'Has this story started yet?', Sherlock Holmes asked his colleague Dr. Watson, 'and if so what's for breakfast?' 'Yes, Holmes it has, but this morning we're having sauteed kippers in a hollandaise sauce with just that frisson of lime zest that makes all the difference.' 'Just peanut butter and toast for me and a pint of strong tea', Holmes said, and picked up The Daily Maily to read.
'Why, it's Hallowe'en tonight, Holmes, thank heavens we're not in America, where they take such frivolous and downright pagan nonsense seriously!' 'They're the people that have alcoholic monkeys for Presidents', Holmes reminded the doctor, 'so what do you expect? I think a nice quiet evening in at Baker Street with some Radiohead and Pink Floyd on the gramophone will suit us, what?' 'It certainly will', and the two continued eating and reading in silence, when there came a knock on the front door.
'Answer that will you, Mrs. O'Bampot? I expect it's the milkman come for his money', but then a dreadful scream came from that fine housekeeper, and Holmes and Watson ran to see what had happened to her.
'Mrs. O'Bampot, whatever is the matter?', Dr. Watson asked her, for she was fanning her white face with a fan she had stolen last week from the Royal Museum of Fans in Fanley. 'I - I -I -', she stuttered, and Watson slapped her hard in the face. 'Pull yourself together, woman!', he shouted, and then Sherlock Holmes slapped her again. 'Come on, you silly woman!', he yelled, and the milkman who had now arrived then whacked her with his receipts book.
'We haven't got all day!', he shouted, and then three street urchins, a chimney sweep, four postmen and the Band of the 3rd. Regiment the Royal Scots Blaggards all queued up at the door to take turns slapping Mrs. O'Bampot and shouting at her, and at last she revived and was herself again.
'It was those bad boys from Baker Street Lane', she told them, as the soldiers packed away their brass band instruments they had been polishing up on Mrs. O'Bampot's dress, 'they all had horrible plastic teeth and shouted 'Silly old moo!', and demanded sixpence each from me!'
'What! The young scallywags!', Watson said, and 'Blasted ne'er do wells!', added Holmes. 'Dashed street urchins!', came from a chimney sweep, and the Band of the 3rd. Regiment of Royal Scots Blaggards played 'Young Hooligans Who Should Know Better' on their trumpets and accordions and banjos. 'Come, Watson', Holmes said, 'to Baker Street Lane!', and the pair left the house, but promptly got lost in the impenetrible fog that suddenly descended on them.
'Where are we?'. Watson said, and 'London' came Holmes's reply, when suddenly the fog lifted and they found they had wandered into France by mistake along Olde Dr. Channel's Oak Smoked English Tunnel. 'Most amusing, Watson, we are back once more in the land of the garlic-eating tractor drivers! Come, let us find a crime to solve', and they walked along the banks of the River Insane in Paris.
'Arretez le thief!' came a sudden cry from an onion seller with a stripy red and white t-shirt, and pausing merely to tell the man his t-shirt should be blue and white, Holmes and Watson began chasing the thief along the rue de la Kangaroo, and then down the Place de la Plaice et Chips, but the thief was getting away from them.
As they passed into the Boulevard des McDonald's it looked hopeless, and at les jardins de fils du square de la Madi they had to give it up. 'Curses!', cursed Dr. Watson, 'nearly caught the blighter at the corner of the rue de Collaborateurs!' 'Too bad, Watson, but see, the thief has dropped this piece of paper on le pavement', and the sleuth picked it up off le ground', and on it was written:
'Le Curse est followe. Si votre pays fait le sellout a l'Americaine culture, a la McDonald's en le Louvre, et les beaucoup des mots qui sont Americaines et Anglais, puis vraiment la pays est fini, elle est pain bruin, est aussi elle pousse sous les daisies. Defense des tricks et des treats sur la jour de la trentieme-et-un d'Octobre.'
'What does it mean, Holmes?' 'No idea Watson, but let us return to London on le hovercraft, then take le train to Waterloo and le taxi to Baker Street, and they did, and soon they were settling down to an afternoon tea of cocaine-laced digestive biscuits and Darjeeling tea with milk added, when there was another knock at the door.
'I'd better get that', Watson said, 'in case we have any more of those ridiculous hysterics from Mrs. O'Bampot!', and he went to open the door. On the doorstep were two ten year-old youths with cheap Asda's own brand crap masks, and they shouted 'Trick or treat!' together, and put out expectant hands for some money.
'Clear off, you pie-faced little bastards!'. Watson angrily shouted at them, and then booted them down Baker Street to the end of the road, 'and don't come back, you parasitical wee gits!', and everything was back to normal in West Central London.