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In Revealing ze secretz of ze netherworld, I am risking my reputation of Greatnesz,
but I azzure thee, that ze Grosjean will forever fight for truth and stand for honour in
diz pantheon of liez and corporate conspiracy!

Unveiled!

In a living room, not far from here, which is stocked with a wealth and plethora of trophiez,
each an individual emblem of mammoth and immortalizing succezz… sitz Tim Henman,
sipping hiz blackcurrant juice and perouzing ze morning newspaper.

“Tim, have you polished my cookery and sewing trophies like I told you to?” comes ze
call from ze kitchen where hiz mother washes ze dishes.

“No, mom. And I told you not to use the ‘T’ word.”

He flipz through ze sportz pagez, and nodz disapprovingly, espying yet another derogatory
and disparaging headline about hiz failurez in a grandslam.

Then, he noticez another feature, which detailz ze eye-witnezz accountz and numerous
sightingz around ze town of a mysterious unknown masked crusader.

“Ha! Unknown to some!” he observez wryly, tossing ze tabloid upon ze table, while reclining
and lighting a cigar.

Suddenly hiz mother rushez from ze kitchen.

“Give me that cigar! And how many times have I told you to keep your feet off the furniture!
You're being a very naughty boy today mister Tim Henman!”

She clipz him round ze ear.

“OW! Mom!”

“You know what you get for being a naughty boy! And look! You've spilt your blackcurrant
juice all over your clean white shirt!”

“That’s okay. I've got Daz.”

He pickz up a carton of Daz which was conveniently situated nearby, and looks off into ze distance.

“Daz. The only detergent for those hard to erase stains!”

He winkz, he smilez and hiz teeth glisten.

Suddenly, ze phone ringz, giving off itz red flashing glow. He liftz ze receiver.

“Henman here.”

“Henman, it’s Sue Barker from headquarters. I've just got a report of a damsel
in distress, desperately in need of a superhero, and since all the good ones
are busy-Wonderwoman's getting a breast reduction, because of her newfound
feminist beliefs, -Batman and Robin are coming out of the closet (like anyone
one was fooled) and Superman has gone to a seminar on Nietzche (I didn't have
the heart to tell him), you're the only one available. Please Tim, you've never let
me down before- outside of Centre and Number 1 court I mean- I'm really
in a pickle here.”

“Holy Jumpin' Jack flash Sue! Of course I'll help! Where is this unfortunate maiden?”

“123 Fake street. And Tim…”

“Yes Sue?”

“Be careful.”

Tim slamz down ze reciever and rushez to hiz Hencoup.

He goez to ze closet and pullz out hiz pride and joy! Hiz costume of chivalry!
Hiz garb of grandness! Hiz attire of illustriousnezz! Hiz garment of heroism
and goodly deedz!

Yez, you guezzed it. Hiz hensuit.

“Oh! If only the world knew of my bravery! No longer would they mock! No longer would
they jeer and sneer! No longer would my name be a byword for failure! No longer this
sadness, no longer this pain!”

There comez a knock on ze door.

“Tim, who are you talking to in there? I hope you're not practicing your Wimbledon
winner acceptance speech again.”

“No dad.”

He donz hiz hensuit quickly, beak and all.

“Beware foul villains! And masterminds of crime! To the Henmobile!”

He motionz to ze door, but before he getz there, in walkz hiz mother.

“Now, Tim, I've made you some sandwiches. Peanut butter. Your favour…”

She stops; mouth agape.

“Mom...I can explain.”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s a, a, a, fancy dress! That’s it! A tennis fancy dress party!”

“And you’re going as a hen?”

“Yes. It’s going to be super mum. Capriati’s going as a beaver, Davenport as a British
bulldog, Robby Ginepri as Mr.Blobby and Elena Baltacha as a successful tennis player.”

“Ok then Timmy. Well off you go, but make sure you’re back by ten for tucking in time.
I’ve got a scary story to tell you tonight about three pigs and a big bad wolf!”

“Ok mom.”

Henman dashez to ze Henmobile (which is actually a mini convertible with a hens head
on ze bonnet, a tail on ze back, and feathery doors, supposed to resemble wingz) and
once inside, callz hiz trusty sidekick, farmer Lucy. (Since Tim iz a hen you understand.
There was considerable debate between ze two as to what a henz sidekick should be,
Tim had argued ze point for hourz zat Lucy should drezz az an egg, but Lucy objected
on ze groundz zat diz would imply that she had emerged from an orifice none too
pleasant, and finally after much heated dispute, a compromise waz reached,
and ze farmer moniker agreed.)

“Lucy?”

“Yes Tim?”

“It’s go time.”

“Not now Tim. I’ve got a terrible headache.”

“No. Not THAT. I mean it’s time to kick some villain ass!”


“Oh. Okay. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

“What about your headache?”

“It’s suddenly cleared up.”

Five minutez later, Lucy iz seated in ze passenger seat and ze Henmobile
hitz ze dirtiest, meanest, roughest, gangster laden, scumbag ridden,
hoodlum infested streetz of... Oxford.

Soon though, some unrest creepz into ze harmonious relationship of our twin heroes.

“You’re lost again aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes you are. This happens every time. Why won’t you let me drive?”

“Cause I’m Henman! You never saw Robin driving Batmans car! Damn it woman,
hold the map still!”

“Why not just ask for directions?”

“I don’t need directions! It’s just around this corner!”

Five hourz later…

“Here it is!”

Our heroes have stopped at ze curb in a desolated back alley. In front of zem iz
an ominous, foreboding warehouse, decrepit and worn down. A whistling wind
blowz and a threadbare shutter bouncez from ze wall, itz haunting echo ze only
lonely sound in diz otherwise mute, deserted, bloodcurdling scene.

“Lucy,” beginz Henman, aware of ze strange underlying evil, seemingly unspoken,
that lingerz ‘ere, “I’m taking a risk even bringing you on this mission. To bring you
even further, into this rotten warehouse where all manner of evil may lurk; why, it
would be to denounce what every knight in shining armour has stood for since the
dawn of time. To undermine the code of chivalry! To allow a defenceless maiden,
a frail wench, to trod this terrain! Nay, I won’t allow it. This is ultra dangerous.
Stay here, Lucy, stay here. This is a man’s domain. Yes, a man’s domain!
Ha! Some would even say…a Henman’s domain!”

Henman bargez ze door of ze warehouse with hiz shoulder.

“Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! My freaking shoulder!”

He fallz onto ze ground and rollz around, in tearz.

“My shoulder! My shoulder! Mummy! Mummy! My serve! My serve! It’ll be nullified!”

“Tim, you’ve never had a serve.”

“Good point.”

Lucy turnz ze knob of ze door.

“Voila!”

“Good work farmer Lucy. It seems my superhero strength detached the knob
from the hinges somehow.”

“It’s not the only knob I’d like detached.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Into ze dark warehouse our heroes venture, cautious and posing like “Charlie’s Angels”.

Ze figure of a man can be made out in ze gloom, silhouetted, against ze remnantz
of daylight, slinking in through ze high warehouse windowz in ze background.
He appearz to be stroking a black cat.

“Ah mister Henman! I’ve been expecting you…although admittedly five hours earlier!
What took you so long!?” sayz ze mysterious form, angrily.

“I was, ahem,” he adjustz hiz hen suit collar, “stuck in traffic.”

Lucy throwz her eyez heavenward.

“Well you could have called! I’ve missed Emmerdale and everything!”

“Sorry.”

“No matter, no matter. The important thing is you’re here now. And the damsel is
still alive. For though I could have just killed her five hours ago with a swift blow to
the head with a blunt object, I’ve chosen instead to ignore the entire history of super
villains and their downfalls since the beginning of the known universe, and concocted
an over elaborate scheme which will give her a much better chance of being rescued,
and myself a slimmer hope of evading capture, but overall will provide much more
suspense for the reader and give much more liberty to the writer of this ridiculous
sketch.”

“That is fortunate for me isn’t it?”

”Indeed. Anyway, here she is…”

Ze super villain flickz a switch which operatez a spotlight nearby, and once
our heroes have accustomed their eyes to ze glare, they behold ze most
awful thing imaginable…

There, from a rope attached to ze ceiling, draped in a Union Jack flag and with a
preposterous Union Jack hat upon her head, danglez a plump, bored, middle-aged
housewife, scared out of her witz.

“Come on Tim!” she shoutz naively. (Haven’t yearz of disappointment knocked a bit
of sense in to her?”, you ask. And ze unfortunate reply iz “No, shez STILL deluded.” )

“You monster!”

Ze villain cacklez.

“Have you seen what she’s above mister Henman?”

Ze villain flickz another switch and alightz a large bowl right below ze damsel.
It consistz of ze most disgusting, vile, nauseating, alarming liquid known to man.
A liquid that haz been ze cause of numerous deathz and panic attackz. A liquid
that with just one tiny sip or drop could defeat ze noblest warrior, send him to hiz
kneez, and to ze darkest abyss eternally.

Sewage? Nay.
Nuclear waste? Nay.
Acid? Worse monsewerz…

Beetroot Juice!

“Why you…”

Henman chargez.

“No Tim, ” placatez Lucy, “he could have a gun. Who are you anyway?
Unveil yourself coward!”

Ze villain standz up and emergez from ze shadowz, (although notably without a cat,
which suggestz he waz stroking something different entirely, but letz not speculate,
for good tastes sake.)

Henman and Lucy gaze upon hiz face…
 
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