ARTY ON THE RUN

REPORTS ARE COMING IN FROM THE ASSOCIATED PRESS THAT ARTY, THE ARTIFICIAL ANUS SUCCESSFULLY ATTACHED TO AN OLD SOCIALIST BUNGHOLE BY THE NAME OF FIDEL CASTRO, HAS GIVEN HIS HOST THE SLIP AND IS NOW ON THE RUN.

APPARENTLY, ARTY AND FIDEL QUARRELLED LATE LAST NIGHT ABOUT THE PAMPHLET SHORTLY TO BECOME A BEST SELLER IN CUBA WITHOUT SELLING A COPY, PENNED BY THE AILING, SMELLY DICTATOR ENTITLED "THE MEANS OF DISTRIBUTION AND THE ONE PARTY STATE IN THE GLOBAL VILLAGE FACING ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER AND THE PROSPECTS OF CUBA EVER WINNING THE SOCCER WORLD CUP". INSIDE SOURCES SAY TEMPERS FRAYED WHEN FIDEL LABELLED THE ENGLAND FOOTBALL TEAM "A BUNCH OF LOSERS WITH NO CAHONES".

EXPERTS SAY ARTY CAN'T GO FAR, DUE TO THE LACK OF SIGNIFICANT SELF-PROPULSION AND NO INDEPENDENTLY FUNCTIONING ORGANS TO SPEAK OF. CASTRO, WHILST LYING IN AN EXCRUTIATINGLY UNPLEASANT POSE AND SUFFERING FROM SEVERE DRAUGHT DUE TO THE ABSENCE OF ANY ANUS TO SPEAK OF, HAS ISSUED A DEEP APOLOGY URGING ARTY TO COME BACK TO HIM BEFORE HIS MORNING ABLUTIONS AND ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN.

MORE ON THIS BREAKING NEWS AS AND WHEN WE GET IT.

WATSON: I say, Holmes...

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: Awfully bad luck that Cuban chappie having to part company with his artificial anus what what what.

HOLMES: Most careless of him, old boy.

WATSON: Do you think they'll ever find Arty alive?

HOLMES: I very much doubt it. It is my belief that the Cuban dictator tired of the synthetic little runt and disposed of him at the earliest opportunity.

WATSON: But Holmes, that's preposterous. A fellow without an anus is like a...

HOLMES: A dog without a bone. Indeed. Speaking of which, I do believe it's time for that filthy blood hound's morning walk. I fear if he doesn't refrain from emitting excess gas at the breakfast table, we may have to do something about his anus too.

WATSON: You wouldn't, Holmes!

HOLMES: Indeed I would, old bean, so the sooner you get him to the vet and have his derriere fixed, the better.

WATSON: Right you are, old chap. Come on, Toby. Walkies! Oh, dear Lord, he's dropped one again. Bad dog, Toby! Bad dog!

MRS HUDSON: More tea, Mr Sherlock?

HOLMES: Thank you, Hudders.

MRS HUDSON: And a squish of the lavender spray?

HOLMES: That would be most desirable. ASAP, my dear.