The Secret Diary of Dennis Brent - Volume II

1st May

Ian Devine and I were waiting outside the registry office (the Bendaton vicar – Rev Beaver having forbidden them from marrying in his church as Ian Devine wouldn’t fit trhough the door) when I decided to come clean about his bride to be.

“Ian Devine” I began.

“Yes Dennis” he beamed tubbily.

“Chrysanthemum Piesburg is a man” I said.

“No she isn’t” he replied.

“Yes she is” I told him.

“No she isn’t”

“Yes she is” and we continued in this vein for some time.

“What makes you spread such lies about the soon-to-be Chrysanthemum Piesburg-Devine?”

“I observed her entering the gentlemen’s lavatories at the Elk and Bush.”

“Oh Dennis Brent” he grinned, “Chrysanthemum Piesburg isn’t a man – she’s merely stupid.”

“Stupid?”

“She is utterly incapable of understanding even the simplest of signs. For example, I caught her in my safe the other day and she clearly had no understanding what so ever of the ‘Warning – Valuables Within – Do Not Enter’ sign which was placed on the door.”

“So she isn’t a man then?”

“She is all woman, Dennis Brent.”

“Can you prove it?” I demanded, my pride wounded. He showed me a Polaroid which proved his point admirably. I don’t think it will catch on as a wedding day tradition though <g>

Later – Well, Ian Devine has married Chrysanthemum Piesburg-Devine and it was rather moving. Sadly Ian and Chrysanthemum Piesburg-Devine have announced their intention of living with Dennis until Devine Towers is safe for human (and Ian Devine <g>) habitation. I noticed Chrysanthemum Piesburg-Devine pick the registrar’s pocket during the service. After my embarrassment over her gender, I didn’t feel strong enough to tell Ian Devine that his wife was a compulsive thief. I’m sure it won’t prove a problem when we’re living together.


2nd May

Mrs Piesburg-Devine appears to have stolen my slippers.


3rd May

Mrs Piesburg-Devine appears to have stolen my pipe.


4th May


Mrs Piesburg-Devine appears to have stolen my watch and dressing gown.

5th May

I don’t know how she did it but Mrs Piesburg-Devine appears to have stolen my house.


6th May

I am writing this in my little bedroom at the Bendaton “Travellers Friend” hotel. The police have been called in to try and find Brent Towers but Constable Balloon isn’t hopeful. I doubt he can locate his backside with both hands and a rear map. It isn’t like Dennis to resort to backside humour but I’m at the end of my tether. I intend to have it out with Ian Devine.

7th May

Ian Devine took the news that his wife is a thief very badly.

“Your wife is a thief, Ian Devine” I told him, manfully.

“No she isn’t, Dennis Brent” he puffed.

“Yes she is” I told him firmly.

“No she isn’t” he replied wobbily.

“She has stolen my house, Ian Devine” I insisted.

“Prove it” he demanded. I explained about the pipe and the slippers and the watch and the registrar’s wallet and all the other things I’d seen.

“I don’t believe you” he blubbed.

“I swear on the grave of Thomas William Patrick Jon Peter Colin Sylvester Baker that what I said is true.”

He pondered for a moment at my invoking God’s name.

“I’m on the verge of believing you, Dennis Brent” he said. “But it is necessary that I punch you on the nose for suggesting what you said.”

“Your honour must be satisfied” I said, affecting a Sontaran voice to “sell” the joke. He took me literally and swung a blubbery fist at Dennis’s face. It splattered against my nose and I staggered backwards.

“I’m going to talk to Chrysanthemum Piesburg-Devine about this” he announced and he left me to suffer with my nose.

9th May

Mrs Piesburg-Devine has run away without telling us where my house is. Ian Devine has secured a “quickie” divorce on the grounds of “non-consummation” (whatever that means). Bendaton’s finest solicitor – Mr Groandigit – put the papers through in record time. Ian Devine bought him an extra big pie as a thank you present but ate it before the woman in Mr Wetfinger’s bakery could put it in one of their special Big Pie boxes.

10th May

My house is still missing and I’m quite worried. Worried enough to telephone a slight acquaintance of mine – Gerald Horatio Benson (a Civil Servant so he at least has a sensible job) – and ask his advice. He told me that I absolutely shouldn’t contact a man by the name of Smith. Given that Dennis’s friends tend to be jealous of Dennis and give him deliberately misleading advice, I decided to contact Mr Smith. I’m sure he’ll be able to find my house.

11th May

I was sitting quietly in my room at the hotel when I heard loud music playing. I immediately rang reception and demanded to speak to the manager, a complaint hovering at my lips. Then my door swung open, sparks shot over the threshold, smoke followed and finally, stepping through like Cybermen boarding a spaceship, came three scruffy men.

“Compliments of the season” said a portly man (nothing to Ian Devine’s portliness but still not as lithe as Dennis). “I’m Smith and you must be Lucian”.

“Dennis” I replied.

“I’m bored of this conversation already” he said. “So, Lucian, I’ve heard you’ve lost your mouse,”

“House. And my name is Dennis not Lucian.”

“Who chose ‘Dennis’?”

“My parents.”

“Do they have five degrees, two doctorates and an IQ that people easily mistake for the population of Chalfont-st-Giles?”

“Not that I know of but…”

“Then it stands to reason that I’m cleverer than your parents. Hence I am an infinitely better choice of names. The moment I set eyes on you I thought ‘Lucian’ and so Lucian it is, Lucian. So, about your mouse?”

“House. I’ve lost my house.”

“Um, I don’t think so. You’d have to be an utterly half witted monkey spanker to lose an entire house.”

“Well I have.”

“Then you, Lucian, are an utterly half witted monkey spanker. Officially.”

“I didn’t call you here to abuse me.”

“Of course you didn’t – you want me to find your mouse. House. Damn – I can’t read my own writing. So, when did you last have it ?”

“Shortly before it was stolen. By Chrysanthemum Piesburg-Devine.”

“Hmm. Let me see the shoes you were wearing when you discovered the theft.” I got out the shoes and showed them to him. He laughed violently.

“What horrible shoes. Right – I’ve had a laugh, now let’s sort out this mess.”

I took him to the scene of the crime and he examined every detail with a magnifying glass.

“I know exactly where your house is, Lucian” he declared.

“Where?”

“Exactly where you left it. This empty patch of land isn’t your home.”

“Of course it is – it’s on my road, it has my trees outside it…”

“The trees are plastic and the road is made of felt.”

“But why?”

“Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to get you out of the way, Lucian. From mud samples I found on the path, my initial guess, bizarre as it might sound, is some kind of group of right wing woodland mammals and sea creatures.”

“ASSCLOWN” I said.

“Monkey shagger” he replied.

“No no – ASSCLOWN” I repeated.

“Worm stroker.”

“No no no, Mr Smith – ASSCLOWN.”

“Chicken sniffer.”

“ASSCLOWN – The Aquatic Socialist Society merged with the Communist League of Woodland Neighbours and formed ASSCLOWN.”

“Damn – I got my political extremity wrong. I feel like a fool.”

“And you think they’ve taken over Brent Towers?”

“It is the only possible way of fitting all the facts together.”

“What facts?”

“Don’t pester me with quibbles. You can pester me with nibbles if you like – I haven’t eaten since Croydon.”

I followed Mr Smith and his two quiet friends until we reached, to my utter surprise, Brent Towers. But it wasn’t the same Brent Towers I knew and loved – there were animals in the garden, a sea lion in the fish pond and a ring of barbed wire around the perimeter. I noted to my horror that the locks had been changed when my key wouldn’t fit. It reminded me of “The Sensorites” and I wasn’t in the mood for fun. Mr Smith stepped aside and his taller friend (“Euan” if you can believe it) slipped something metallic into the lock. The door yielded immediately and we stepped into what had been my hall. The walls were covered with maps. It was clear something big was being planned. We were accosted by one of the masked moose.

“Dennis” she said, shocked to the core. “I thought we’d got you out of the way.”

“I saw through your scheme” I told her.

“How ?”

“He called in someone more intelligent” said Smith unhelpfully. “Well, it’s been a blast but Euan, Stevo and yours truly have to be in Copenhagen by nine – it’s the big match of the dwarf throwing season and we’ve got a grand riding on the outcome. Until next time.”

With that they left in a shower of sparks. They were the strangest men I had ever met and I know Peter Haining <g>

No sooner had they gone than I was struck on the back of the head and I lost consciousness.


12th May

I woke up in a cellar, tied to a chair and with what felt like hot knives sticking into my skull. I noted that I was being watched by one of the masked moose.

“Hello Dennis” she said.

“Is that you Elkie?” I asked, groggy and forgetting myself.

“Yes Dennis” she replied. She took off her mask and it was indeed my beloved Elkie Elkerson.

“What are you doing mixed up with ASSCLOWN?”

“We’re trying to change the world. There is a gross imbalance in society and ASSCLOWN are going to do something about it. We’ve taken over your house because we needed a base of operations. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“Mind?” I spluttered, regretting it instantly when the sound cut through my sore head like the astronaut cutting through the door in the Sensorites. I had the Sensorites on my mind but, as I said, this was no time for fun.

“You wouldn’t begrudge your little Elkie the use of my old home would you ?” She fluttered her big brown eyes and Dennis melted.

“What do you have planned ?” I asked.

“If I tell you, you must promise not to tell anyone” she warned.

“You can trust me, Elkie” I told her.

“Very well – ASSCLOWN are going to make our biggest statement yet. We’re going to stage a coup.”

“A coup ?”

“A coup – by the end of this week, Bendaton will be in the control of ASSCLOWN”