The rise and fall of all the young dudes M.

     Nile was always an unconventional teenager, an unconventional rocker, and an unconventional fan of The Rolling Stones, very little changed, except perhaps his age...

   The Masked convict emerged victorious from the secluded area; ready to take on any members of the Star Fleet who felt they could battle him to the ground. The masked convict was a scare-inducing sight: his wild hair blowing menacingly in the warm afternoon breeze. He sidled up to his short, stocky pony, wondering if it needed a brush. These wondrous musings were cut short, however, by a loud wail of contempt emanating from the cavernous hut behind him.

     "John." he yelled, angrily climbing atop his "trusty" steed. "Go sort out Jimbo, he won't be chuffed if he misses Father Ted." ( Father Ted is a very popular TV programme, all I can say is I know of a fair few people who would winge if they missed it...)

      Jimbo wandered out of the hut."What you on about?" He asked in grammatically woeful English." I is fine, man."

    "Please refrain from speaking, Jimbo..." began the masked convict" Your voice upsets my mood."  His pleas were ignored and Jimbo valiantly carried on talking.

     "Why is you riding a pony, anyway, what with all our recent technical feats?"

     "Freddie is not a pony" he began, adjusting his woggle.

     "What is he, then?" asked John suddenly appearing behind Jimbo.

     "Oh now you join in!" He looked on angrily. "I'll see you guys later."The conversation came to a sudden end, and the masked convict dutifully waved a sullen goodbye as Freddie trotted off. Once again, he left to his travels in a severe huff. Why couldn't his lackeys be a little more despondent instead of the opinionated husks they insisted on becoming? A fine rain began to trickle down from the sky in a misty babble, ruining his hair-perfectly mirroring his mood. This temperament changed, however, when the welcome sun escaped the grey and dreary Britishness.

   The grass under their feet was a yellowed green, un-suitable for consumption but pleasant to look at. The convict was humming softly to himself as the lush trees passed by and lakes painted a picture of rural blissfulness. The leaves sunk into the clouds like deflated balloons, and he felt happy to embrace the countryside. It was only when the soft smell of apples began to enter his consciousness that he decided to take a slight detour. This meant taking a serene wander through a landscape of bushes and overturned deckchairs, as Freddie picked his way to the origin of the rich cider smell. The sun hung lazily like a salad in the sky, showering them in a radiant glow.

       "My god, it's a park”. The masked convict announced, jumping off his steed and stumbling to a halt in front of the wooden gates. Peering into the premises, he could just make out a few caravans and tent-ish objects, silhouetted in the sunlight. And there, bathing in their own immense popularity, were a pile of untouched apples sitting under a tree. Without a moment’s hesitation, the masked convict meandered through the open gate, only to find himself confronted by a large gang of swans languishing near a beer cooler."Oh."He said- he had a phobia of birds.

       Knowing to avoid their heads ( and  ferocious beaks) he daintily walked past leaving ample room between himself and the brutes. Apparently the Queen owned them all, so he hovered momentarily to bow,monarchist tendencies deciding to make an appearance. Though his political views were woolly at best, he was a royalist through and through, much to the annoyance of many Queen- bashing friends. He laughed to himself at their stupidity whilst negotiating his way around the track. His careful stomping through the mud, aside from ruining his trousers, allowed him to take in the  wily surroundings of which he found himself entangled, abit like a moth in a Kit-Kat wrapper- a battered pair of pantaloons hanging from a caravan summed it all up.  Feeling derisive for the casually clad pretty things probably  lurking within their motor vehicles, and despite great balance but iffy hand eye coordination, he fell over, his sneakers giving way to the muck. An icy plateau of freezing water submerged him as he quickly picked himself up, legs splayed, sheepishly glancing about to check that no one was filming the incident. It appeared he was safe.