Life on Mars

Warning. Discretionary Content. This article may contain material that is either inappropriate or offensive to some audiences.

The Naughty Sausage
The single telephone owned by the Gentleman’s retreat, a very exclusive private club, rang in the lavishly decorated reception area. To the uninitiated eye, it appeared to be one of those stuffy old places where retired old judges and Lords go to get quietly pissed and silently puppeteer the government of the day. The initial appearance was deceptive. It was one of those highly secretive houses of ill repute known affectionately to its gentility as the Naughty Sausage. Sir Hilary Damphall had been summoned to the phone and he was in a foul temper having been put off his indulgence. He marched into the lobby area dressed in a lollypop mans outfit and a long blond wig; efficiently pursued by a half naked Korean girl wielding a fish slice "Who the blazes is this, it had better be damned important or heads will roll" he blustered, but he was immediately brought to heal by the sound of the Prime Ministers voice on the other end of the phone. "Yes, Prime Minister – I Understand – yes, it will get my undivided attention, thank you - good day Prime Minister." Having replaced the handset he wasted no time. "Come, May Ling there’s no time for this sort of hanky panky now, fetch me my trousers!" he commanded, retreating back to the young girls boudoir

The Project
Under the guise of international cooperation and inspired by potential long-term profit, a daring project had been proposed to build a colony on Mars. A French built rocket would transport a German and a British probe while a NASA spacecraft would rendezvous with the Europeans somewhere in the Martian orbit. The project would be carried out in two phases. First, unmanned probes would descend onto the Martian surface and begin construction of a biosphere that could sustain human life. Once complete, the second phase of sending manned missions would begin and then who knows what could be achieved, colonial settlements, a greater understanding of our universe and drive through McDonalds as far as the eye can see. Uncharted and unregulated territory to franchise on. Truly inspirational, who could resist?

British is best?
The call went out across Britain to find a team to build the British probe. Proposals and designs from all corners of the UK where submitted from corporations, laboratories and crackpots alike. The all smiling, bearded one called Branson - made a bid in between challenges for the National Lottery and crashing into the Atlantic in his balloon. The ‘Virgin red devil’ was rejected on the grounds that the woolly jumper heat shield was not very effective. A hastily assembled committee had been cobbled together for the selection process headed by Sir Hilary Damphall. It’s a bizarre thing that male members of the aristocracy and of breeding tend sport girl’s names with some pride. Assisting Sir Hilary was Lord Sandra Wilson and Baron Mandy Annabelle Truelove, a very peculiar bunch.

"Look I know we have some of the best scientific minds in the world working on this but none of these ideas are admissible" said Sir Hilary
"Why not for God’s sake?" asked Baron Mandy, stiffening himself in his seat.
"Because it’s a budget thing. All these ideas cost millions" Sir Hilary replied.
Lord Sandra chipped in with "Of course they do, this is the single most important scientific venture of it’s kind. We are sending these robots thingies to Mars it’s jolly exiting."
"Look Sandra old boy, we are all aware of how prestigious the whole thing is but we just don’t have the loot"
"This is quite unacceptable," announced baron Mandy getting to his feet as if addressing parliament "we have to hold our end of the bargain or else Britain will be disgraced. We must find someone to build us one of these damn space vehicles. Is it not true my Lords that the government has a budget of millions for space exploration?"
"Sit down Mandy - for crying out loud" said Sir Hilary gesturing hand movements to affect his want.
"We do Mandy but it’s just a cover for the House of Lords extra expenses"
"Extra expenses? Like what" replied the Baron
"Well the bloody Naughty Sausage club for one, Mandy, all that high class crumpet costs a bob or two don’t you know. Then there’s the wine cellar, can you imagine the state this country would be in if the entire House of Lords was completely sober all at the same time?. No sir! We are keeping the whole of the south western, wine producing region of France employed and a jolly good thing too."
"Here, here" cheered Lord Sandra raising his glass of port.

The debate continued for most of the afternoon regularly punctuated with sherry breaks. Sir Hilary had been in charge of the Allied research and development department during WWII and was used to dealing with madcap ideas in no win situations. He stood for no nonsense and had a habit of spitting when he ranted. Lord Sandra inherited his title and was a total inbred thicko, with a brain the size of a gerbil’s and testicles to match according to the testimony of Baron Mandy who attended Eaton at the same time. Lord Sandra was what you could describe as a dandy, with a very obvious feminine air to him. Mandy on the other hand was a tall balding man with an eye for the ladies. One eye was all he had for them as the other had been put out in an injury he sustained whilst peeping through the keyhole of the girls dormitory. He always referred to his loss as a war wound but the nearest he’d been to the war was stationed on HMS Sluice; a Naval dredger responsible for monitoring sewer outlets in the Thames estuary on the lookout for German infiltrators.

The three men sat around a thick, highly polished oak table pouring over the myriad of bids to build the British device. One after one they were all rejected, nearly always on cost.
"Sixteen million! not a bloody chance that’s nearly as much as Lord Grantham’s cover-up operations" said Sir Hilary tossing another one aside.
"Cover-up operation?" asked Lord Sandra.
Baron Mandy leant towards his colleague to offer an explanation "Don’t you remember? Lord Grantham, the female zookeeper a Kola bear and those ghastly Gestapo uniforms. After they were caught red handed at midnight in the Panda enclosure it cost millions to keep that one out of the papers. Nearly sparked a diplomatic incident with the Chinese because one of the damn Panda’s was on loan from Hong Kong zoo and the poor bloody thing was traumatised. Almost a third of the Naughty Sausage incident budget was gone in one a flash. Could have been nasty if it got out."
Sir Hillary continued to plough his way through the pile of folders tossing them aside one by one whilst grumbling and swearing.
"Look at this Sandra," said Baron Mandy "forty one million, good lord, it’s outrageous"
"Are these people mad?" said Sandra shaking his head "there must be at least one of these that meets the budget – surely"
"Wait a minute – Hilary, Sandra take a look at this," said Baron Mandy pushing the contents of a folder to the centre of the table. "It’s an odd looking design but the build cost is only £400, I say chaps I think we have a winner" and with that Sir Hilary inked his official ‘Approved’ stamp and slammed it down on the dossier twice; because the first time he’d managed to crush Baron Mandy’s hand which left the unfortunate Baron hopping around the room in some considerable pain. Sir Hilary trumpeted "Sandra, inform the PM we have a winner and then call an ambulance for Mandy there’s a good fellow. Right I’m off for a quickie at the Naughty Sausage Club, care to join me Sandra?"
"Err no thank you Hilary" declined Lord Sandra in visible embarrassment.
"Come on old chap – what’s the matter got no balls for it? What, what!" Sandra’s head bowed as if he’d received a blow with a cricket bat. "Oh yes, sorry forgot about that" said Hilary "Never mind eh! Next time maybe?"
"Maybe!" replied Sandra.
By now Baron Mandy had slumped to the floor and was biting the leg of a chair trying not to scream with the pain. Sir Hilary about faced and promptly marched from the room saying "good day to you Gentlemen" and was then gone. Lord Sandra bent down and stroked Baron Mandy’s head saying, "It’s alright to cry dear Mandy I won’t tell"
The Baron’s face was now scarlet and his eyes bulged from their sockets "Bugger off you wind bag Sandra, it’s a matter of pride - I was in the Royal Navy you know" then continued biting the table leg trying to contain himself and save his pride.

The winner is..
At an annual EU meeting in Strasbourg the Prime Minister had gone on National TV to proudly announce Britain’s technical wizardry would deliver what ever NASA required. "Good people of Britain, through a rigorous selection process and careful consideration the British made …err" He fumbled with his notes for the name of the device before an advisor whispered discreetly in his ear "..Errm Dibnah Lander - will be our splendid contribution to this audacious adventure"
A forest of microphones inched closer to the PM and there was no shortage of inquisitors once he had paused for breath.
"How much will this project cost the tax payer Prime minister?"
"I am reliably informed that the project committee have secured a very competitive rate with the manufacturers"
"There’s speculation that private sponsorship is involved, is it appropriate for such a prestigious venture and should Britain be soiling its good name with the vulgar activity of advertising. What do you say Prime Minister?"
"Erm..errr..NO! The project will be run on clearly defined objectives and the sponsors have been carefully selected"
"But one of the sponsors is Rizzla fag papers and another is Pennine Boiler company don’t you think it’s a little down market Prime Ministers"
The PM was skilfully ushered out of the line of fire from the world press, while the news broke to and unsuspecting couple of northerners.

Back in a little village called Lost-under-Grime just outside Featherstone, a party of sorts, was in full swing in the Golden Lion. Arthur and Ken had been enjoying a game of dominoes when they heard, via a phone call from Lord Sandra Wilson, that their bid to build Britain’s Mars probe had succeeded. "This is a momentous occasion lets push the boat out and celebrate," said Arthur and before you could say ‘two pints of Newcastle Brown,’ Slippery Jack, the pub landlord had laid on polony sandwiches and mini scotch eggs all round.

Arthur and Ken where a couple of enthusiastic inventors who’s sanity was questionable. They sang and danced around the pool table with a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale in their oily hands. "Well bugger me with a fish fork Ken.. I never thought we’d get the job of building that machine," said Arthur puffing on a roll up. Arthur was a retired council mechanic who’d spent his youth in the Royal Navy but had been dishonourably discharged for an embarrassing incident involving a vicar’s daughter; a frog mans suit and a gas mask. Arthur was one of those blokes who had a knack with anything mechanical and he spend most of his time tinkering in his workshop, much to his wife’s satisfaction.
"Me neither Arthur" replied Ken. "Looks like we’re the best of the bunch then mate"
"Don’t be daft lad. It’s because we’re the cheapest. Cheap or not! We’ll get Britain there!" He lifted his jaundiced eyes skyward and raised his brown ale. His slightly greying beard partly obscuring a toothless grin. Ken followed suite adding, "British is best. and cheapest"
"We’ll pick up the materials we need first thing in the morning Ken"
"Down to Smithies scrap yard then eh Arthur?"
"No lad. There’ll be no half measure with this job. Only the best for Britain Ken." With pride in his heart Arthur stood up and in a drinking mans salute, raised his glass aloft and proclaimed "we’re off to B&Q" then took a large swig from his glass and lost his footing on an empty bag of pork scratching’s narrowly missing a couple of pensioners before crumpling between two bars stools. After being helped back onto his feet by Ken and a Hell’s Angel on the way to the toilet, proudly he continued his patriotic rant. "Britain needs us lad. She has called for her finest, her bravest and we shall answer the call. We shall not falter." He took a bite from a polony sandwich and with the remainder jabbed at the air emphasising each point. "Ready, willing and able.." and with the alcohol finally getting the better of him, slumped face down on the bar still clutching the half empty bottle.
"Home time Ken" Said Slippery Jack
"Aye, I’ll phone for a taxi" said Ken - himself worse for the partying, and staggered towards the payphone.

Making history
Ken was a tit! He was one of those train spotter type nerds who always wore a body warmer, even in summer. A multi coloured but filthy woolly hat never left his head.
His only redeeming feature was that he’d made it to the semi finals of Robot Wars and was an undiscovered genius with anything electronic. The only time he’d been employed was as a scraper with a sewage pipe maintenance firm from Huddersfield. He’d been sacked over a dispute regarding overtime. One Friday Ken had been scrapping the main outflow when he got accidentally locked in and spent the whole weekend in the Kirklees sewer system. He was found barely alive on Monday morning by a repair crew who had him rushed straight to hospital. He was immediately transferred to a local carwash where two Asian lads blasted him clean with a high power jet wash - before he was allowed to be admitted back to a ward.

Next day at the crack of dawn the sun was breaking over the horizon and threatening a beautiful day but it was wasted on our two eager beavers as they got down to work in the workshop.
The Launch date was set for July and by April NASA where in the test phase of their £120 million machine. By contrast Ken and Arthur has spend a total of £41.22 and this included another round of Newcastle Brown Ale and some rizzla papers. Most of the mechanical parts had eventually come from a scrap yard, and the reminder of the space exploration budget had gone on buying Arthur’s wife, Doreen a new Dyson Vacuum cleaner. The Dibnah’s electronics had been salvaged from a Coffee Percolator, a fridge and paper shredder.

NASA had sent a payload to each of the probes manufactures with a specification for fitting it. The German device had all the heavy gear to transport whilst the British device had to transport the delicate biomaterial that would create the breathable environment. When it arrived via special consignment at Arthur’s house, the whole project was almost compromised. The US contingent had flown all the way from the Kennedy space centre to a council estate in Lost-under-Grime. A small band of armed Marines leapt from their vehicle and began scanning the immediate vicinity whilst communicating with each other via their headsets. A small balding man in a white smock took a silver case from the car and approached Arthur’s front Door. He pressed the doorbell and was instantly paralysed due to faulty wiring. He screamed and tried to summon help from his assistant "HELP ME!" His hair was beginning to stand on end as the voltage intensified "SHITTTTT!" The door swung open and the torture ended. He collapsed on the floor shaking uncontrollably. Arthur’s wife, Doreen, her hair in curlers and a fag hanging from the corner of her mouth poked her head around the door and asked, "Who the bloody hell are you?"
A man in a dark suit and sunglasses stepped over the casualty flicked his badge towards Doreen and introduced himself "McFay, CIA. Is this the home of Arthur Tidswell?"
"Yes, CIA eh, well slap me silly!" replied Doreen smoothing out the creases in her apron and preening herself. "Come in love". The two men shuffled inside. "Arthur’s out the back I just call him.. ARTHUR" she bellowed. At full volume Doreen’s voice resembled a tank changing gear. In 41 years of marriage to Doreen; Arthur still fell off his chair whenever she shrieked at him. From the lounge a faint curse from the shed could be heard of "fukin hell" followed by the sound of a mug of tea shattering on concrete. Seconds later Arthur emerged, squinting in the sunlight slowly making his way to the kitchen door. "Would you like some tea Gentlemen?" said Doreen respectfully and attempted a denture-less smile. "Err no thank you ma’am," replied McFay. The kitchen door swung open, "WIPE YOUR BLOODY FEET" grated Doreen "I’ve just mopped that floor"
"Nice home you have hear Mrs Tidswell" remarked McFay sarcastically surveying the magnolia woodchip and Argos tat scattered around the room.
"Thank you" She replied "but it is hard work looking after it when you have a clumsy bugger of a husband like Arthur".
"You must be proud of his contribution to the programme," asked the man in the smock, rubbing his wrist, still obviously in pain. Before she could reply Arthur stepped into the room. "Eh up lad I’m Arthur," said Arthur wiping the muck from his hand onto his overalls before offering it to McFay. The two men shook before the man in the smock handed the case to Arthur saying "Mr Tidswell this is the payload for your craft. Be very careful this is real delicate"
"It’s safe with me pal, I’ll stick it in my shed"
"Do you have a secure environment Mr Tidswell, is it well guarded?"
"Too right lad. It’ll be guarded night and day by Churchill"

Satisfied they had done their job the two men left. The man in the smock turned to McFay as they got in their car "What’s Churchill? Is it some kind of limey high tech security system?"
"Probably, I’ve never heard of it must be real top secret stuff." McFay replied "you’ve gotta hand it to the Brits. Hiding away such an important project in this ordinary looking location is a brilliant stroke. Who the hell would think of looking in this dump"?
"Yeah and all the trouble they’ve gone to. Jees that gal is a brilliant actress; she must have to go through hours of make up each morning to look that ugly. Those limey’s are pros – real pros"

Arthur hurried straight back to his shed. "Eh up Ken it’s here" as he dropped the case onto the workbench. "Is it the bio pack Arthur" Ken asked
"That it is lad" and he slowly lifted the lid of the case to reveal a package completely covered in a heat resistant silver foil about 5inches by 5 inches square. "Can we open it?" asked Ken. "No lad that’s strictly out of the question. If it’s opened it’ll be contaminated and the whole mission will be a failure. Who knows what marvels are inside but it’s the seeds of new life of a new planet"
"Amazing" said Ken, his eyes widening behind his spectacles.
"Better keep it out of Churchill’s way Arthur" Ken warned
"Aye that greedy sod will scoff anything, won’t you lad," said Arthur patting his faithful hound on the head. Churchill had been with Arthur since he was a pup. He was a replacement for an eleven stone Doberman Pinscher that Doreen had strangled to death with her bare hands for shitting on her sheepskin rug one Christmas eve. Arthur had never quite gotten over the full horror of witnessing a ferocious animal being so easily despatched by his wife. With arms like a hod carrier, she soon made short work of the unfortunate creature. Arthur had sulked in the shed all that Christmas holiday without a single word being uttered between them. It was only on Hogmanay that Doreen’s guilt got the better of her and she held out an olive branch in the form of a his favourite Christmas treat, a mince pie with lumpy custard. Doreen’s custard was the sort you could only get at a builders merchants, it had more lumps than the pebble dashing on their corporation house and was more hard wearing. They made up and Arthur was allowed a replacement but on condition it didn’t set foot in the house. Arthur was happy with the arrangement and so Churchill’s home was Arthur’s shed. He slept on a pile of sacking that he shared with his fleas. Although he had mange, he was a happy little mongrel with a peculiar squint and a lame walk.

It was Ken’s idea to name their creation after their idol, Fred Dibnah, the retired steeplejack turned TV presenter who had a passion for renovating knackered old machinery. Inspired by Fred the two would-be inventors had finished the building of the Dibnah Lander far ahead of schedule. One week before blastoff Ken and Arthur appeared on radio Pontefract to regale its listener, with how they built the craft. To everyone’s amazement the station thought they’d started it’s first phone in but it turned out to be a cross line between a Catholic bishop and an Anne Summers telesales centre.

Touchdown
It was a calm summer evening when the French made rocket blasted off from an undisclosed location in the French Alps, on board was the German made KleinWurst and the Dibnah Lander. It was a bad omen that the take off ignited the worst European forest fire in living memory, gradually spreading into Switzerland and forcing Deep Purple out of retirement to re-release ‘Smoke on the Water’. The long boring journey to Mars began and the world soon forgot about the project until on Christmas eve the NASA, German and British probes rendezvoused and began their treacherous decent together. It had been a nail biting moment during the most critical phase of the mission waiting for the call sign from each probe. First the NASA probe’s American National anthem could be heard. This was the signal that it had landed ok. Then the KleinWurst broadcast Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 5. All was going according to plan but the British made Dibnah Lander’s call sign was two minutes overdue and panic set in at mission control. The static that hissed from the control monitors was as baron as the Martian landscape itself. Had the Dibnah crashed? Had it disintegrated in the dusty Martian atmosphere? They waited – static - more static. Tension mounted, technicians scanned their instruments but there was nothing until a flicker, something was coming through, yes there it was - the unmistakeable call sign of the Dibnah Lander. The ‘Match of the Day’ theme tune was being beamed live from Mars, we’d done it! Britain was on Mars.

Once mission control in Huston had verified all was well the construction phase could begin. Live pictures where beamed back to earth and the unmistakeable advertising logos of corporate sponsors could clearly be seen on the side of the Dibnah Lander. "Roll up to Mars with RIZZLA" and "Stay warm this winter with the Pennine Boiler Co" The NASA device and the KleinWurst worked feverishly to built the biosphere that would be the future home of colonists. Meanwhile the Dibnah was carrying out vital onboard experiments like: would the pilot light on the Mark IV boiler stay lit in the Martian atmosphere and what happens to putty in a low gravity environment. Meanwhile the construction took shape. The KleinWurst manoeuvring components into position for the NASA probe to assemble. Eventually the structure was complete and the all-important introduction of the bio-pack was ready to begin. The seeds of life on a new world would generate food and a breathable atmosphere inside the fragile shelter. The Dibnah was rolled into position inside a hi-tech greenhouse. Mission control announced to a waiting world that the final crowning moment was here.
"Featherstone we are ready to initiate the bio pack" came a voice from mission control.
"All’s well here shall we begin" said a nervous Ken in front of his console at Featherstone mission control.
"That’s a go Featherstone"
Ken sent the command sequence to the Dibnah to unload its cargo. For the last time, the world watched eagerly for the momentous occasion to begin. The Dibnah’s robotic arm fashioned from boot of a Fiat Panda swung in on itself and extracted the cassette holding the bio-pack. With all the dexterity of an epileptic camel the foil was peeled back layer by layer.
"Featherstone to Huston we are nearing the final layer"
"Good work Featherstone, we can begin dispersal of the organic compounds open the last layer now."
"Will do" said Ken and dutifully pulled back the last layer of foil to a gasp.
"What the hell is that!" came a cry from across the airwaves.
"Oh shit!" said Ken. Arthur’s eyes rolled up and back in his head. "That’s buggered it Ken lad – better leg it," he said.
"What the fuck is that!" screamed an alarmed NASA controller. "Get a close up"
Mission control in Huston directed a camera to zoom in on the contents of the bio-pack and there it was, in front of a worldwide audience, not the culmination of years of refining a biological miracle but a terribly ordinary pack-up belonging to Ken. A potted meat sandwich, a sausage roll and a pickled egg. "So that’s where it went," blurted Ken. "..and I blamed Churchill for nabbing it, bugger me!"
"Jesus H Christ I don’t believe it, years of planning down the can" sobbed the controller.

Arthur and Ken beat a hasty exit from Featherstone mission control and hopped into a taxi and headed to the Golden Lion. Once in the taproom with a pint of Newcastle Brown Ale and a pork pie they watch the CNN news report of the spectacular failure of the Mars mission.
"What now Arthur?" asked Ken
"Fancy a game of Dominoes?"
"Why not!"