Part One

“Look what I’ve got,” giggled Bron, Always the quickest of the two in spotting, noticing, thinking, doing and acting on things. Triumphantly she held up a noisily sealed package and tossing them to Tina, who caught them deftly.

“Gosh well done, Paper knickers, I’d forgotten about those” Tina snickered reading the blurb on the plastic and keeping the surprise package out of sight of several people around. “One size, fifty in there, that’s enough, we’ll divide them later. Cyril reminded me to pack some of those Te...” she stepped round the car to Bron and murmured in a low volume. “Those Tena pads, you know ... to deal with my leaking ... you know?”

“Good thinking Robin,” joked Bron. “I mean Cyril, he’s such a good egg to remember in his state. Luckily don’t need them ... yet.” she snickered. “S’not too serious is it, you know ... your fanny?” Bron gestured to her groin, her hand depicting a flowing motion.

“No just the odd dribble, but sods law always at the wrong moment and usually when I’m wearing stuff that shows it ... you know,” Tina said with a distasteful expression.

“Never mind old girl, we’ll be on our own most of the time and there’ll be enough remote places you ... and me, can stop and have a tree wee.” chuckled Bron, waving to a gentleman, strolling, aided by a stick towards the couple of elderly women at the side of their latest model Ford Mondeo. “Good morning Charles you old bugger,”

“Now Bronwyn don’t be naughty,” Charles Demauncey Borthwick Haverland called back in a mock Welsh dialect. “What will your gorgeous co-driver think, having to travel all that way in this...” The old charmer waved his stick at the obviously, to his mind, down market vehicle they were all clustered round.

Good grief, Tina thought, the Right Honourable Earl of Charensee has called me gorgeous. She smiled, preening and shaking his bony, liver spotted hand after Bron’s cursory introduction. He certainly was a handsome old duffer, with his crop of salt and pepper hair, fashionable bright blue spectacles, large hooked nose, flamboyant bow tie, Burberry check shirt, tweed jacket, dark red trousers and highly polished brown brogues. She could see why all those young ladies, including Bron 40 years ago, had fallen for him, in four highly publicised affairs and yet Lady Penelope had stayed with him.

Eighty one year old Charles sidled alongside Tina and groped her trim, denim clad bum, planted a garlic flavoured kiss on her cheek and hobbled away before she could complain. She wouldn’t have anyway, liking the feeling of being desirable ... no, that’s not the word ... attractive? Yes that’s it. Cyril used to grab my bottom but not now. His radical prostate surgery had removed any chance of him getting an erection, but they’d opted for that together, although Tina still would like to have sex, but Cyril had changed, still affectionate but not erotically and rarely touched her. However Norm their gardener/handyman had his extra-curricular moments and she had a feeling that Cyril knew and let her indulge. At her farewell to Cyril in bed that morning, she had indulged him in the only way he reckoned he could obtain any sensual pleasure and played with his nipples. Her idea to accompany that and give her the same feeling had been ruled out some years back by the ever increasing rheumatism in his wrists, hands and fingers. Other ways of pleasuring her had been ruled out soon after they met. He had never liked eating her fanny.

The previous evening had culminated with a lovely session of cunnilingus with Norm in his shed. She adored the rustic nature of the wooden building, masses of sacking on the floor and natural smells, appealing to her rural upbringing. Cyril would be well catered for while Tina was on this marathon trip driving across Europe. Various members of the family, neighbours and a couple of his ex-employees would look in and he was very capable of cooking and cleaning, being very fastidious in an organised life and work style. The multi channels available on TV would keep him happy, together with re-living old times and triumphs at the golf, rugby and snooker clubs he retained membership of and as a last resort he could revert to those weird videos on obscure websites. Tina knew all about them having found them on the history and bookmarks of the computer in his study. Just checking, she reminded herself, for his own sake, when guilty feelings coursed through her, but why on earth would he want to watch that stuff? It wasn’t porn in the true sense of the term but still an invasion of women’s privacy, whoever and wherever they were.

She had thought of suggesting he could watch her doing what he watched, but that would betray her snooping on his – no, the perpetrators snooping, and felt he would be happier getting whatever kicks he got in his own way, without hurting his feelings. Tina knew he couldn’t wank to the videos due to his surgery, so whatever pleasure he obtained was a mystery to her and let him get on with his harmless fetish. She was gratified to see he wasn’t in danger of being caught with illicit, juvenile material, as had happened to Finley Bannerman, the captain of the golf club who was headmaster of Bendale private school and until he was arrested recently, one of the senior magistrates.

Bron greeted Charles with an all enveloping hug, his hands not roaming to her nether regions as he had spotted Victoria, his daughter, near by and nearing him. The old charmer did have a tenuous grasp of propriety, exercised in this case by the chirpy presence of Vicky’s adopted daughter Millie who was in the family group approaching, complete with Victoria’s husband Stephanie McLaren. The lesbian relationship and subsequent high profile marriage had jarred on old school aristocrats like Charles and Penelope, but their daughter loved them dearly and had explained in sympathetic, patient detail her matching affection for the tall, cropped blonde, Geordie TV Breakfast presenter. The facts that she was a queer, a bloody Northerner, a left wing activist and to cap it - an anti-hunt protester didn’t exactly enhance her acceptance into the elite, rich, landowner’s domain, but Penelope had helped their daughter by bribing the head of the family. The simple task had been engaging young, nubile daughters of the estate employees as servants and paying them extra to let Charles have his evil ways.

Victoria’s attention was briefly distracted by Greg, a tall, lean, red haired Scottish mechanic under the bonnet of the Mondeo, making final checks of the windscreen washer bottle and such. He’d had a brief romance with her before the geeky, wispy haired, heavily spectacled, plain, scientist girl had tied up with Steph, finally outing herself and settling down.

“How’s it hanging Vic?” he chuckled, wiping his hands. His eyes flickered between her loose, cotton blouse which gave away the stout buttons of her nipples to her grinning wide mouthed smile. She always enjoyed his cheeky company, Victoria had eschewed brassieres from an early age, much to the chagrin of her full bosomed mother and secret delight of her randy, ex-Household Guards father.

“You can see quite well Greg and you know full well they don’t hang and as for Steph...” Vicky chided pleasantly, using a comfortable reference to her lesbian partner. “What was it you called them ... little paps?” She gave him a peck on his cheek, slapped his shoulder in a gesture of friendship and moved to her father who was showing Millie the size and shape of the car tyres. Steph stood by, bored out of her skin.

Greg thought of the pleasures of exploring Vicky’s tiny, cute, pearl drop breasts, almost overshadowed by her big pale nuggets of teats, thinking it’s still possible they might have to do their proper job – one day. He harboured hopes for that pleasure, thinking that a woman with a strap on wouldn’t be as good.

Lady Haverland sauntered up in her trademark pretty scarf, brown gilet over a green sweater, knee length tweed skirt, bare legs and brogues. “Something missing with that picture Penny, ‘ said Bron, enjoying her close relationship with the Haverland family and nodding down at the space beside the lady of the manor.

Penelope, looked down, realised, smiled knowingly and said, “Oh Molly is with Randy, It’s best she’s out of the way with this crowd around. Great attendance for your send off and by the way both boys emailed this morning. They are fully geared up and expecting you, but of course you won’t meet them en-route, but you have hotels fixed and Ford dealerships ready if you need them.” Bronwyn agreed and discussed the brightly stickered car as the two elderly ladies browsed round it. The two top bitches as Charles would call them, made sure sponsor leaflets, stuff prompting the estate were packed or adhered to the glossy metal surface.

“We won’t be needing those Greg,” said Bron glancing at Greg’s handful of leftover stickers. “I told Hendys we are unofficial, we’ll manage. It’s no problem advertising them to some extent and especially the estate.”

“Big decision,” Tina added, nodding and making a knowledgable face. “Just two old ladies going off into the wilds on a mission. The Ford crowd couldn’t believe it and have been nagging for ever. We’re both skilled with the car bits,” she added forcefully.

“Is that rubbish Tina? Let me throw it with this stuff, you seem to have got most stuff,” Greg gestured at the plastic packet in Tina’s hand, thinking they had no idea how computerised modern vehicles were. He refrained from mentioning medication, incontinence aids and medical contacts.

“No I’ll deal with it Greg, I need bits out of it,” she replied, blushing and fumbling into her travel bag. She glanced guiltily at Bron who was fussing with her own bag. Charles had been beckoned over to the edge of the group of villagers, estate staff, friends and media by the head gamekeeper Jacob Spriggs. Bron hadn’t noticed the near miss of exposing their underwear secrets.

“I need to have a private word with you sir,” said Jacob. “A personal thing if you don’t mind.” Charles and he wandered away as final preparations were made for the big departure.

“Just think, in our twenties and embarking on the mammoth Dakar rally,” chuckled Bron adjusting the drivers seat as Tina eased in beside her. “Two old gals doing it again fifty years on, are we fucking mad? Remember the car, the Austin Maxi, what was it we call ... oh yes ... Puff the magic dragon ... how funny.”

“This lot out there seem to think so Bron, ‘cos it wasn’t a Ford, but hell it’s only the European bit we’re doing, not South America,” said Tina, wincing at her partner’s crude swearing, knowing she has several weeks of it to follow. “Got everything? There will be something we’ve forgotten – always is. At least we’ve got the car.” They both screeched with laughter. “I’ve put our knickers in my bag for now, phew! That was a near miss, Greg nearly spotted them...”

“Did he? How? ... never mind tell me later, lets do a final, last of twelve” she snickered,” check list, we need to be away by three to catch the bloody ferry, the ... no we’re going foreign, premier phase. You got the maps in that folder and satnav primed. Right lets see,”she added, adjusting the angle of the Garmin mounted on the dashboard then flicking the screen of her mobile. The list was double checked as they went through the interior and the boot of the Ford, both consulting mobiles and an extra written list Tina had added the previous night, she would upload to her mobile while on the ferry. Cash was secured away, credit cards, insurance and vehicle documents stored.

“Lets go kidda” Bron gunning the modified three litre motor, attracting everyone, making them throng around the car. Goodbyes, cheers, TV cameras rolled and they gradually pulled away. They left the estate grounds five minutes later after negotiating the crowd, then the long long gravel drive, then lanes to Bullington Cross, the A303. M3, M25. M20 and onwards to Dover

“Www ... ell it’s like this ssss ... ir.”Jacob stammered, taking his cloth cap off and peering closely at the ground as he always did when speaking with the lord of the manor.

“C’mon man, out with it, I haven’t got all day. The ladies have gone and I have important business to get on with,” Charles, barked, thinking of the very pleasant ‘business’ that awaited now that the excitement had died down and Penelope had tootled off to her interminable Women’s Institute meetings. Talk, tea and cakes all afternoon. Pah!

Jacob took a deep breath and scratched his chin.”It’s my girls sir...”

“Not the bloody birds again, sorry - they’ll keep till August arrives. S’that it... ?”

“No sir not them, not the pheasants, my daughters, my girls ... giving me a bit of trouble ... you know complaining. Them young ones don’t know their place these days...”

Now Charles had a fleeting worry and became focussed. His gamekeeper had three comely daughters, the youngest working at the manor and doing a very good job in ‘many’ respects. Both Penelope and especially he were delighted in the way the rosy cheeked, rotund village maiden had bloomed. His wife reckoned it was the rarefied and cultured atmosphere the girl was working in. Charles thought that too – he had to.

“Well sir ... it’s the oldest, Fanny, she’s unhappy at Fookenham House, you know Mr Todger’s estate. She’s twenty four now and never been promoted ... she says ... not sure she should expect it after only eight years, but you know these young’uns, they want everything, so me and Mrs Spriggs thought you ... and Lady Penelope might find a place ... you know ... some sort of placement...”

The house Jacob mentioned was a very ostentatious, ultra modern, tasteless design on a river side built and occupied by a billionaire American business man, who sported a swept over dyed black mane, multi coloured spectacles and an outrageous paunch. He was currently with his third wife, a Filipino girl of undetermined age. Charles shuddered when Todger’s name was mentioned, having battled and lost against the house design in his previous role as chairman of the County planning committee. The fucking labour government inspector had over-ruled the county decision.

“Ahh that’s all.” gasped Charles, breathing a big sigh of relief and a inner!Phew. “Send her up and we’ll have a chat, her ladyship too of course.” He would have liked to interview the girl himself. Also to get one over in any small way on the loud mouthed Yank, would be a minor but satisfying triumph. “We’ll try and sort out something ... yes tell her to come to the house ... must go Jacob, is that it?”

Kate Spriggs giggled and lifted her regulation uniform white apron and navy blue smock, looking forward to the cool way the old man did his incredible act of frigging her clitty, creating lovely waves of excitement to orgasm. The boys in the village hadn’t a clue when she let them try and luckily she’d been able to deter them from sticking fingers into her virginal minnie as her mum had told her what to call her minge, which is what the boys called it. The esteemed member of the House of Lords licked his lips as her fat, white thighs bloomed over the tops of her opaque black stockings. They had to be opaque as house rules ... but his good wife didn’t know that Kate had discarded the stock tights all the female staff were issued with, in favour of his liking for stockings, sometimes hold-ups, some necessitating suspenders.

“Are you really a cousin of the Queen sir?

“Yes I told you and Madam showed you photos ... now come on, lift that higher so I can see if that lovely long hair escapes your undies as usual. Oh yes they do, higher we have plenty of time...” Charles said, leaning forward and reaching.

“Did you notice old Charlie going off with Jacob before we left, it must be serious for Jacob to get his attention like that. Probably something like people have been fiddling with his girls.” Bron, always the quickest, sniggered, sat in the cross channel ferry bar. “Honestly - he thinks more of those fucking stupid pheasants,”she added, sipping her gin and tonic.

“No I didn’t, but those birds, suicidal, no idea of cars on the roads.” replied Tina, having shuddered again at Bron’s crudity. “Jacob has three lovely daughters yes? Met one today like a waitress ... er ... can’t remember her name but pretty for a fat girl, she’s so short though, doesn’t help.”

“That’ll be Kate, not a waitress, that’s the house uniform they’re all given to wear. Only one of the Spriggs tribe that works there.” advised Bron, then indignantly. “ Fat ... fat? ... how can you Tina, she’s only young, it’s puppy fat. Nice girl though, very obliging.”

“To be in service she is eighteen. We had a dispute in the courts about that a month ago. Some young rich Saudi nob trying to employ a fifteen year old who looked twenty as his secretary ... pah! Kate? Kate yes? Looks much younger because of her pretty face and lovely manners. She looks good at her job and seems to dote on the family ... well what’s still at the manor, family wise.” Tina declared sipping her San Miguel beer.

“Yeah! she thinks the world of his lordship, well he gave her the job. There’s Victoria the dyke, then Justin who has the vineyard near Montpelier and Simon, lives in Paris, who manages the chalets and chambre--de-hote across the continent, yes all away. Just Vicky who’s away with the fairies in lesbo land bless her, but damned intelligent. Wonder what will become of Millie ... poor kid being brought up with a couple of pooftas as parents. I wouldn’t bet old Charlie might step in there, you know money, influence,” chuckled Bron smiling and winking at a young blonde Belgian truck driver across the bar. “You must get these case coming to court as a magistrate. Did you hear about Charlies pal ... that Jenner bloke. Kiddy stuff, big press, then he died and it’s been washed over. Happens to a lot of them, the oldies ... kiddy stuff.”

“Hmm! Yes frightful. You notice that dingo looking bloke giving you the eye Bron ... no not the one with the wonky eye. The one with the big moustache...”

“I thought you were going to say big bulge in shorts Teen,” smirked Bron, using the shortened version of her already shortened name of Christina that Tina hated. “Now regardless of eyes, anyway they don’t fuck with their eyes, but he’s tasty in a rough, you know rural, behind the bike sheds sort of way. Not enough time on this trip, maybe when we get further on, loads of places.”

They had a snack and checked their route which took in Boulogne, Mannheim, Munich, Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, Sofia, Trieste, Venice. Genoa, Toulouse, Pau, Burgos, Salamanca and Lisbon, all of 5500 kilomteres. They would drive back to Santander and ferry back to Plymouth.

The intrepid pair stopped overnight at Chalons-en-Champagne, where again Bron was distracted by a very young lad with a Spanish swarthyness who looked to be just out of school, but he was with his parents for dinner. Tina shook her head in dismay at her pal’s penchant for youth and sex.

Dining on Seafood Cassolette, Pheasant Filet, Tagliatelle with Snails, profiteroles, all washed down with a local Champers, Tina and Bronwyn retired to the bar being almost alone, the locals not taking of liquers and the like.

“Superb food Bron, always make me wonder how restaurants so far from the sea can dish up fresh fish. Well of course snails are not from the ocean,” chuckled Tina, sipping her cognac.

“Yes this place was one of Charles recommendations,” agreed Bron, downing her cognac and clicking her fingers for more and recalling their day and food. “The old boot did us proud didn’t it”

Tina snickered at the oft used name for The Shoe Inn, on the Haverland estate. “Yes Fluffy Thatch and old John Thomas have a lovely old pub and actually owned by er ... Penelope - s’at right?” she queried.

“Yes they do, what a team eh? father and daughter, all these years and to think old Posy Thomas inherited the licence before she met big John...”

“Big John Thomas heh heh,” snickered Tina.

“Well come on me old dear, past our bedtime, I’m ready,”said Bron, getting up and making her way out of the hotel restaurant. “Oo, must get some of those knickers off you. These need washing first and last I hope.” She chuckled pointing at her groin.

Paper panties were issued and they split for separate rooms.

Cyril opened the back door and saw a very wet figure huddled in the porch with it’s back to him. The figure turned to face him, expressing total shock as he untangled a light jacket from over his head. It was raining heavily, a sudden downpour, reminding Cyril he had left the bedroom window wide open.

“Good grief ... er er ... yes it’s you Fin isn’t it, come in man you’re soaked,” gestured Cyril.

“Good god man, you’re starkers!” exclaimed Finley Bannerman haughtily, staggering inwards, dragging the jacket off. “Not decent you know.”

Cyril took the garment and shook it and hung it over a chair, looked down and yes he was naked.

“Can see your undercarriage old chap,” blustered Bannerman. “Gong in the shower or something/”

“No I am usually like this when Tina’s not around. Love it – she hates it. Anyway what brings you round old chap – bit early for you.” muttered Cyril, checking his watch and draping a towel off the Aga round him.

“Well you know, thought I’d have a constitution down the bridle way, got half way and this started,” Fin pointed upwards. “Realised I was at the bottom of your orchard so popped in for shelter.”

“Time for a snifter, I reckon, timing was right,” Cyril snickered.”Usual? Come through.”

The two old fogeys tottered through into the beamed living room, the householder holding the towel and not quite managing to conceal his withered and wrinkled droopy buttocks from the emaciated, unshaven, tall, white haired septuagenarian, who was once the imposing, stout head master of Bendale school and the Golf Club – not forgetting his role as a magistrate.

“Oh fuck it”chuckled Cyril throwing the towel over the sofa. “You’ve seen me starkers enough in the club showers, here you go...” he snickered, handing Fin a large whisky. He poured himself a gin and tonic and raised it to his friend. Fin returned the toast, not being able to, but wishing he cold - take his eyes off Cyril’s wobbly little cock and balls.

“Get dressed old chap, it’s not the place.” Cyril agreed and went very slowly, puffing and panting up the narrow, steep, early seventeenth century cottage stairs. Fin glanced around in distaste. There was no way he and Monica ... no not Monica any more, could live in such an old thatched place, so tiny, crooked, mice and bats in the roof, compared to the five bed, detached new build up the road.

“You’ve lost tons of weight Fin old boy,” said a shirted and trousered Cyril, returning, getting his drink and sitting opposite. He got a nod of approval, Cyril couldn’t have cared less.

“Well you know. Since that business with the police. Worry, shame and Moni fucking off ... you know.”

“Yes awful business that, you poor thing. It shows ... but you’ll bounce back old chap. Monica ... have you heard?”

Fins shook his head, downed his scotch and took advantage of Cyril’s magnanimous gesture and poured himself a less generous measure. He stroked his face and crossed his bony legs, something he could’nt achieve eight years ago. “She’s with her sister, some godforsaken place in Africa. Couldn’t handle the shame, you know? I’ve had to and it’s not going too bad, I mean I could’ve done time, but luckily someone on the team gave me probation and ten years sign in.” Fin blew his cheeks out, thinking being a magistrate worked in his favour. “Lost the job, got a place at the supermarket, golf club a no no of course, but I manage to keep fit and lost this...” Fin waved his hand round his paunch. “Anyway, news on the girls?”

“Oh yes I get regular updates from Tina and sounds jolly good fun. Bron up to her usual tricks ... you know.” Cyril snorted, rolling his watery eyes.

“Oh yes a real man eater that one. More men that hot dinners eh” Fin chortled. “Never had me, tried to, s’pose I could have poked it, but not interested, big woman ... big mouth too. I like a bit of black and no big arses you know...”

“Hmm yes, so does Bron, the black and young according to Christina,” Cyril giggled. “Monica was a stunner though. Ethiopian ... that right. Very like that pop singers woman David someth... ?” Fin nodded and peered into his half empty crystal glass also forgetting the name. “You got ten years on the ... er whats it? ... Oh yes the Sex Offenders Register?” Another nod. “Kiddy stuff wasn’t it... ?” quick repetitive nods, down in Fin’s chest this time. “Oh well, never been into that myself ... I like...” Cyril shouldn’t have said that and hoped he’d done too much quizzing Fin to distract him.

“Funny thing was I think Moni could have been into it too oddly, there were hints and stuff ... oh never mind it’s old now, she’s gone and best forgotten. So tell me Cyril old boy, what do you like?” asked Fin directly.

Cyril gulped, downed his G&T and quickly replenished it, topping up Fin’s scotch too. He’d nurtured his secret for years. The only way he had expressed and discussed it was with anonymous people on the internet. Tina had found it and hadn’t bothered – damn her ways – but he’d never disclosed to friends, colleagues. Fin and he were the two closest male pals, so it would be OK – wouldn’t it - to reveal, but how safe – it wasn’t illegal – to view what he liked and he never created and distributed it – he just got some kicks somehow, I mean you can’t wank Cyril. Oh fuck it, he mused and decided.

“I’ll show you, come to the study. I have got to impress this is something I’ve never talked about or shown people, but fuck! We’re both in our eighties, how long have we got and we only live once, in here” Cyril pointed. “It’s all on the computer.”

“Nice machine, I had one,” said Fin gazing at the enormous Apple Mac on a very tidy desk. His host, sat down and placed two coasters for their drinks and booted the computer. Fin rolled up an office type chair as directed. “Mine was taken by the scum and I had to buy a new one, but of course the boys in blue check up on me and call in ad-hoc and demand to check the laptop. Never know when they’re coming, trying to catch me out, the bastards,” Fin grunted and downed his scotch.

Cyrill nodded as he listened, clicking the keyboard. “S’pose you’ll never be tempted again? Ah here we go.”

“No way, learned my lesson the hard way. God knows how many I dealt with in court, that was the main issue ... jeez!...” Fin exclaimed, goggled eyed. “Look at that, bloody hell ... how do they get that ... the quality too ... wow ... look she’s got the red flag flying ... Cyril! ... the camera is under the toilet somehow.”

His pal smiled knowingly and chuckled as the video streamed on. This was new, but well recognised subject matter and he might download it later to add to his collection. He liked these intimate views of females of all ages and types crouching over toilets, exposing every detail of their cunts and arseholes as they pissed, some with tampon strings which were hard and crisp dangling until they were drenched and sodden, some ladies removing the heavily soiled wadge, discarding it and inserting a clean one.

“Look that dirty bitch never wiped her fanny before she pulled her knickers up,” exclaimed an excited Fin, “Wow where is this? ... how do they get away with it? ... it’s damn clever I must say ... amazing”

“Usually Russia or similar, there’s a series in Japan too,” answered Cyril.

“Bet those Chinky bints are hairy,” Fin sniggered, “Look at her, it looks like she’s leaking cum, there’s something white dripping out ... ah you’ve switched OK lets see. Jeez Cyril this is absolutely stunning quality ... outside now, wonder what ... Oh look at her, she’s very old...”

They watched in silence still unsure of each others reactions, but enjoying the intimate views of females in a forested area, relieving themselves. Now and then Fin would explode with astonishment, pointing at the screen, whooping and commenting to his pal.

“Looks like a verge of a road somewhere doesn’t it? ... but look, there are people strolling by through the bushes, like in a town, men and women fully dressed going about their business and a couple of yards away, it’s a lady’s toilet ... Wow, look, that couple just have arrived and he’s having a slash too ... that’s a laugh ... he’s holding her handbag ... and another girl, squatting down behind him. Amazing ... Wow! This is a wedding do now, somewhere different ... and the bride having a piss outside with girls holding up her dress ... other women going past them into the cubicles ... ah maybe her dress is too big and fancy to squeeze in one...”chuckled Finley.

The two old men stared at the screen until Cyril switched it off.

“If she’d rented it, she couldn’t have piss on it could she? Could only happen in Russia, or Croatia – places like that.” Roared Fin. “Astonishing stuff, how on earth did you find it?”