“You sir are acidising my digestion” protested Ian Devine. He swatted Brian Creswell with a blubbery fist and knocked him to the ground. Grantham dived on top of the remote detonator and threw it to Wicks. Wicks then swallowed the device and we were safe. In a few hours Ian Devine would’ve completely digested the reactor and Brian Creswell’s scheme for destroying the world was at an end.

“There are still a few loose ends” quibbled Grantham. “What has been happening?”

“You call that a loose end?” I mocked. “It’s quite simple…”

“It’s very straightforward” said sensible Miss Bobbins. “Brian Creswell was sent through a dimensional portal which was opened due to illegal experiments at the Bendaton I meat plant. They had produced a chemical substance which could enable people to pass from one reality to another, much as I did in my room at Brent Towers. There have been several books published on the subject. Reality, they argue, is merely a state of mind and, with certain mind altering chemicals stimulating that mind, the full power of conscious mental energy is unleashed. Brian Creswell, stuck in this reality, sought to reproduce the substance but found that even his money couldn’t buy him discretion. Rather than draw attention to himself, he had packages of equipment and chemicals sent to him in the stomachs of live animals. They would then be killed, the packages removed to his secret laboratory, and payment sent to his suppliers inside pies.”

“I wondered why it tasted so papery. I’ve probably eaten several thousand pounds – not for the first time. Ho ho ho”

“So we could get home?” I asked, reluctantly adopting the ‘assistant’ role so beloved of light haired girls in small clothes.

“I believe we could. The equipment should be quite satisfactory – much better than my homemade lash up I’m sure.”

“Do we want to go home?” asked Grantham. “Now that the web of mayhem and intrigue is over, we could settle down in this television paradise.”

“We could – Dennis Brent, we could settle down here in this television paradise” agreed Wicks.

“There is a vacuum at the heart of Bendaton – we are sensible, responsible people and could easily be persuaded to take up positions of civil authority” I mused.

“I think we are unanimous – we stay here” said Ian Devine. “Shall we celebrate at the local pie shop?”

“READ ALL ABOUT IT” hollered a youngster. He was wearing a billboard and clutching a bag full of newspapers. “TOMORROW PEOPLE AXED TO MAKE WAY FOR ORWELLIAN REALITY SHOW”

I pulled out a coin and purchased a paper. “Listen” I read, “Long running science fiction serial The Tomorrow People will cease production next week as every channel announced their intention to make nothing but cheap garbage. BBC spokesman Malcolm Groan said it was ‘A watershed in customer led refocusing.’”

“He did this” said Ian Devine, kicking the fallen body of Brian Creswell. “He’s destroyed Paradise.”

“I didn’t know it would happen so quickly” whimpered Brian Creswell.

“You bastard” shouted Donald Brent, leading a band of sensible looking men across the car park. “We are the British Royal Union of Noted Telehistorians and we’ve heard that you are the man responsible for every quality programme being axed today.”

“I didn’t know” protested Brian weakly.

“We’re going to have to break every bone in your body.”

“I won’t let you hurt him” I said nobly.

“Stand aside, alternative-universe-brother” said Donald.

“Everyone, when I say ‘run into the factory, find the laboratory and open the portal to our dimension’, I want you all to run into the factory, find the laboratory and open the portal to our dimension. Right - run into the factory, find the laboratory and open the portal to our dimension.”

Lucky for us, the chaps from BRUNT weren’t as nimble as we seasoned freedom fighters and we outdistanced them by some yards. Brian Creswell lead the way to his laboratory and, with sensible Miss Bobbins’ help, he opened the swirling red portal back to reality. One by one we jumped through and fell through space, time and dimensional barriers until we hit the floor of Brent Towers. I rushed over to the window and looked out. No exotic meat factory. I rushed over to my bureau and dug out my autographed photograph of John Scott Martin.

“We’re home” I said with my best attempt at a smile. “We may have ruined another world but at least we’re ok and that’s what matters.”

“Back to the grindstone” sighed Ian Devine.

“Back to the unemployment line” sighed Brian Creswell.

“Back to your anus cream” added Felicity Bobbins, pointing at me and sympathising.

“My a-n-u-s is quite irrelevant” I snapped. “We are home at that’s all that matters.”

“Shall we go to the Elk and Bush for a celebratory pie and small sherry ?” suggested Ian Devine.

“What a marvellous idea” I said. “What do you think Bri…”

But he had slipped out.

“Where is Brian Creswell ?”

“The further away the better” said Grantham, apparently bitter that Brian Creswell had tried to kill him.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish” added Wicks.

“Did I mention small sherries and PIES” clarified Ian Devine. “Pies – as in PIES.”

Some time later we were in the Elk and Bush and enjoying a celebratory drink and feast.

“I think Brent’s Seven came out of this mission rather well. Admittedly most people we came into contact with ended up dead but we shouldn’t lose sight of the main point.”

“Hear hear” cheered Wicks and Grantham.

Felicity Bobbins came back from the bar with a tray of small sherries. She made to sit next to me.

“No – that’s Brian Creswell’s seat” I said without thinking. “I mean… I need that seat as part of… part of… part of the cure for my troublesome a-n-u-s” I lied. “You never know when you might need to shuffle about a lot.”

“I understand” she said loudly. “I’ll sit between Mr Wicks and Mr Grantham.”

“No no” they chorused and moved closer together.

“My knee is free” said Ian Devine, shooting her a creased smile.

“What a beautiful evening” said Miss Bobbins quickly, “I think I’ll go into the garden.”

“After our exposure to the horror of meat factories, do you think we should all adopt a healthy vegetarian diet?” suggested Wicks.

A silence fell over our club as we considered this interesting remark.

“What an effeminate suggestion” scoffed Ian Devine.

“Very unmanly” agreed Grantham.

“That is the most h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l thing I’ve heard all day” I added.

“Landlord” boomed Ian Devine, “Beef pies all round”

“Hurrah!” we roared.