NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS... HERE's JERRY CORNELIUS

Sir James Blonde had done it all. Commander for Royal Navy Intelligence, Methodist Vicar, Royal Marine Commandos, Detective Chief Superintendent for The Metropolitan Police, high level Mason, M.I.5 & a name so similar to a famous mythological secret agent it was just a shame that his operations had been too covert for him to reveal himself to the press & general public.

Those colleagues who knew his real name was James Blonde couldn't get over it. He hadn't been known as Blonde in the army. He'd taken the name Major Sandy Barnett. In the Met he'd been known as Inspector Mark Fawn-Dome. He'd been fast-tracked into these jobs courtesy of the old school tie net-work.

Since 1979 there'd hardly been a dirty deal Britain had been involved in where he hadn't had some part to play. Whether it be the acquisition of Iraqi oil on behalf of The United States or the covering up {literally} of paedophile Priests. He'd helped set up nuclear explosions along geological fault-lines in order to provoke "natural catastrophes" like tsunamis & earthquakes in parts of the world that the "West" would have liked to invade if it hadn't been too costly & ill-advised vis a vis public opinion.

He hated public opinion & was rapidly beginning to think the world would have been a better place if Hitler had won the second world war. Still there'd been plenty of other world wars since then so there was still a chance for a healthy totalitarian dictatorship rather than the half-arsed democratic dictatorships he'd witnessed in Britain in his life-time.

He was, at present, on a train pulling out of Charing Cross station on it's way to South East London. He hated South East London. It summed up everything he hated about modern Britain. Multicultural, multiracial, without the south west's economic aspirations & chock full of sub-culture that wasn't easily bought by record deals & publishers. Still one consolation.... he was on his way to an address where he had been given the job of executing an anarchist who had been involved in all kinds of anti-capitalist activity.

As the train stopped & started along the track & made its way through Waterloo East & London Bridge stations he considered the odd fact that he was the only passenger {or is that client} to be seated in his particular carriage. Still, it was 11am & he was travelling away from the city centre on a Monday morning. Stranger things have happened.

He started feeling a bit sleepy. Odd, he thought. He'd had a full eight hours last night & he hadn't had a taxing job for months. At 55 years of age he was prone to spending a lot of time in the south of France & in the Bahamas these days sunning himself at the British tax payer's expense. He also liked Thailand.... but he'd better not think about his habits in Thailand right now. It didn't pay to brood over one's darker side too much.

He began to feel so tired that he yawned & stretched out on his chair in an almost involuntary move towards curling up & sleeping properly. This was not like him at all. He put his feet on the seat & went foetal. Good God! What was he doing!? He quickly took his feet off the seat. He almost became everything he hated about loafers & layabouts on public transport. A wave of tiredness suddenly flooded over him & against his will he started dropping off. Ten seconds later he was in a deep deep sleep.

He woke up suddenly. Where was he? A feeling of panic overtook him. He jumped out of his seat. Still no other passengers occupied his carriage. The train pulled into Greenwich Station. Thank God! He must have only been asleep ten minutes or so. He couldn't help thinking that his behaviour had not only been unprofessional but it had also been quite dangerous. An adversary could have been tailing him.

A girl got on the train. She had long black hair, a purple velvet jacket, a white shirt with a ruff & frilly cuffs. She wore pink crushed velvet bell-bottoms & Chelsea Boots. God how he hated psychedelic hippie fashions. What a blight that they should be in vogue again in the early twenty first century. Who'd have thought it. 2007 read 1967.

The girl sat opposite him & unfolded a copy of Socialist Worker. The article she began reading immediately made her chuckle. Still she wasn't bad looking he thought. Tight body. Fit arse from what he saw as she picked her way to the seat. As he considered sex he suddenly came over a bit strange. Something didn't feel right down below. He put his hand in one of his trouser pockets. He had ample pre-hipster slacks on as part of his eighties style yuppie box suit so he could have a feel around without it looking too obvious.

What he found was the most disturbing thing that had ever happened to him. His bollocks were gone. He feverishly felt about trying to ascertain how he had managed to avoid feeling them. Shit.... this can't be happening. They must be over to one side. No. Not here. No. Not there. Jesus. Maybe they've gone back up in a freak movement while he was asleep. Strangely he still tried to hold up a level of inconspicuous, casual seat-shifting as his stereotypical Britishness held him back from a free-form freak-out. No they were gone. Surgically removed.

He saw the date on the back of the Socialist Worker. Two weeks had passed since he first boarded the train at Charing Cross!

"Lost something?" said the girl in a strangely masculine voice.
"P P P Pardon?"
The other passenger peered around the newspaper & grinned.
"Lost something have you?" It was a bloke. He lowered the paper & held up a transparent clippy bag. These yours mate. The testicles were inside.
"YOU BASTARD!" James Blonde was not a happy bunny.
Before he could grab at the bag the slightly androgynous "hippie" produced a needle gun, silently shot James in the neck & wham! He was out cold again.

When he came round he was still on the train. This time his cock was missing. He found a card in his trouser pocket. On it was a circle with eight arrows pointing outwards & beneath that some writing in flowery hippie script. A font called "chick" if he remembered rightly. You have been hit by The Inner City Unit. It was signed Jerry Cornelius "Chrononaught". Under that were the words "I'm back".