Brent” I lied again.

“Never heard of you.”

“I’m not surprised – I write very trivial and unnecessary books. Unlike my friend Ian Devine who does good works and asks for nothing in return…” I was eulogising when the smaller of the two guards clubbed me in the stomach with his official stick. The piffling fool – the blow merely bounced off my natural defences. I decided to be proactive.

“ROARRRRR” I roared and charged towards them. They were sent flying like small fans at a Sophie Aldred signing when her larger fans have had too many pre-event cocktails.

“Stop him” shouted guard number one. “Someone called Dennis Brent is escaping” but I was too clever for them. I built up a head of steam and aimed for every door I came too. In next to no time at all I was outside the exotic meat factory and breathing rather heavily (which is a good sign, actually, as it means one’s cardiovascular system is functioning at peak capacity). I was eating a pie grabbed from the exotic meat factory’s ‘Testing – Do Not Remove Samples’ department when I became aware of several armed men surrounding me. Their guns clicked and were aimed at my youthful head.

“Put the pie down or we’ll shoot you in the head”. I think you’ll agree it was quite a dilemma.