Chapter Fifteen
The Council of Elvis

“We are come to the Council of Elvis Halfwit”, announced Dumbledalf.
“Come in, come in!”, said Elvis, in a warm English accent. Hapless looked at him keenly. The quiff was gone, so were the sideburns, and the hair was nearly white. He was not fat or dressed extravagantly, but he was old now. There is no true beauty without decay.

“Ah!”, he said in response to their looks, patting the chair, “This is just a memento of those times. All that stuff you think you know was merely there to raise funds for the work of the Brethren. I admit there was a slight reluctance about leaving the stage, but all good things come to an end, eh?”. He looked at them solemnly. “It is, the most devastating moment in a young man’s life, when he quite reasonably says to himself. “I shall never play Buckingham Palace!” It is at that moment that all ambition ceases to exist”. He paused for a few moments. “Of course”, he said, bringing himself back to the present, “I’ve retained a few comforts, but I’m the same now as I ever was, really, you know.”
“But….” started Hapless.
“I will allow only one ‘but’.” interrupted Dumbledalf.
“What about the burgers and the early death?” asked Hapless.
“That was all a fix of course.” replied Elvis, biting off a piece of raw carrot. “Autumn King, you know. Very good. We used Elvis impersonators quite a bit, to deal with the press and TV appearances, and when one of them got too big for his boots, we let him. It was a stroke of luck for us that he had a penchant for fast foods, though he paid the price in the end, poor fellow. The man cost me $40,000 a year on his own, and he spent most of his time bored stiff or on the golf course.”
“But ….”, said Hapless again.
“Ah ah!”, interrupted Dumbledalf sharply.
“But …”, said Ro.
“Sorry”, said Dumbledalf, “You’ve had your buts”.
“But that was Hapless’s but”, complained Ro. “That’s not fair. I wanted a but”. Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Dumbledalf gave her a look that closed her mouth before uttering a word. Poppins and Ro sat down but Ro continued muttering.
“I want to know why he sounds like he’s English!”, he said to Poppins dejectedly. Dumbledalf glared at him.
“Good manners are the bedrock of society Professor”, said Mary. Dumbledalf glared at her too.

Elvis sat up in his chair purposefully, “Anyway, to business. First let me introduce my other guests, who have come to Hogsendell for council”, said Elvis. “Some have travelled great distances in both space and time, and were unexpected, but are here well met” he added.
Hapless looked at Ro and Ro looked at Hapless, then they both looked at Mary and Poppins. Dumbledalf shrugged his shoulders and gave them a look that said, ‘Just be patient’.

Elvis stood up. After clearing his throat and adjusting his dentists tunic, he continued. “Let me first welcome McGonagall, who will read poetry and play the ukulele. To his right is General MacArthur on bass, and to his left, John Pilger on bongos. Next to him, please welcome Fanny Craddock on cymbals, and lastly on this side, Joan Bakewell on kit drums.” As Joan’s riff subsided, the friends became aware of a growing sound of a swing rhythm beginning to fill the room, and Hapless found himself joining in. “Doop, doo doo doooodoop”.
Elvis continued, “Please welcome William Hague on vibes.” Doop, doo doo doooodoop. “Hmmmm, great tone Bill! And Tony Blair!??, who is … just… a ….. vacuous fraud. OK does anyone know what he’s doing here?”. He turned to him sharply, “On your knees Satan”, he said, and slapped him hard around the ear with a piece of tripe he had bought at the market. A cheer ensued. “Take that your fucking holiness Monsignor fucking Blah”, he said and, blissfully forgetting that the cunt had ever existed, he moved on. Doop, doo doo doooodoop.
“Now we have the Two Hairy Bikers and the Two Fat Ladies, who together comprise the brass section. Ouch! that hurts!” Doop, doo doo doooodoop. “On violin, bass guitar, rhythm guitar, wild and unreasonable guitar, drums and karate dancing, here we have Tick. How do you do that Tick?” Doop, doo doo doooodoop. “On saxophone, please show your appreciation for Thrakkarzog, all the way from Dimension 13b. What sensational lips, Thrakkarbaby. On dual acoustic guitars, please welcome Enid Blyton and Cave Girl Barbie!” Doop, doo doo doooodoop. Behind one of the guitars was a mass of tangled blonde hair. Two bare feet stuck out below, and next to them a bag of chisels and saws could be seen on the floor. Cave Girl Barbie glared at Elvis.
“She doesn’t like being called Barbie”, he said to them conspiratorially, but I can’t resist!”, he giggled. He turned to the room.
“Please show your appreciation for Jeremy Bentham, doing the wild dancing and hand claps, and finally … Brian Sewell on tubular bells!”. Doop, doo doo doooodoop. Music filled the room and filled all of their senses for some minutes before gradually fading away.

“That was great!”, said Ro.
“Yes, it certainly gets the old blood going, doesn’t it? replied Hapless.
“Yeah! I feel sort of enthused, so that I could do something daring”, said Ro. They looked at Mary Poppins, who was wearing that ‘impish’ expression again. She pressed something into Hapless’s hands, blushing slightly. He looked down. It was a pair of knickers, still warm. There was an awkward silence, during which it became obvious that that they were alone. There was a banging noise coming from the next room, and the sound of wood being planed. They went in to find that Cave Girl Barbie had quickly knocked up some stocks, and had already carved ELVI on the top of the frame. Agape, they wandered into an adjacent room that contained paintings, arm chairs and rich furnishings, beyond which was a far door that looked as if it led to some sort of conservatory or atrium. Looking askance, they ventured through, and found the group assembled around a table. Elvis was seated, and his expression was sober.
“Ah, here you are”, he said, motioning them to some empty seats.

“Now we are all met, and we must come to the solemn business in hand.” he said, shuffling some papers. Lowering some spectacles from his forehead, he read, “What are we to do about Jeremy Paxman?” His expression faltered. “er.. I beg your pardon. These appear to be the minutes of the last meeting.

“Ah yes!, Ah no!, I’ve er .... erm ... I’m supposed to ... er ... read these out and get approval I believe?”, asked Elvis, looking expectantly at the female cooks, who had a soft spot for the old fellow.
“We did that this morning, before the break, Elvis dear”, said Clarissa Dickson-Wright, and she handed him the most delicious-looking piece of cold game pie. He looked up at her excitedly, “Yes, quite right. I think I’m getting a little too old for all this detail. Oh dear..”. He looked around the room at a dozen sympathetic faces. “What shall I do?” he asked, plaintively. Ah! let me see, er, can anyone help?”
Dumbledore leaned over and whispered something in Elvis’s ear.
“Ah yes”, said Elvis, beaming his appreciation to Dumbledalf, “I resign!”. He got up, put on a pair of glasses and a false beard, and left. There was an abrupt silence in the room, as his footsteps were heard descending the stairs. Shortly thereafter, the front door was heard to slam. There was a slight waxy smell. It was Fanny Craddock who spoke, as she watched the figure crunch across the gravel of the drive below.
“Elvis has left!”. The building seemed somehow emptier without him. Those at the table shuffled papers and tried to look unruffled.

“Well, let’s get down to it”, continued Dumbledalf, “We have discovered that Vol-au-vent has developed a new and powerful field generator and transmitter, cunningly wrought into a sculpture in the shape of a whore’s crutch, and this is the thing that drives the emitter remotely, and from a great range. With it, he can carry a very small torus unnoticed. We believe now, however, that he has constructed a new torus that is of very great power, but still small enough to conceal easily. That is because the entire generator is contained in the whore’s crutch thingamybobberoony, and this means that only the emitter needs to be carried around. In consequence of this, if he switches it on, it will power his own torus, and also the one he made years earlier, giving the bearer of the doughnut ultimate power over people’s minds”.
“Cor!”, exclaimed McGonagall.
“‘Cor’ is hardly the response I was hoping for”, said Dumbledalf, wearily.
“Now look here!”, shouted MacArthur, with a commanding and powerful voice. “The military should take control of this device”, he said. “It cannot be entrusted to civilians”.
“You two! Out!”, commanded Dumbledalf. “The machine will be destroyed. We are not going to try and use it! Go!”
With surly faces, the two men shuffled off, glaring at everyone in turn. When they had gone out of the door, and were on the landing, they turned back for a parting shot.
“Faggots!”, yelled MacArthur.
“You eat shit!”, shouted McGonagall, and the pair ran off, giggling. Dumbledalf continued.
“We must seize or destroy that generator and any new torus that Vol-au-vent has constructed, and also, we must destroy the one we have: Vol-au-vent’s doughnut”, he said.
“Ye Gads!”, exclaimed Tick. “Let me have it!. I’ll show Vol-au-vent’s villains the difference between right and wrong! Where is this fiendish mechanism?”. He went back to his X-Box.
“Hapless, bring forth the doughnut!”, said Dumbledalf, in a deep and masterful tone.
Hapless looked embarrassed, but there was no escape. He hoisted it up for all to see.
“Are we all agreed?”, continued Dumbledalf.
“Agreed”, chimed a chorus of voices.
“Well”, smiled Dumbledalf, “Off you go Hapless and chums, now we can bring this meeting to a close”.
“But …” whimpered Hapless. Dumbledalf ignored him.
“What? …”, began Tick, but he was responding to what he felt was an unjustly lost life on Level Seven.

A tall, lean, rakish sort of man, with rather wild looking hair, who had not previously been introduced, stood up suddenly. In his dark eyes was kindled a flame of solid will, either that or it was a reflection, or he had been taking some dubious substance. Dumbledalf stood up and, turning towards him, looked at him gravely.

“This is Hagrigorn”, he said to the assembled council. “By rights and by virtue, he should be the next Vice Chancellor of the University of Middle England. Speak now, Hagrigorn, you son of a gun”, and he grabbed his cheek and wobbled it. Hagrigorn looked at him, surprised, then turned to speak. A blade glinted as it was unsheathed; but it was a blade broken and shivered, snapped too.
“I’m frightfully afraid that I’ve rather broken my penknife; look!”, he blurted, haltingly, showing it to the room. “It wouldn’t matter really I suppose but I have this beastly splinter in my finger and I’m afraid it’ll go all septic and swell up painfully”. He held up a finger to the council with a plaintive and frankly sickening look that reminded Hapless of the revolting, hurt puppy dog, bottom lip face of the late Princess ‘Tosser-Shagger’ Dinah. “It’s right in the corner, by the quick, adjacent to the nail, and I’m dreadfully afraid it will be awfully painful to remove”.
“I’ll do it”, said Enid, eagerly, brandishing a large kitchen knife and stone, “I’m good at splinters”, she added, as she whetted the blade eagerly. Hagrigorn looked doubtful, and Clarissa and Fanny gave her dirty looks. Enid thumbed the blade to test its edge.
“I can’t look”, squeaked Hagrigorn. “I’m very sensitive. As a youth, I used to weep during documentaries on surgery”. “Oh for gawd’s sake, let’s go for a friggin ale!”, ejaculated Brian Sewell, “You can get one o’ those badges old Alginon sells, and get the bloody thing out with the pin”.