10pm

"Have you been drinking, sir?"

"Yes" I said.

It was, technically, true as I had had three small glasses of sherry over the course of the evening and all of that was on top of a small glass of sherry at home to stiffen my nerves before going out. With that amount of alcohol sloshing round my system it would've been a foolish man who thought he could get away with lying to an officer of the law. That said, the policemen in Bendaton are extremely stupid and would happily believe that a one legged man had two legs if the latter could produce two different shoes.

"You do appreciate, sir, that being drunk in charge of a conga line is an extremely serious offence?"

"Yes" I said again thought I doubted it was the case.

"Would you have any objection to taking a breathalyzer test?"

"Yes" I said.

"Yes you would mind or yes you wouldn't mind?"

"Yes."

"The latter" I said cagily. There was no whoop of triumph from Philip Stiffit so I assumed I had not forfeited our arrangement.

"Would you blow into this, sir?" asked the constable.

"Yes" I told him. He produced a plastic tube and bid me blow into it in a firm and consistent manner. He was supposed to tell me to stop once he had received enough of my air but he seemed content to watch me go red and then purple and finally green.

"It’s changed colour" he announced at last.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"I don’t know, sir, I was away that day."

"What do we do next?" asked Philip Stiffit, a force still pushing me even though we had come to a halt.

"I could issue a verbal warning, sir" said the constable.

"But supposing this man is a dangerous criminal" added Philip Stiffit.

"I like to think that even dangerous criminals would think twice about committing dangerous crimes after one of my verbal warnings" replied the officer. "Would YOU think twice after a verbal warning, sir?" he asked me.

"Yes" I said.

The policeman seemed happy with that but the wretched Stiffit wouldn’t leave well alone.

"That implies that good behaviour wasn’t his first thought" he noted. "Which suggests that bad behaviour was his original plan. Combine that with public drunkenness, vandalism" (he held up the broken tip from the gnome’s hat) "and his leadership of a sizable street gang" (he gestured to the conga line) "he poses a menace to society."

The policeman considered this despicably cunning charge and eventually addressed me.

"Would you accompany me to the station?"

"Yes" I said weakly. Philip Stiffit sensed my weakness and gave me one final shove. I ended up in the arms of Constable Opiate.

"Woah – I think I’ve figured out what the little light on the breathalyzer means" he said jokingly. The conga line laughed like the traitors they are.

"I am perfectly sober" I said. I then removed his whistle-chain from my mouth and tried to say it again. Unfortunately the cheaply made chain became tangled with a piece of emergency dental work that Mr Lovett-Wetleigh had never had time to complete and I was unable to free myself.

"Come with me, sir, we’ve a nice cell where you can sober up." He dragged me along to the police station by my mouth and left me to rot with nothing but a loaned whistle chain to keep me company.

Finally I managed to disengage the chain and as I pondered my new found liberty I considered attempting to secure a patent for the puzzle I had unwittingly created. Was the world ready for "Rubik’s Teeth"? By an interesting coincidence I once obtained a set of Robin Soans’s dentures for a shade under nine thousand pounds. If you don’t understand that witticism I suggest you find a less intellectual telehistorian to read. I was in the process of drafting some preliminary patent application literature when Constable Opiate opened the cell door and bundled me out into the corridor.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"No where. I just like to begin informal enquiries with a bit of rough stuff" he explained before throwing me back into my cell. "Now, let’s begin shall we."

"Very well" I said, settling myself on the cell’s one small stool. "How can I help you?"

"The results of your test came back from the lab."

"That was quick" I commended.

"They make up for their staggering incompetence with the fastest turnaround and the cheapest service known to police-kind. Apparently, you’re pregnant. I’ve binned the results because we’re not allowed to beat up pregnant people, even men. Its political correctness gone mad."

"Indeed" I agreed.

"Right – we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

"The easy way please."

"Wrong answer. I like it hard. Very hard. You don’t know how hard I can become when the mood takes me."

This was getting dangerously close to smutty innuendo.

"I’m afraid I can’t stay here and listen to any more of this filth" I told him. "Kindly give me my bill and I’ll be away."

"Oh very well" he said, falling for my cunning trick. We were at reception and he was keying the details of my debit card into his computer when the penny sadly dropped.

"Hang on" he said. I was bundled back into the cell and he sat himself down on my little stool. He had to balance himself carefully as three of the stool’s four legs were digging into my flesh (I won’t tell you where the fourth leg was). "Now then, back to business. I’m only going to ask you this once."

"That is all that will be required – my powers of recollection and speech are unaffected by your recent brutality" I told him. He silenced me by shoving my debit card into my mouth.

"We’ve heard rumours that terrorists are at large in Firkinside or possibly Great Britain as a whole. Are you a terrorist?"

"Mhmhmh" I said.

"What? Oh." He withdrew the debit card from my mouth and gestured. He stuck commendably to his word and didn’t ask the question a second time. I had to think hard. Philip Stiffit didn’t appear to be present but this constable – whoever he was – was the sort of person Philip Stiffit wouldn’t be above buying a glass of lager beer for in the Elk and Bush while pumping him for information. I decided to play safe.

"Yes" I said.