“Now, let me get this straight, Jeremy. We stand back-to-back; we walk 10 paces and we turn and fire. Is that right?”

“That’s right, Prime…PM.”

Boris looked at the pistol, a relic of the early 19th century and guffawed: “I’m told that you’d be hard-pressed to hit a barn door from 20 paces with one of these things.”

Jeremy skewed his face and remarked: “A barn door would be well within its accuracy range but, in the trembling hands of a novice [he thought it best not to add “such as yourself”] it is a reliably unreliable weapon.”

“That’s a rather disheartening turn of phrase, I must say.” Boris stroked the lovingly crafted pistol. “It certainly is a beautiful…gun. Can I call it that?”

“You can call it ‘Susan’ if you wish,” replied Jeremy.

“And, presumably, my mortal foe will not be well-versed in its use?”

“There is no evidence that Vlad the Pudding ever fired a weapon…in anger. However, his KGB training must have required him to learn to fire a pistol.”

“As I thought,” Boris pulled a face. “But ho-hum, Gott mit uns.”

On the other side of The Great Divide, Tsar Vlad the Duellist also pulled a face…it was the face of his long-suffering personal servant, Igor. I’d like to say that Igor was a hunchback…so I will. He was a hunchback. Vlad loved to pull his face into different contorted positions.

“Igor, you’re old, Exactly how old are you?”

Igor looked puzzled, as if he didn’t understand the question.

“You want to know my age? Phuurf…I have no idea. Why?”

Vladimir Pudding held up the flintlock pistol and asked: “Ever fired one of these?”

Igor looked and the pistol and guffawed: “I’m old, not prehistoric. Why?”

“I’m going to fire one in a duel.”

Igor looked at his master and let out a huge belly laugh. When he finally recovered his composure, he enquired: “Why?”

This type of insolence from anyone else would’ve been punished severely, but Igor had an other-worldy quality about him. He was tolerated, like a court jester. His hump gave Pudding the willies.

“Who’s your opponent?” Igor asked.

“A chubby, tousled-haired English knobhead.”

“Duelling is in their blood, so you could be screwed. Stand side on and keep that big, fat head of yours out of the way.”

Vladimir Pudding thought: “One day, I’m going to have that hump removed with a hacksaw.”

Jeremy Punt, Boris Johnson’s second and PPPL (Posh Private Personal Lackey) was in a pensive mood.

“What perturbs you, Punt?” asked the LDPM (Lame Duck Prime Minister).

“Was it wise to choose flintlock pistols? Couldn’t you have just challenged him to a bicycle race or a game of chess?”

“Admirable activities, Punt, but we need drama ingens, not something that Jack Slackpants does every day or would bore the boxers off of most people.”

“But you could die, or be seriously injured.”

“Ach, I’m sure Vladimir Pudding’s people are telling him the same thing. That’s exactly why I chose traditional duelling pistols. It maintains a sense of tradition, and tradition is what this country stands for. Besides, after being PM, the only way is down, so what is there for me now except to be a 17th Lancer; a Death or Glory boy. Alea iacta est.”

Jeremy Punt puffed out his cheeks and said: “So be it. It’s off to Lithuania we go.”

“On the border with Russia, I take it?”

“Not exactly. With Belarus…same thing really,” said Jeremy.

Boris was almost hopping with excitement. “If I pull this off, I’ll challenge Sir Queer Self-Harmer to a duel.”

“So, he accepted?” asked Tsarpresidentovich Vladimir Pudding. “And what type of combat did he choose – eating cream cakes to the death? Glugging wine to see who passes out first?”

Sergei Lapdog, Foreign Minister and Head of the Joseph Goebbels Institute for the Truth, smiled wryly and replied: “If only. No, the ex, or soon to be ex-Prime Minister of the UK has followed a more traditional route and has chosen duelling pistols.”

“What?!” Vlad Pudding whirled round to gawp, open-mouthed, at Lapdog. “Pistols? Are you serious?” Vlad looked anxious; he had been expecting boxing or a bicycle race or some bizarre, upper-class, English game involving silly hats or smelly underpants. Pistols? He could be killed!

Lapdog couldn’t help but smile inwardly; he may ‘only’ be the Foreign Minister, but what seemed like centuries of diplomatic dealings with the West had left an ambitious taste for power in his ample, wobbly jowls.

“He chose pistols…fuuuu…he could be bluffing, couldn’t he?”

“He a big fibber, but I don’t think he’s a bluffer.” Lapdog looked at his leader; his head seemed to be swelling before his eyes.

“What can we do? asked Swellhead. “Can we poison him before the duel? Get some Novichok into his system maybe?”

Lapdog shook his jowls and protested: “A duel is a matter of honour. If we poison Johnson and then we get found out, it would have serious consequences.”

Vlad the Poisoner blew out his cheeks and said: “We’re fighting a country supported by the West; could that be any more serious?”

“Your personal honour is at stake, and the honour of Mother Russia,” said Lapdog, wanting to make some chicken noises.

Vladimir Pudding blew out his ruddy cheeks and said: “What are the rules of duelling with pistols…hold up, what type of bloody pistols are we talking about, anyway?”

“A duel?! A bloody duel? What with; flintlock pistols, sabres, bottles of vodka?” Boris exclaimed.

“He didn’t actually specify, Mr. Prime…errm, do I still call you Prime Minister?”

“You most certainly do, Jeremy. For that is what I am until HM orders me sent to the Tower.”

“I do believe that, under duelling rules, it is up to the challenged to choose.”

“Hmm. he’s older than me, is he not?”

“69, but he looks pretty fit.”

Boris pondered and said: “I could challenge him to a bike race. I’m pretty damned sure I’d win that. Where is this supposed to take place?”

“On the border between Lithuania and Russia,” Jeremy replied.

“If I win, I’ll be a bally hero. I might even get re-elected as Tory Party leader. Accipio.”

Sergei Lapdog was perplexed. He had heard the news from the UK, that Boris Johnson was facing a revolt from many of his ministers. How was he going to arrange a duel with his Tsar…sorry, President?

“Actually,” he pondered, “this could work in Johnson’s favour. He can hardly turn the challenge down, now that he’s in such deep doo-doo.” He spoke: “Yes, President Pudding. I’ll get it arranged. How soon could you be ready to rumble?”

“I’m ready now,” answered Vlad the Imploder. “It’ll be like Brad Pitt in ‘Troy’; we’ll be champions, fighting for our country’s honour.”

“Something just occurred to me,” piped in Getyouroksov. “What if Johnson sets a condition on the outcome of the duel?”

Vladimir Pudding narrowed his piggy, little eyes and hissed: “What kind of condition?”

Getyouroksov suddenly wished that he hadn’t opened his big, fat gob.

“Well, you just mentioned about champions and, instead of the armies fighting, the champions decided the outcome…and errm…”

Lapdog came to his aid: “And Boris might demand that, if he wins…”

“You mean you think I could lose?” said Pudding. “No way, José. Nah, Boris will have to accept, without any conditions. If he doesn’t, his people will call him a chicken and then he really will have to resign.”

Lapdog advised: “That could happen anyway, so we need to throw down the gauntlet immediately.”

“What?” said Pudding. “No, we need to challenge Boris right now. Make it happen, Lapdog.”

“Peasant,” thought Lapdog.

Lapdog and Getyouroksov got up from the UBER Table and left the room. They looked at each other and Lapdog asked: How do you fancy your chances against Stoltenberg?”

“I hope he means the Secretary-General and not the Supreme Commander,”

Sergei Lapdog and Valeri Getyouroksov composed themselves and stared, bashfully, at the floor like naughty schoolboys. Vladimir Pudding gestured with his XXL head at the UBER Table.

“It looks even longer,” thought Lapdog. “Has he had it extended?”

President Pudding was bare-torsoed and he wheezed slightly as he said: “Sit down and wait until I’ve finished my push-ups. He did two and announced triumphantly: “One hundred!”

“One hundred, my spotty, Soviet arse,” thought Getyouroksov, Chief of Staff of the Russian War Machine.

“Take a seat,” said Pudding, pointing at two chairs that were about halfway along the absurdly long, ornate table.

“Ok, thought Lapdog, “he’s not pleased with us but we’re not being sent off to a gulag.”

Pudding continued: “As you can see, I’m in fine physical shape. In fact, I have the body of a 40-year old gymnast, wouldn’t you say?”

Both men nodded so vigorously that Lapdog’s glasses fell off his nose and Getyouroksov’s wig shifted a little on his balding pate.

“I want to challenge Boris Johnson to a duel.”

The two men stopped nodding and gawped at their leader, waiting for him to laugh and say “Nah, not really.” No such comment was forthcoming.

Lapdog, the Foreign Minister, groaned inside: “Sweet Saint Veronica, he’s serious. And you know who’ll have to arrange it.”

“And,” continued the Tsar, “I want you to arrange it.”

“Umm, yes that’s a great idea…but a duel? Like, with pistols?”

“No, no Lapdog, I mean fighting…wrestling or boxing.”

Getyouroksov chimed in (and instantly regretted it): “How about Biden? He’s…”

“…a doddery, old git. He needs a rest after waking up in the morning.”

“Or Macron?” offered Lapdog.

“Macron?” questioned Pudding. “He’s a puffy meringue. I reckon his wife would be harder to beat than him. She looks a tough cookie. Why not Boris? He’s even got a Russian name; he’s perfect.”

“But he’s quite fit, I think,” said Lapdog.

“Ah come on. He’s like a big, chubby, blubbery baby,” scoffed the ex-KGB man.

“He cycles,” said Lapdog. “And he played rugby; that’s a tough sport.”

“Oh yeah, against little kids. I ride wild stallions and wrestle bears,” growled Pudding.

“Sure you do,” thought Getyouroksov, wondering why he was being involved in all this.

Pudding pointed at him: “And you, Valeri, are going to challenge the head of NATO to a duel.”

Getyourosksov felt his stomach slide down to his socks. “Oh come on,” he mumbled.

Lapdog thought: “Please, please, please don’t tell me to challenge Ursula von der Leyen to a duel.”

The Tsar of all the Russias, Vladimir Pudding, got up from his extra-long table in the Kremlin and walked to the other end to get some fruit, a journey that took about 5 minutes. Being of rather short stature, he had to stand on tippy-toes to reach a banana, which he peeled and scoffed noisily.

He pressed the button on his intercom and barked out: “Svetlana, tell my Foreign Minister and Supreme Commander of the Serf…I mean the Imperial… the Army of the Russian Federation, to come and see me immediately.”

“Certainly, Tsar Pudding. At once.”

“Thanks Svety and, remember, you only call me ‘Tsar’ in private, ok?”

“Can I call you by your special name?” asked Svetlana.

“Go on then.”

“Tsarry, Tsarry Night.” It was a private joke.

Unbeknownst to most, Vladimir Pudding got into Don McLean in his KGB days. He’d played the American Pie single so many times, it now seemed strange to hear it without the break in the middle when you have to flip the 45 over for Part II [younger readers will now be stroking their chinny-chin-chins in puzzlement].

“Helter skelter, in the summer swelter…” he sang-muttered as he took his shirt off, ready to pretend to do some exercise, while listening to reports from the front.

Velary Getyouroksov and Sergei Lapdog shuffled along the corridor leading to the President’s office and Lapdog murmured: “Oh vey, we’re going to have to sit at that ridiculously long table again.” To which Getyouroksov replied: “They’re calling it the ‘UBER Table now? Cos you have to take an UBER…”

“…to get from one end to the other. I had heard. The distance that he makes you sit from him corresponds to how pissed-off he is with you. The far end means the firing squad is assembled and fully-loaded.”

“But he mumbles and I can barely hear him. Do you think he’s ok?”

Lapdog looked at him, quizzedly: “Ok? You mean today or always?”

“Well, you hear rumours. I mean, just look at his head…it’s getting bigger on a daily basis. It was normal size a few years ago and now it’s swelling. It’s like a big zit.”

“He’s got a lot on his mind,” said Lapdog, smirking. “You’re right. It makes his eyes look really close together. Like something out of a Picasso painting.”

“Looks like a potato to me,” said Getyouroksov.

“He could be a Whatsapp icon…”

“Or Boss Baby,” said Lapdog, and they both sniggered like Muttley.

Their shuffling stopped as they found themselves at the office of Svetlana; the person who had the ear of the President. What she was doing with one of his ears is another story. The absurdly high double doors to the Pudding Chamber loomed before them, like the North Face of the Eiger [the South Face is a doodle, by the way].

They both smiled, hopefully, at Svetlana.

“He’s exercising but you can go on in.”

They both ushered the other to go in first but neither wanted to. They made exasperated faces at each other and then tried to go in at the same time, Laurel and Hardy-style, shoulder-to-shoulder as they squeezed through the door, and popped out into the Pudding Chamber, all a-flistered and a-flustered.

Their President rolled his eyes to the ornate ceiling.

A few Swedish right-wing extremists decide to burn copies of the Quran/Koran. An offensive act (although not yet carried out) to Moslems that brought about a violent reaction. Understandable, given that they consider it to be the holy word of God. The Saudis condemned the planned burning of the books, citing “deliberate abuse of the holy Quran by some extremists in Sweden, and provocation and incitement against Muslims” and Iraq and Iran summoned the Swedish ambassadors to lodge complaints.

However, there was no condemnation of the violence by Moslem protestors that resulted in 26 Swedish policemen being injured. Now, what happens when people protest in Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Iran? Remember what happened to Jamal Khashoggi when he criticised the Saudi ruling family? He was tortured to death. The water shortage protests in Iran in 2021 were met with brutality, with over a 100 people arrested and around 15 deaths. The 2019-2021 protests against the Iraqi government resulted in around 1,000 deaths, over 4,000 injured and nearly 5,000 arrests.

Sweden must be such a horrible place to live. One wonders why the Moslem population decides to stay there instead of returning to a more welcoming Islamic country.

By Royal Footie Decree, England has officially changed its name to Pengland.

Players have been instructed to try to intentionally miss their penalties from now on, in the hope that this will produce an opposite result.

They will also be required to use their ‘wrong’ foot to take a penalty.

Failing that, they are recommended to head the ball at the goal.

The first player to take a penalty will now be the goalkeeper.

Any Penglish player who misses a penalty will be put into the stocks in the Brent Cross shopping centre and pelted with 3-day old Chicken Tikka Masala.

Any Penglish player who hippity-skippity-hops and then misses the penalty will be made to wander the land forever, relating his tale of woe to all and sundry.

Any player who, by some strange quirk of fate, manages to actually score a penalty, will be knighted on the spot by the reigning monarch and be allowed to use the Royal Barge on Mondays.

Any Pengland manager who, by some strange quirk of fate, manages to actually win a penalty shootout, will be given the title of Lord High Penal Executioner, will have a statue erected in his/her honour and a fly-on-the-wall documentary will be made about said manager. The fly on the wall will be awarded the FBE.

Any opposition player who fails to score a penalty against Pengland will be awarded a Royal Pension of 300 groats of oats per annum and will given a damned good snogging by a royal of his choice (corgis included).

Any opposition goalkeeper who saves a penalty against Pengland will be officially deemed to be an Enemy of the Realm and, if found to be on Penglish soil, will be apprehended and covered in pig’s excrement before being made to play three-and-in with Vinny Jones.

News coming in is that the upcoming elections in Mexico have been cancelled, and the reason is that all the candidates have been murdered. Yes, all of them. Not one single one…oh, just a moment, there is a candidate for mayor of a small town in the state of Guerrero called Montón de Cuerpos. Our man on the ground has managed to track the craz…candidate down so we’re going over now for a live interview with the damned foo…errm brave citizen, who apparently wishes to remain anonymous:

Correspondent Ed Winchester (that name rings a bell): Mr. Anonymous, I’m an American so I’m not required to speak a foreign language. I presume you speak English.

Mr Anonymous: You da reporterr in Mejico an’ you don’ espeak Espanish? You mus’ be wid de Foxy News.

Ed : I took a 2-hour course in Guaajadala…Guadalajad…Gualada…in Mexico. Anyway, you wish to remain anonymous.

Anon: Yeah, ah ain’ estoopid. Ah tell you mah name an’ dey kill mah famlee. Dey dig up dah…wassa word? Ah yah, dah bodez of mah grandmoms an’ dey kill dem agin.

Ed: You must be fearful of reprisals.

Anon: Wha’? Repri…wha’?

Ed: A kind of revenge attack…err, vengeance…

Anon: Ah, venganza! Sure, Ah ain’ estoopid.

Ed: It seems like you will be mayor for the lack of other candidates.

Anon: You askin’ me questyons o tellin’ me stuff?

Ed: It’s the way we reporters ask questions nowadays.

Anon: I wanna make Mejico great agin…lika your Troomp.

Ed: That would be difficult.

Anon: I make all de gringos here to get de visa.

Ed: Uhh?

Anon: I mean dey live ‘ere indocumentados, y’know. Dey illegals. Why you make all dis fuss abou’ de illegals mejicanos in Estados Unidos uh? Niney percen’ of da gringos dey live ‘ere with no visa. I make dem pay multa.

Ed: That’s a fine, I think.

Anon: Yes, very fine. Very good.

Ed: Arrm…yes, anyway. But your only a candidate for mayor and…

Anon: ‘Your’ is de possessive adjectivo, maan. You mean ‘you’re’, de contracshon. Why all you gringos get it wrong?

Ed: Arrm, yeah.

Anon: Ah would take back de lan’ that de gringos took from oos, like California an’ Tejas. Mucho money in California, y’know. All de fruit n’ Hollywood n’ shit. ‘An New Mejico; get doz Heisenberg barriles o’ cash.

Ed: You mean invade the USA? Oops, that was a question…you can’t do that. The USA is the most powerful nation in the world. We’re the greatest.

Anon: Maybe you de greates’ but you also de dumbes’. You make de aliados…err allies wid de countries an’ den you invade ’em. An wid de real bad guys, you put de factories dere an’ you make ’em rich. You is strange people.

Ed: What? No, we don’t do that…well ok, sometimes we…look, you can’t invade us. We’re too strong. Our military will crush you.

Anon: We don’ invade you. We’re not stoopid. We tell de mejicanos allá to stop de work, like in da film. You get de paralysis, y’know.

Ed: But that won’t defeat us.

Anon: We get da cartel cabrones to go dere in de tuneles they make an’ boom…you fooked gringo. Dey de best fighters, like el Canelo. ‘E beat everybody.

Ed: That’s ridiculous. They wouldn’t stand a chance…hey, who are these guys? Hey, what are you doing?

Anon: Now you ask de questyons. ‘Ere’s a questyon for you; ‘ow you say ‘rescate’ in English?