And so it did come to pass that King Slater of the Money lenders was counting his silver shekels in his bedchamber and making plans for the huge feast at the Red Valley.
Prince Richard of Murray had ordered a fatted calf from Morrison’s (basics range), the Floyd Road did runneth with people like a mighty red river once more and there was great rejoicing and general backslapping all round.
The King had ordered the feast to be held in honour of Saint Christopher of the Powelites and his disciples who had defeated the massive heathen hordes from the North and made their way back to the Promised Land.
“Search high and low across my Kingdom” commanded the King “and findeth me the finest musicians, jesters and entertainers for this Saturday, for verily I say unto thee, Saint Christopher has performed a bloody miracle”.
For this was as it was written by the ancient Prophets (Lord Hales the mighty Killer) in the ancient Holy manuscripts now on special offer in the Valley superstore at £19.99.
And those manuscripts did telleth the people of the red valley that when they finally reacheth the Promised Land an army of blue Smurfs would visit the Valley and warriors in red romper suits would fall from the heavens with pink smoke trailing from their ankles.
Even the mad and wizened old crones from the East (stand) wrapped in their tartan blankets who were intoxicated on Bovril taken from the traditional tribal flask did not believe that old wives’ tale.
But the King was not of great cheer for his legs were still tired and sore from his epic journey to Marathon and the ancient scribe Saint Keith of Peacock was knelt at his feet rubbing the finest essence of Ralgex into his loins.
“It is true. Saint Christopher must be the chosen one of the one true Lord (Curbs)” said the King standing proudly in his red spandex running suit proudly sponsored by Ken’s burger van.
“He has verily turned the water into champagne, never mind wine” said Saint Peacock chuckling to himself like an old loon, his hands all odorous and sticky from the foul smelling sports gel.
“If I want bad jokes I will get Lord Davidson of Alimony to rub my loins” said the King angrily.
“Now listeneth to me you old fool, I must have the finest music in the land to mark this special day for the people of the Red Valley” said the King.
“Then thou shalt have the curvy hipped Goddess Victoria with the voice of an angel” said Saint Keith of Peacock reaching for his mobile.
“She doth sound just the ticket” said the King “and make sure she gives us an end of season discount,” he added, as he kicked the poor old scribe out of his chamber.
And then Saint Christopher of the Powelites did entereth the King’s bedchamber to a fanfare of trumpets, wearing his new Savile Row suit of many colours.
“I have had a message from a Holy angel that the one true Lord (Curbs) will appear as if in a vision and speak to his people at the great feast on Saturday” said Saint Christopher with arms outstretched and head turned up to the heavens.
“Have you been drinking too much fine wine from the golden goblets?” asked the King.
“I only had a tiny drop to wet my dry lips in the far northern plains of Carlisle” replied Saint Chris.
“Well let’s not get too bloody carried awayeth” said the King.
”You have spent my silver wisely on fine disciples but you haven’t exactly walked on water and Lord Curbs was last seen running a kebab shop on the Woolwich Road. In the new year, we will have the much verily dreaded Neanderthal people of the New Cross to deal with again.”
“I fear not, “said Saint Christopher, “for with Saint Bradley of Lewisham, Reverend Jesse Jackson and the giant Yan from the land of frogs, we will never be defeated again by those ignorant beasts with their fearsome grunting and snorting.
“And don’t forget our magic midget” said the King feeling a sudden warmth in his loins. “For Saint Solly of Diddyland really is quality”.
And red Valley did echo with the sound of laughter and joy at The King’s great wit and the people did cry Hallelujah. Suddenly, the sky was filled with warriors in red romper suits failing from the heavens, with pink smoke trailing from their ankles, as the wizened old men of the East (stand) nearly choked on their Bovril.
And this is the word of the Lord (Curbs). Amen and see you in the Promised Land next season