Last year at the Harrogate Festival, I formed a gang with fellow thriller writer Jeff Abbott. We ran riot, holding a pitched battle with the Fighting Nuns of Harrogate and terrifying the bar staff at the conference hotel, shouting, “I said two cherries in my diet Coke, damn you!”
This weekend Jeff visited London, and we held a gang summit at Marble Arch. We planned our vendetta against the Fighting Nuns. We plotted a jail break to free my minion, Trixie, from the tough northern prison where she’s stacking time (the Emily Bronte Women’s Correctional Institute) because she slapped a stewardess who refused to serve Dom Perignon to my Chihuahuas. And we practiced some cool new gang signs.
And yeah, in this photo we’re smiling, but the meeting was dangerous. Jeff wisely brought his own minion for protection — and Kevin took two shots to the back. Espresso roast, hot from the mug, poured right between his shoulder blades by a woman in a fur coat and Chanel sunglasses who hit him and kept on walking without a word. Obviously a pro.
Way to go, Kevin — taking two for the boss. We poured our cappuccinos on the ground in tribute to you.
UPDATE: Petrona sent spies to discover our plans (which include chucking rotten strawberries at Sister Mary Agnes and humiliating her Rottweilers by dressing them in pink booties) and Jeff fills me in on the looming gang war:
Sorry to say Kevin was captured by dodgy looking nuns just as we made it through Passport Control. Since he was carrying my 12 pieces of cast-iron luggage, he couldn’t run like me, the gazelle. I toasted him in first class all the way home but must now call Minions R Us for a replacement.
They’re offering minions two-for-the-price-of-one on the Entourage aisle, Jeff. Better hurry before they’re gone.