14. Brabazon Lodge

Brabazon Lodge was an imposing four-storey late-Victorian red bricked country house with a distinctive nod to the gothic set in spacious grounds near Henbury in Bristol, comprising of resplendent gardens with well manicured hedges and bushes. Everything about the place conveyed a sense of relaxation and the wrought black iron fencing around the perimeter and sturdy gates with spikes topped with gold paint promoted the feeling its refined confines were for an exclusive clientele.

The residents milled around the grounds in night attire. Some looked shell-shocked. One middle-aged chap with a pencil moustache had a face full of apprehension accompanyimg every step he took and was being guided by two Brabazon Lodge attired assistants holding an arm either side of the reluctant patient.

‘Oh, don’t worry about him, Matey,’ Kai Diamonde advised. ‘He was De-Nelsoned, hypnotised into believing Nelson didn’t exist. Sadly, he was running through a square in London and ran splat, straight into Nelson’s Column oblivious to its existence. Now he is too scared to walk anywhere.’

‘Why would great historians agree to be hypnotised to believe someone important in history never existed?’ Mower asked.

‘None do it voluntarily, Matey. It’s so the UN Security Council can then get them to write about what history would be like without the historical figure they no longer have knowledge of.’

‘It’s like one of those hospitals,’ Glen observed, ‘where those afflicted by the horrors of the trenches were sent to convalesce.’

‘Yes, Matey, they’re heroic victims of the current, secret war we are waging.’

‘But,’ Mower ventured, ‘why aren’t they brought out of the trance once they’ve written their new history minus that particular historical character?’

‘Because historians are serious creatures, Matey, and they’d be devastated to know they had ever written such a stupid work, so best they remain in ignorant bliss.’

The two visitors ascended a black metal spiral staircase at the side of the building which took them to an entrance on the first floor which led to a well stocked library. There Kai pointed towards an old duffer with a luxurious moustache.

‘Professor Ernie Labrock,’ he revealed.

‘Professor Labrock, wow!’ Mower exclaimed, ‘the great authority on English Medieval history. And also quite the reputation for being a hellraiser fuelled by copious amounts of booze.’

‘He’s far from that now, Matey. Since he’s been De-Harold The Seconded,’ he explained. ‘They have to keep him away from pubs for his own good. You see, they usually play darts in pubs and because he has no knowledge of King Harold The Second and his fate at the Battle of Hastings he’s likely to be in grave danger of getting a stray arrow in the eye.’

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