The grapes of Ralph

Wine makes a man more pleased with himself; I do not say that it makes him more pleasing to others.
Dr Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)

Bordeaux- For more than eight thousand years man has cultivated Vinus Vinifera, the grape vine, and has through time, patience and painstaking effort managed to create a drink which can enthrall, enslave and delight even the most world weary and hardened of cynics.
From the free flowing bacchanalian orgies of ancient Rome to the rigid moral Christian altars of the bible belt, wine has become an essential and integral part of the human experience.

News direct decided to send me to the quiet Bordeaux village of La prix du St Ralph, to visit the world famous Chateau le chateau vineyard. My mission was to see if I could find out some of the ancient and closely guarded secrets of this most revered of beverages.

La prix du St Ralph sits quietly in a shady, almost forgotten, south western corner of France's beautiful Aquitane region.
The village is like any other village, in any other country in the world. People here live, love and fight, with the same degrees of success as anywhere else.
The thing that makes La prix du St Ralph special and altogether different from the countless uncounted hamlets worldwide, is the very ground that it's built on.
By an accident of fate, comparable to the Arabs great misfortune of living upon America's vast oil reserves, La prix du St Ralph happens to sit happily upon the best ten hectares of vine growing soil in the whole world.

On a hill overlooking the sleepy village sits the romantically turreted Chateau le chateau, the family home of France's premier wine maker Madame Severine de la Brut Counasse.
Madame Counasse has been making wine at Chateau le chateau since her legendary father died in the early nineteen sixties, she has been compared to Dom Perignon, Robert Parker and even George Best for the unrivaled contribution she has made to the advancement and popularity of wine worldwide.
Madame Counasse had graciously consented to be my guide for the day and as I slowly walked up the wide chalky drive towards the grand wooden doors of the Chateau, I got my first glimpse of the woman General De Gaulle called 'The most important French woman since those bastard Ros bifs burnt our Joan of arc.'
Madame Counasse is a small, precise looking woman and her hand offered limply in greeting was quickly dwarfed by my huge clumsy paw.
"Welcome to Le Chateau le chateau Monsieur."
"Merci madame, pour et vous.....canard."
"Pardon?"
"Pour et vous canard."
"I think it will be best if we speak in English."
"Non, moi Francais est tres, tres, tres bon madame."
"No it isn't, you sound like you are from Marseilles."
"I've been ill recently!"
"Please come in."
Madame Counasse gently dropped my hand and opened the door of the Chateau to reveal its grand hallway.
"Follow me please."
I watched as she disappeared across the cool stone floor and into a tapestry framed archway opposite, her severe hairstyle quickly reappeared and said "This way please Monsieur!"
I promptly followed her order by tracing her petite foot steps across the hall and into the large kitchen beyond the magnificent carved arch.

There, already seated at the long rustic table before a huge brass strewn fireplace, Madame Counasse had set out an array of bottles, two glasses and a large spittoon.
"Please sit down Monsieur."
I took the offered seat and also the opportunity to ask Madame Counasse, why Chateau le chateau is so special and isn't most wine the same anyway.
Her face became a mask of disgust "Are you serious? This is the greatest vineyard in the whole of France and therefore, the whole of the world. You English are so uncultured, this place is special because of the soil, you people should stick to your, How you call them? Alchopoppys? and leave the Oenaphilia to the more cultured peoples of the world."
"Oenaphilia? Isn't that an attraction to farmyard animals?"
"Pardon?"
"Nothing."
"You really don't know what Oenaphilia is?"
"Course I do."
"What is it then?"
"It's..."
"It's what?"
"Something perverted that the French do to each other or something."
Her taunting eyes immediately took on a softer cast and as she stroked my hand she soothed "That's right, well done, I realise now that I will have to be on my guard with you monsieur, you are as sharp as a Camembert."
I stiffened in my chair, held my head high and bathed in her luxurious praise of me.
"Would you like to taste some of our wines now Monsieur?"
"Yes please madame."
She took a bottle from the table uncorked it and splashed a few drops into the glass before me.
I waited.
"What are you waiting for?"
"For you to finish pouring."
"That's it, this isn't an English BBQ, we are here to taste my vineyard's fine wines not get falling down drunk and sing 'Is this the way to Amarillo'."
Suitably chastened I lifted my glass and drained down her meager offering.
"No!!"
I put my glass quickly down onto the table "What??"
"You don't drink it, Mon Dieu!! Les Anglais!"
"What?"
"You must not drink it, you must spit it out into this spittoon."
"Why? Is this not a good one?"
When Madame Counasse had finished rolling her eyes, she placed them carefully upon me and said "We spit so that we can continue tasting without feeling the effects of the alcohol."
I grinned "Do all French girls spit?"
"Monsieur, I find your attempt at humour, not only childish but also tedious in the extreme."
"Sorry."
"Shall we continue?"
"Yes please."
She poured me another meager offering.
I waited, this time not for a more generous serving, but for some mysterious Gallic sign that I could proceed.
"Now before we drink, we must look at the wines colour."
I gazed into my glass "It's red."
"What kind of red?"
"Rouge red."
"So it's red red?
"No, rouge red."
"That's red red."
"Thought rouge meant deep red."
"No, It means red."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!!"
"I was only asking."
"Mon dieu, vous etes aussi stupide qu'un chou!!"
"Can I drink it now?"
"Non!!!"
I sat quietly and looked at my shoes and waited for her to stop mumbling to herself in a language I guessed was French, or maybe German.
She breathed deeply, wiped a stray piece of fringe from her red face and said "Right now we swirl the wine round the glass to release the flavours and aromas trapped within, like so."
I watched intently as she swirled the wine around her glass, and then carefully copied her fluid motion.
"Non!! You imbecile, it has gone everywhere!"
"I think I swirled it too fast."
"Do you think so?"
"I haven't done this before."
"Well it isn't rocket science!! You just have to gently swirl the wine round the glass, not try to paint the room with it!!"
"Sorry."
Madame Counasse refilled my proffered glass with a now shaking hand "Right now GENTLY swirl the wine round the glass.
I looked from her eyes to the gently swirling glass and copied her careful revolutions.
"Good Monsieur! Now put your...comment dit en anglais?? ahhh nose...put your nose in the glass."
I placed my nose deep into the glass and continued to move my head in circles with my now near perfect swirling technique.
"Mon Dieu! You can stop swirling now!"
I stopped swirling and once my head had come to a stop, I took a deep sniff of the throughly swirled wine.
"What can you smell."
"I don't want to say."
"Why not?"
"In case I'm wrong and you shout at me again."
"What do you smell you damn Ros bif!!!!!!"
My head, possibly intoxicated by wine fumes and terror, spun uncontrollably and I blurted out "WINE!!! I CAN SMELL WINE!!!!! RED WINE!!!!" before recoiling instinctively out of Madame Counasse's range.
"Good, well done."
Reassured by her measured tone, I carefully moved back into range.
"I was right?"
"Of course you were right, what did you expect to smell in a glass of wine?
"Wine."
"D'accord, now you can take the wine into you mouth. But don't swallow it!"
I drained the glass and sat fat cheeked looking warily at madame Counasse.
"Now swirl the wine slowly round your mouth, let it coat your curry deadened English taste buds with the elegant flavours of la belle France."
I swirled, carefully.
"Good, now spit."
Eyes closed, I spat, then gushed.
"That was amazing the flavours just burst out of the wine like some kind of atomic flavour blast! I could taste red berries, spice and liquorice, but also summer tarmac and wet dogs scratching themselves before an open fire! Did I do it right?

I slowly opened my eyes to reveal Madame Counasse's once white blouse doused in summer tarmac and wet itchy dogs, I gently put down my glass "I think it's about time I was making tracks, the ferry leaves soon and I don't really want to miss it. Or else I'll have to stay here the night!"
Madame Counasse stared blankly out at me from beneath her wine soaked fringe.
I stood.
"Rrrrright, anyway, thanks for the wine and everything.....suppose I better be off then..."
Madame Counasse stared.
"Don't wanna miss that ferry."
I backed carefully out the room, at the vaulted archway I stopped.
"Vive la France!, Vive la difference! Au revoir mon cherie!"
Madame Counasse stared.

News direct meets Sharon Stone

News direct has done it again! Not content with bringing you exclusive interviews from the Beatles, Blair and Beckham, we have gone one better and moved on the s's. Well seventeen better, no fifteen, anyway it's better!

Hollywood superstar Sharon Stone actually rang us here at News direct and practically begged for us to interview her, being big fans of Sharon's work we agreed to let her give her first press interview in almost six years.

News direct- Sharon It's an absolute pleasure to meet you. How long have you been a fan?
Sharon Stone- A fan of what?
Nd- News direct!
SS- Thats your website??
Nd- Yeah.
SS- To be honest with you I've never heard of it.
Nd- No need to be rude.
SS- I was told on the telephone you wanted to give me an award and I couldn't have it unless I came to the Hull Hilton, which by the way isn't a Hilton at all.
Nd- No it's a Hilmston, much nicer don't you think?
SS- It's certainly different, it's the first hotel I've ever stayed in that advises you to bring your own bedding.
Nd- That's because of the great crab outbreak of ninety seven, but anyway let's not dwell on the trivial, especially since you are not even paying for the hotel room. What was your favourite roll?
SS- Well I think I would have to say it was the film I made with Marty, Casino, it gave me a chance to stretch my artistic limits and really show the movie going public what I was capable of.
Nd- Pardon?
SS- I said Casino, the film I made with Martin Scorcese and Bobby De Niro, that would have to be my favourite role.
Nd- No, I think you have misunderstood me, I meant what was you favourite bread roll. They do a marvelous full English breakfast here, with a choice of four different rolls. I like the floury ones, baps I think they call them, really good to mop up the left over egg yolk when you have finished.
SS- I haven't had breakfast here.
Nd- Why not?
SS- I don't eat breakfast, I do an hour of advanced yoga before having a light lunch of fruit and water around one o' clock.
Nd- But we paid for your room with breakfast included.
SS- Sorry.
Nd- You should have said before we booked the room, that's an extra tenner we have paid for nothing.
SS- Sorry.
Nd- I would have just thought it would have been common courtesy, thats all. If you don't eat breakfast fine, just let people know.
SS- Well I would have thought it was common courtesy to not lure people to interviews on the false pretext of them receiving an award from the Prime Minister Lord Nelson for "acting abilities above and beyond the call of duty."
Nd- Well let's not get bogged down in recriminations of who said what and who didn't mention they were a fussy eater. Tell me about Basic Instinct.
SS- Well that was kind of a breakthrough part for me and I was lucky to be able to play against such a marvelous acting talent as Michael Douglas.
Nd- Did you do all your own sexual stunts or were you using stunt lesbians?
SS- Pardon?
Nd- Did you do all that dirty lezza stuff or did they pay more experienced lezzas to come in and do it for you?
SS- There is no such thing as a stunt lesbian and can you please take your hand off my knee?
Nd- Sorry
SS- And the other one.
Nd-Sorry, there is no such thing as a stunt lesbian? What would you do then if you had to do that thing where you lay opposite ends of the bed and rub your parts together in a scissor type motion?
SS- Well if the part called for that the actresses would do it. Your hand's on my leg again.
Nd- Is it?
SS- Yes.
Nd- Sorry, you'll be telling me next that wasn't your hairy vagina we all saw when you uncrossed your legs.
SS- It wasn't.
Nd- It wasn't?????
SS- Course not you cretin, we used a vagina double.
Nd- Well you or your film company, I don't know which owes me a new video player, I knackered mine trying to pause it at just the right moment and all for nothing.
SS- Do you honestly believe I would have shown my vagina in a film? I have an IQ of 157 and a doctorate in comparative religion from Yale.
Nd-Well it was your name in the credits so yes, I expected when I paid my money that any glimpsed vagina would be yours, Not some completely random vagina masquerading as yours.
SS- Your hand's on my thigh now.
Nd- Sorry.
SS- Is that it?
Nd-Errr...Hang on I'm trying to think of something else you have been in......No that's it.
SS- I'd like to say it was a pleasure....
Nd- Oh no my dear the pleasure was all mine.
SS- You didn't let me finish, I was going to say I'd like to say it's been a pleasure but I honestly can't.
Nd- Don't think we are paying for your mini bar bill.
SS- There isn't a mini bar.
Nd-Yes there is, at the end of the hallway next to the shared bathroom.
SS- That's a vending machine.
Nd- Well that's a type of bar, It sells cans of shandy.
SS-Goodbye.
Nd- I don't suppose there's any chance of getting your phone number is there?
SS- What do you think?
Nd- Brilliant!! Hang on I'll just go get a pen!

Shortly after this interview Miss Sharon Stone flew back to the United States and has declared through her agent that no future interviews will be granted to the gutter press.

The unbearable tightness of being

Wetwang- Among the twisting rural roads of east Yorkshire, nestled amid the flourishing cash crops sits the tiny hamlet of Wetwang.
It's to this tiny corner of rural England that News direct has come to meet one of Yorkshire's most famous residents.

Albert Spong has lived in Wetwang all of his adult life and takes immense pride in the fact that his twenty five year old shoes have never once left the boundaries of his cherished parish.
But it is not Mr Spong's aversion to travel that has made him Wetwang's most famous denizen, it's Mr Spong's aversion to spending pennies that has thrust him into the harsh light of village wide celebrity.

Sixty eight year old Albert met me at the gate of his ramshackle cottage and after making me wipe my feet four times he invited me into the small home he shares with a blind cat called Terry.
Upon first impressions Mr Spong casts an air of pitiful rural poverty, from his unkempt Grey hair to his badly patched trousers, one might be tempted to feel at least a shred of pity for the plight of the nation's forgotten poor.
But as the well worn cliche says, one should never judge a book by its cover, for amazingly Mr Spong is one of Yorkshire's richest men.

After moving Terry from the chair by the cluttered fireside Mr Spong graciously offered me a seat and stood warming himself gently before the unlit fire, while eyeing me suspiciously.
"I suppose tha' want tea lad?"
"Thanks, tea would be lovely."
"Well I ain't got any! What you think this is? Some kind of free cafe? Somewhere you can just wander in off the street and fill your gut with free tea? You want tea there's a cafe two villages over."
"I will do without for now then thanks."
"Suit y'self lad, suit y'self."
Mr Spong continued to theoretically warm himself by the non existent fire that continued to roar ferociously in the empty grate like a lion with laryngitis, never once taking his eyes from mine "I suppose you'll be wanting to ask some questions won't tha' lad?"
"If that's okay with you?"
"Questions don't cost nowt lad."
"Tell me about your family."
"Not much to tell really."
"Your father was a farmer?"
"Aye."
"And that's were you acquired your huge fortune?"
His hand instinctively cupped his tattered pocket "Who said I had a huge fortune? Was it that old cow in the post office?? People in this village should mind their own business, folks have no right talking about a man's personal business to strangers from the south."
"I'm not from the south."
"Well you sound like you are."
"I've been ill!"
"Alright son, no need to get all aggravated."
"I wasn't."
"Yes you were."
"I was just making the point that I'm not from the south."
"There's nowt wrong with being from the south."
"No course not, some of my best friends are southerners."
"People is people, you'll learn that when you get to my age and there is no use in discriminating against folks who are disadvantaged in some way."
"No of course not, so your parents?"
"Father worked these fields dawn to dusk never once took a holiday in his whole life, mother she kept house and in all the years I knew her she never once complained or bought anything new at all."
"So it was your parent's hard work and thriftiness that brought you your immense wealth?"
"Nope."
"You worked your father's land and made your fortune from the foundations he laid?"
"Nope."
"You discovered you had a knack for the stock market and through careful investment steadily built up a fortune?"
"Nope."
"Well how did you become one of Yorkshire's richest men then?"
"Well it's the queerest thing one night about four years ago I was coming home from the pub, obviously I hadn't been drinking, cos the tight buggers in this village keep an eagle eye on their drinks and even though I was sat at the bar all night not one of the tight sods offered to buy me a drink. Anyway, I was coming down Clackett's lane there just behind Mrs Sykes house, you know near the postbox?"
"No."
"You sure your not from down south?"
"Yes! I've had a cold!"
"I believe you! Just checking! So I'm walking along and I see this pink thing in the road, now here Iam thinking brilliant! An Elastoplast! I bends down to pick it up sharpish and discovers it's not an Elastoplast at all."
"What was it?"
"It was a lottery ticket."
"How did that make you feel?"
"Well I was gutted! Have you seen the price of Elastoplasts nowadays? Shocking what they charge it really is."
"And so that's how you came by your huge fortune?"
"No."
"But.."
"It wasn't a winning ticket."
"But you said you were going to tell me how you came by your immense wealth."
"And so I will lad if you give me a chance!!"
"Sorry."
"I should think so!"
"I just thought.."
"Yeah well, you know what thought did don't you, that's the trouble with people nowadays they want everything now. They don't have the good sense to wait and see what patience will bring."
"Sorry, please go on."
"Where was I?"
"Clackett's lane just by the postbox."
"Oh you do know it?"
"No."
He eyed me again and suspicion became the child my denials had conceived.
"You sure your not from..."
"No!!! I've been ill!!"
"Alright! You can be very aggressive you know."
"Sorry, It's just that I have had a lot on lately and then getting the cold on top has made me a little edgy."
"Okay, it's forgotten, where was I?
"Clackett's lane behind Mrs Sykes, just by the post box."
"Oh you know it?"
"Are you just deliberately trying to wind me up now?"
Spong creased himself and forcing back a strangled giggle said "Aye!"
I sat unmoving in the tattered armchair and waited out his mirth. Ten minutes later when the tears and the giggles had subsided enough for him to continue I asked "Ready?"
He made a conscious effort to compose himself and suitably calmed he asked "Where was I?"
"Oh for fucks sake!!! Don't start that again!!!!"
"No I'm sorry son, I wont do it again honest."
"Well are you going to tell me or not?"
"About what?"
"About how you became so fucking rich!!!! you annoying old cunt!!!!"
"There's no need for that!"
"There is because ever since I walked into this fucking house all you have done is try to wind me up, didn't even get a cup of fucking tea."
"Oh you wanted tea?"
I stood.
"That's it I've had enough. I don't fucking care how you got your money, I told them I was too ill to work!! but no they made me come all the way up here.."
"Ahh so finally the truth emerges! You are a southerner!!!"
"Go fuck yourself!! You old miser."
"Charming!"
With that I hurriedly left Mr Spong's house and made certain that I would be destined to be one more puzzled soul wandering the earth and forever wondering just how had Albert Spong become one of Yorkshire's richest men.

If this is man

Hull-Sitting quietly alongside Hull's main dock road oblivious to the heavy traffic and the vagaries of time is the huge Gothic gargoyle that goes by the name of Her Majesty's prison Hull.
This cathedral of correction is to be the venue for one of News direct's most controversial and dangerous interviews, for we are here to meet Britain's most dangerous prisoner Alfie "The nutter" Dixon.
Dixon, the scourge of the country's prison service has been in every prison on the mainland UK since entering the system in 1974 on the relatively minor charge of littering.
His subsequent behaviour while serving at her majesty's pleasure has ensured a seemingly never ending sentence and an infamy that will surely live long after they carry his still dangerous corpse out through the prison gates.

I arrived at the prison at eight AM sharp to meet my guide for the day, Senior prison officer Sandra Mcpander, the huge woman stood unsmiling before the open door set into the massive locked gates and thrust out a huge paw in a bad imitation of welcome "You were supposed to be here at eight."
"It is eight isn't it?"
"No, it is not eight Sir, it's precisely six minutes past the hour of eight."
"Near enough."
Officer Mcpander's huge flat face turned a deeper shade of what I presumed was her normal purple pallor and said "No Sir, it's not near enough, it's six minutes past! Near enough is not good enough, this isn't Jazz, it's Her majesty's prison service."
"Sorry."
She stood stock still and eyed me up and down while I looked at my shoes.
"Right Sir, shall we go in?"
"Yeah."
She stopped midway through her turn towards the door and I just about stopped my forward motion in time to avoid her huge bulk that was now blocking the tiny door.
"Don't you use manners in that there London?"
"I'm not from London."
"You sound like you are."
"I'm not."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Theres a definite southern edge in your accent."
"I've been unwell recently."
She seemed happy with my denials, but continued to block the door while I looked nervously at my familiar shoes and wondered why.
Several uneasy and quiet moments slipped past until I suddenly realised what she wanted and stuttered "Can we go in now please Officer Mcpander?
She gave me an imitation of a smile "That wasn't so hard was it Sir?
"No Officer Mcpander."
"Manners don't cost anything, do they?"
"No Officer Mcpander."
"So in the future will we remember this?"
"Yes officer Mcpander."
"Now Sir, if you'd like to walk this way we can get started."
She Squeezed her huge frame through the tiny door and motioned for me to follow her.

Just inside the gate there was a small reception area brightly lit and sanitised from the outside world by three inches of bullet proof glass.
Officer Mcpander marched up to the speaker set squarely into the glass and shouted into it "Mcpander and guest to see prisoner 4826 Dixon."
The officer behind the glass looked quickly up from his paper work and seemingly drained of colour, he squeaked through the tinny speaker "Dixon?"
Mcpander nodded towards me and Mouthed through the glass "He's from London, reporter."
The officer in his glass cocoon laughed and pressed a button under his desk that noisily opened a thick door.
After filling out copious forms and liability chits, Officer Mcpander led me into the main body of the prison, through sterile institutional corridors, until we came to a small room marked 'Interview room'.

Officer Mcpander opened the hefty door "If you will be so kind as to take a seat sir."
I walked into the bare room, sat behind the lonely wooden table and nervously awaited the arrival of Britain's most dangerous man.
Ten long minutes later the door swung open to reveal a man who appeared to be the spitting image of Charles Hawtry.
I was at first shocked, then relieved at the sight of Alfie 'The nutter' Dixon as he appeared to have muscles of a young girl suffering from polio and looked as dangerous as a plastic butter knife.
Officer Mcpander carefully pushed Dixon into the room and lowered his handcuffed frame onto the chair before me.
As he placed his almost feminine hands upon the table Officer Mcpander said "I will be leaving him cuffed, there is a button located just under table. If the prisoner makes any sudden moves or lewd suggestions, just press it and we will have the emergency response unit in here quicker than you can say 'Help!! Dangerous prisoner 4826 Dixon is attacking me and I urgently require immediate assistance from Her majesty's emergency response team'."
"Right you are officer, but I'm sure that won't be necessary."
"I will be leaving the door open as a safety precaution."

So here I was alone with Britain's most dangerous man, the air seemed charged with anticipation as we both sat in absolute silence and weighed the other man up.
Dixon seemed the antithesis of the man I heard so much about, his thin frame and delicate hands seemed more suited to light clerical work than kidnap and murder.
It seemed incongruous that this was the same man who had killed fourteen fellow prisoners and two guards all with his bare hands. Was this really the man who had eaten the prison chaplain in just under an hour?
We sat in silence.

"Why have you come to see me?" the sudden feminine voice shocked me and I scrambled quickly for a response.
"I'm from the world famous News direct."
"Never heard of it."
"Yeah you have."
"No I haven't."
"Yeah you must have!"
"No, I haven't."
"Surely you have, Hitler's ladyboy's, Panda sex expose, Giant squids?"
"I've been in prison since 1974."
"Oh right, and you don't get the internet?"
"No."
"Oh ok, anyway your original sentence was for a week and a day, for the offence of littering, I believe?"
"Yes that was my original crime but I..."
"You've really never heard of News direct?"
"No."
"Mouse club, Blair infamy, Sex change dogs."
"Nope."
"Does this disconnection with the world in some way fuel your barbarism?"
"In what sense?"
"Well in the sense that if you had maybe had access to quality publications such as... ohhh I don't know, lets say News direct for arguments sake, would you have still felt the same sense of anger and violence towards the world?"
"I killed my first man three hours after arriving in prison so I don't think so no."
"But could the lack of access to News direct have been a contributing factor in your later murders?"
"I don't know."
"But you do concede that it could have been a contributing factor?"
"Well I suppose so."
"So what you are basically saying is that if you had had access to News direct thirteen people could still be alive?"
"Errr..."
"That's what I think you are meaning to say, but don't let me put words in your mouth, our readers want to hear what you think."
"Are you from London?"
"No! I've had a cold recently."
"I was only asking, you sound like you have a southern twang."
"No, It's the lingering vestiges of a cold."
"The chaplain I ate was a southerner, Kent I think."
"Do southerners taste differently to northerners?"
"Oh yeah they are tastier, northerners are very fatty, I'd much rather eat a southerner they taste quite like veal."
"Veal?"
"Yeah, I think it's the diet."
"Yeah you're probably right they don't eat proper food, I once knew a girl from Reading and all she ever ate was salads."
"Did she taste like Veal?"
"No not really, more like Tuna."
"Well I personally prefer them, they are tastier they are more like free range produce, where as your northerners are like something Bernard Matthews would try to feed your kids."
"That's interesting, if you'd have had more time would you have added, I don't know, maybe some some thyme and a little garlic?"
"Oh yeah that would have been lovely, maybe a splash of red wine and some rosemary too."
"Yeah I would have thought that a nice piece of meat like that deserves it, me personally I would cook it slowly."
"Yeah but I didn't really have the time, I had to eat him raw before the guards could kick the chapel door down, gave me terrible indigestion."
"Shame."

The huge frame of Officer Mcpander filled the doorway and then disappeared quietly back into the institutional walls.
Dixon sighed "Thats the worst thing about prison they are always watching you."
"But you do have a tendency to eat people when they don't Alfie, I can call you Alfie can't I?"
From a myriad of chuckles he said "That's true I do!! Yeah you can call me Alfie."
"Do you ever wish your life had turned out differently Alfie?"
"Sometimes I wish I hadn't done the things I've done, but you can't continue to look backwards all your life you must concentrate on the future."
"On tomorrows tasty victims."
He laughed uproariously and using his manacled hands to wipe away a stray tear he said "That's right, I always say that at the end of every key chain theres a pot of meat."
"Do you think you would have read News direct if those bastards had have given you access?"
"What's it about?"
"People like you Alfie."
"Sounds fascinating, is it very popular?"
"Oh yeah."
"What kind of readership do you get?"
"Well we don't like to judge our success on reader numbers but more on the quality of our readership."
"So it's not doing well then?"
"No."
"Shame it sounds brilliant and you are obviously not only a very handsome man, but also a very talented one."
"Yeah I can't understand it, I feel like I'm throwing pearls at pigs Alfie."
"It must be very frustrating."
"Oh it is, you cannot imagine the sheer loneliness of ceaseless creativity. Some nights I'm so depressed about it I will not be able to cook and have to order a takeaway."
"Sounds horrible."
"It is, the only half decent takeaway is a Japanese one about five miles away, so the sushi is always cold when it arrives, have you ever eaten a Japanese?"
"No we don't get many foreigners in here."
"It's not good mate, and it tends to make me more depressed."
"You just have to stick at it and keep going."
"But I get so low Alfie."
"You're better than that, come on wipe your eyes. Don't let the bastards grind you down"
"Yeah, you're right."
"Yeah things will pick up, I'm sure in a few years time Story news will be the biggest site on the whole interwebby thing."
"It's News direct."
"Yeah, News direct will be huge."
"You really think so Alfie? You're not just saying that?"
"No, I believe you can do it."
Officer Mcpander then arrived and lifted Alfie's slight frame from his seat.
I protested "That's never an hour!!"
She ignored me and continued to guide Alfie through the open door, I stood quickly and leaned over the desk "Thanks Alfie!"
Alfie looked over his shoulder "Keep going and don't get discouraged, I know you can do it!"
"Thanks Alfie, I will, I'll make News direct the best site on the whole damn web!!!! I'll write to you Alfie!!"
And with a handcuffed wave and a smile Britain's most dangerous prisoner was gone.