A brief account of the film Thora Hird and Antonio Banderas never made together.

Before the visit of the insurance salesman, Emily Stephenson had always scraped together enough money to survive. Her forty years as a pillow fluffer at Claridge’s had resulted in a State pension which more than adequately covered two packets of cup-a-soup a day, and an extra-strong mint at week-ends. However, a highly nervous disposition and superstitious nature had made her easy meat for the sales representative.

“You’re sure this is essential?” she had asked apprehensively, as he cornered her with fifty pages of small print and a Beretta.

“It’s compulsory, Madam,” he replied. “If you don’t sign here, the Government will send you and your family to prison for life.”

And so, as winter approached,  Emily Stephenson wrapped herself in three old overcoats and a carpet, put on an extra wig and some oven gloves, and sat and listened to the radio, which now occupied the space where the television had stood, before she had been forced to sell it.

Her son Darren, who called once a year to explain he was her only next of kin, severed all contact, in the knowledge that her entire assets were being squandered on some dubious insurance premiums which would yield nothing, and probably render her bankrupt.

Emily’s only company was her neighbour, a black transvestite called Rene Russo. He was the owner of ten performing chihuahuas which formed a pyramid within a circle of fire every Friday night at the Blue Flamingo in Soho. Rene would enter the stage to a Johnny Cash tune, hand the uppermost dog a miniature extinguisher, and order it to expel the surrounding flames before Johnny finished the song.

One day Rene told Emily he had to go away for a few weeks and asked her to look after his talented pets. Emily had heard on the radio that it was dangerous to offend black transvestites, and therefore allowed all of the dogs to sleep in her bed. The first evening she accidentally spilt a lethal dose of strong bleach into their cup-a-soup and poisoned eight of them. Having previously only been responsible for crippling a daddy-long-legs, she was naturally a little upset, bordering on psychologically traumatised. When it occurred to her that the remaining chihuahuas were insufficient in number to form a pyramid, a twelve-inch rash broke out just under her navel.

*   *   *

On the other side of the city a Puerto Rican immigrant called Juan was putting the last old photo of Paris he could find into his wallet. He had survived the best part of five years by charming wealthy young ladies into bed, and then borrowing money from them. But his latest girlfriend, Annabel, had become more than just another vaginal cashpoint machine; he felt a certain passion for her, a passion severely tested by one insurmountable problem. She and her entire family were vegetarians, and the pre-requisite for steamy intercourse and long-term financial loans required him to give up meat as part of his diet. In view of his addiction to chicken, he could only endure the pretence for so long, and had ultimately come up with the idea of inventing a job which took him to France every week-end. In reality, of course, he stayed at home and stuffed his face with coq au vin.

He looked at the clock. Shit. He would be late, yet again. And her family were such sticklers for time-keeping. So far, he had been the only man to hold up Lady Ballsworthy’s ratatouille.

 

*  *  *

Unclear how to proceed with the eight corpses of her black transvestite neighbour, Emily Stephenson phoned a vet, who said there was only so long she could keep them in the airing cupboard.

“If you can’t bury them,” said the receptionist, “bring them here and we’ll freeze them. Only £50 a day, per chihuahua. But what price peace of mind, eh? You can then reunite them with your friend when he returns.”

Emily found a red pigskin suitcase decorated with the faces of old cricketing heroes. It had belonged to her late husband and would certainly accommodate eight small dogs. She dragged the case and contents to the tube station and attempted to haul it on to the train. A young man kindly provided assistance and sat next to her.

“That’s quite a heavy load you have there, Madam”, remarked the swarthy but helpful young man.

Eager to avoid any unethical misunderstandings, for the first time in her life Emily Stephenson told a lie.

“I’ve just bought a pair of solid gold replica Louis XVI guillotines,” she said. “For slicing artichokes. Ornamental and practical. My sister wanted a stair-lift for her birthday, but these are so much more personal, don't you think?”

As Emily was leaving the train, the man also got up. He helped her carry the case to the station exit, before punching her hard in the face and running off with it. Instead of responding likewise, Emily fell backwards down the steps of the tube station and fractured her skull. She had heard on the radio that it was unwise for elderly widows to retaliate against Latino gangsters and street-fighters.

 

*  *  *

Juan arrived at his fiancée Annabel’s house about twenty minutes late. Her mother and father were seated petulantly in the drawing room, eyeing the time and contemplating the catastrophic implications of overcooked ratatouille. Annabel’s twelve vegetarian brothers and sisters had also been invited to meet her new boyfriend. Juan dragged the suitcase before the assembled crowd, noted the smiling face of Geoffrey Boycott running along the zip-fastener, and announced to Lady Ballsworthy that he had acquired certain items of unique value, which she could hang up in her kitchen and admire with pleasure.

“You won’t find this sort of stuff in Harrods,” he said, as he struggled to unpick the lock on the red pigskin suitcase decorated with cricketing heroes.

 

*  *  *

Emily Stephenson submitted a huge claim for the theft of a friend’s eight suspiciously murdered chihuahuas by a Puerto Rican outside Marylebone Underground Station. It turned out to be the only risk the insurance policy covered.

She never saw her black transvestite friend again. He had checked himself into a clinic, knowing full well that his itchy ear was the onset of a terminal illness. His eyelids extended to the size of table tennis bats and his lips turned the colour of Michael Jackson. His last words were “Mexican wave”.

Emily Stephenson now sits in her new bungalow with her two little canine survivors, Rene and Renato, and watches television, which she finds far less informative than radio. Her son Darren visits her every week. This year he bought her a Christmas tree decorated with Werther’s Originals.

Juan appeared on a phone-in programme, in which reformed criminals recalled unusual items they had lifted from the general public. He is currently screwing a Lithuanian carnivore. As we speak.