Tommy’s mother was dead. Recently dead. Very recently. She had passed away during the night after another exciting evening of “Strictly Come Dancing”, “Coronation Street” and her usual bottle of knock-off gin. Now she was laid out in the back room of the chalet, stiff as a board. But her son was not pole-axed with grief at her sudden demise: nor indeed was his wife Angela. No, far from it, both were too busy sitting round the living-room table puzzling how exactly they were going to dispose of the corpse.

-No, Ange, we can’t just dump ‘er in the bin. Someone will find ‘er, that’s for sure, and then we’ll ‘ave to face the Spanish bizzies. No, we’ll ‘ave to be cleverer than that. I’m beginning to wish we ‘adn’t brought ‘er ‘ere in the van in the first place.

-Well don’t blame me, Tommy Mitchell. It was your idea, wasn’t it, to bring ‘er ‘ere with no passport or nuffin’ just to get away from a shitey shopliftin’ charge.

-But, Ange. I really thought she’d be sent down this time if she went to court. Remember, she did break the security guard’s nose with that frozen chicken she whipped out from under ‘er ‘oodie. They were going to do ‘er for GBH!

-I still can’t believe, Tommy Mitchell, that you put your own mother, your own flesh and blood, under the bench seat of a caravan and drove ‘er all the way from Elsmere Port to bleedin’ France without lettin’ ‘er out for a pee or nuffin’. That’s cruelty that is! And now look at ‘er. Stone dead, that’s what she is, and ‘oose fault is that now? I’ll tell you ‘oose fault that is, I will. It’s your fault, Tommy Mitchell, that’s ‘oose it is. You’ve killed your own mother!

-Now that’s not fair it’s not, Ange. You knew as well as I did that she’d eventually drink ‘erself to death, so you did. It was only a matter of time. I just didn’t think it would ‘appen out ‘ere in Spain. Now we ‘ave a illegal alien to get rid of, so we do. ‘ow are we gonna do that then, tell me? Go ‘ead, tell me then!

-Hey, listen ‘ere, soft lad! Don’t you go expectin’ me to get you out of this mess. You brought ‘er ‘ere, now you get rid of ‘er! And you better do it pronto, amigo, cos I swear on me own mother’s life, that old cow is startin’ to stink!

-You never liked my mother in the first place, did you? I know she ‘ad ‘er faults, I know she liked a drop of gin, I know you didn’t like ‘er shopliftin’, at least you didn’t like ‘er getting caught shopliftin’.

-Look ‘ere, Tommy Mitchell. You just get that corpse out of our chalet, and I mean today, or I swear I’ll take a axe to ‘er so I will.

-Alright, alright. Keep your ‘air on! I ‘ave an idea of what I can do anyway. Where’s the key to the Suzuki?

-Where’s the key to the Suzuki? Are you stark ravin’ bonkers, soft lad? I suppose you’re goin’ to sit ‘er on the back and take ‘er for a spin!

-Actually, Ange, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do!

True to his word, Tommy slunk through to the increasingly whiffy back bedroom and proceeded to force his mother’s corpse into a set of leathers which he tightened up as best he could to cover the entire body. After slipping the deceased woman into a pair of biker boots and covering her head with his favourite tinted visor helmet, he finished the masquerade with a pair of leather gloves which he craftily joined together at the wrists with a belt. Mum was ready to go for her first and last ride on the Suzuki!

To get her on the bike, Tommy first backed it all the way to the bottom of the decking stairs. With Angie’s help, his mother was then carried quickly out of the chalet and placed astride the motorbike supported until Tommy took his position in front and slipped the joined arms of his inert parent over his head, past his shoulders and finally round his waist. Meanwhile, Angie did as requested and attached her ankles to each side of the bike using a couple of nylon ties and then used a third to secure the front of her mother-in-law’s helmet to the back of her husband’s leather jacket.

Tommy checked all was well by edging forward on the bike and both were relieved when mother clung on diligently and appeared to all intents and purposes to be simply holding on as any pillion passenger would. Angie waved them off with a final warning that this was Tommy’s idea and she would have nothing to do with it if they were found out. As he expected nothing better from his fiery partner, Tommy accelerated away up and out of the campsite turning sharp right at the exit and heading out over the flat, rough terrain in the direction of the hills to the north of the town.

Two hours later he returned alone to announce that his mother had been laid to rest 30 metres down at the bottom of the reservoir set in the foothills, firmly ensconced below with the help of a bag full of stones tied around her neck!

-Did nobody see you, then? Are you sure? What if somebody did? What if the old cow floats back up?

-Of course nobody saw me, you pillock! I was careful, wasn’t I? I was only throwing me dead mother into a Spanish reservoir after all, wasn’t I? Why would I not want anyone to see that? Christ! I could’ve sold tickets, couldn’t I? Angie, gimme a break, will you?

-So you ‘ad no bother getting’ rid of ‘er then?

-Well, once I’d actually got ‘er detached from me flamin’ jacket, that is! Do you know ‘ow strong those nylon ties are? I ‘ad to lift ‘er arms over me ‘ead and unzip me own jacket to escape! Then I ‘ad to bite the bloody ties off ‘er ankles and that wasn’t easy with ‘er leanin’ all ‘er 20 stone over on top of me. But once I’d lifted ‘er onto the wall and tied the Mercadona bag full of rocks around ‘er neck, she was ready for the off. I just ‘ad to pull the leathers off ‘er, give ‘er a farewell kiss and tip ‘er over. She sank like a bleedin’ stone so she did! Oh but I did keep ‘er teeth as a sort of souvenir like. ‘Ere, stick them in the bedside drawer will you?

-Oh you really are disgustin’ Tommy Mitchell. Imagine takin’ a woman’s teeth out and keepin’ them for yourself. ‘Ow could you? You’ll go to ‘ell for that so you will.

-And I suppose I won’t go to ‘ell for sendin’ me mother to the bottom of a Spanish reservoir, will I?

-That’s not the point is it? A woman’s teeth is a personal thing so it is. It’s ‘er dignity what counts. She may be dead but she still ‘as feelings, ‘asn’t she?

-Well actually, Ange………….