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Wainwright’s last lecture in Cambridge was about Biopolitical strategies in early hominid communication. His outrageous conclusions prefigured the dissolution of Yugoslavia by 6 years, although they post-dated the fall of Rome by over 1,400. When confronted by the War Crimes Commission concerning the events of the summer of 1984 he evaded the questions by donning an ice-hat and pleading to an unknown force called “Babushka”. The Commission concluded in its report that the Professor was “unfit for trial” and the matter was laid to rest the following year with a dictat from on high. It was certainly a matter of concern for the rest of the society as it was obvious that Wainwright had “dirt” on an unknown official and was engaging in the age old ruse of blackmail. “All I know is that more than fifteen-hundred people were evacuated from the southern regions of modern-day Montenegro, but it wasn’t all good times!” was his only response when pressed on the issue.

Needless to say, this was not pleasing to The President who, as per usual, saw fit to make attempts on peoples lives. If there was anybody in the room more scared than myself, it was undoubtedly The Intern, who was lying curled up in the bottom of the wardrobe for fear of yet another beating from The Secretary.

The President is simply going to have to accept that his father is probably a war criminal and definitely a man capable of monstrosity. To this end we took him down to the ocean, whose desolate loneliness we thought might comfort him as we told him the terrible truth. The Secretary was chosen as the man to deliver the most tragic piece of news: that Wainwright had been training a force of irregulars in the Sumatran highlands, and according to ‘intelligence’, was about to start another one of his futile insurrections.

We trussed him up in a badger costume, bound him to the pier railings, and left a handy pile of wood-axes next to him. Fearing that he’d try and spin the Pres. some pile of lies, we pinned a radio to his chest, through which we could communicate with The President. To shut his cake-hole we’d fed him a hollowed out apple filled with superglue, so he wasn’t going to be able to talk. We also took the precaution of castrating him, lest there be any children playing on the pier, or any fisherman.

After he regained consciousness he wriggled around on the sand for around an hour until some passing philanthropist released him from his malicious bonds. The main problem facing him at that moment was that he had lost so much blood and intestinal juices that he was in fear of becoming a mere husk of his former self. Alas, all that happened was that he leaked continuously until the hour of his rescue. What no one expected was the mass of ferrets that had grown from his slightly green ears.

This all sounds rather violent and depressing, but for the sake of clarity I should point out that our account as presented above is seriously flawed. Two days later we found out that we’d confused Wainwright with Rupert Everett, The President with a bubblegum dispenser and the Secretary with a horse. The RSPCA were furious, and we are now banned by court order from keeping animals.