Darts and wax April 2003

London

Farouk: Oi Oi, Saveloy! What a wonderful country the United Kingdom really is. Mister Alternative Investments had warned me that I might not like your Fair Isle, and that it would disagree with my delicate Salamandan sensibilities. But that couldn't be further from the truth. I have found the perfect guide in Barry, a financial broker from Braintree, and he has immersed me in English high culture.

We've witnessed the World Darts championship live at the Circus Tavern, Purfleet. A gladiatorial sport of kings, second only to Ping-Pong (Salamander's national game) in my eyes. We've laughed until we cried at the comedy of Mr Jasper Carrot at the Romford Palindrome. And we've gazed in awe at the waxwork celebrities of Madame Tussaud's.

epresentations of well-known people crafted from wax! What better way can there be to spend one's time and money than looking at mouldings of people from the television? Observe Rolf Harris! This is art. This is beauty.

Best of all, Barry has introduced me to the cornerstones of British society - pub, bookie and chippy. From these palaces we have planned the war against Fernandez and brokered the deals to fund the heavy weaponry we're going to need. Salamander is, in Barry's terms: "seriously tooled up."

Our portfolio has been outperforming the FTSE by a monthly average of 29%, and what hasn't gone on booze and the dogs has helped fund Salamander's first Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile, which we'll be smuggling back disguised as a big pole.

I've not heard a thing from Mr Alternative Investments, which makes me suspect that the hostilities have got even worse. But there is some good news: Barry has decided to return to Salamander with us. He is thirsty for war. He sees an opportunity to "escape from the depressing spiral of pension fund dips, lowering bonuses and raising redemption penalties," and become a soldier of fortune.

Our imaginations run wild about British customs we could introduce to my home after the war is over. I picture a Salamandan darts championship, with my people wearing wonderful silks like Phil "The Power" Taylor. We talk excitedly of a Madame Tussaud's for the islanders. We decide to set sail from Southampton as soon as possible.

For Barry's final farewell, he escorts his entire entourage of family and friends to the Chessington World of Adventures. It is a magical day out that transcends words - the wonder of these adventures were beyond what my meagre imagination were previously capable of. Barry pays for everything: he's had a tip-off "that the dollar may be dipping against the euro, but nickel’s the spot this month." There is also shady talk about payoff from a contraband consignment of Golden Grahams somehow related to the Triads.

The date for departure draws near, and as we give the final instructions for our sickening arsenal of hate to be loaded up on a freighter bound for Salmander, I reflect on my visit to Britain. It is clear in the people of Basingstoke and Chigwell that this is a truly great nation, with fabulous darts players and wax sculptors. It will be a shame to leave, but our nation needs us. All aboard...