And I gazed upon these golden people and considered that perhaps now my luck was in and that if things worked out, they could very well soon be my golden people.

And I recalled, well enough, that the name George Formby became, by anagram, Orgy of Begrem, so things were looking up. And they might work out.

But what, I did have to ask myself, was all this Formby nonsense all about? They literally seemed to worship the Duke of the Uke.

And then thoughts came to me of a conversation I had engaged in as a child with Captain Lynch. Who it seemed had taught me oh so much. It had been about the Melanesian cargo cult of Jon Frum. During the Second World War, the Americans set up an airstrip at Tanna, an island in Vanuatu, Melanesia. Planes flew in delivering all manner of cargo and the natives, who had never seen anything like this before, sat down and gave the matter a jolly good thinking about. And then drew some logical conclusions.

It was clear to them that these Americans were in touch with Flying Gods who brought them cargo, and that they had built the airstrip to lure down the aeroplanes of the Gods.

And so the natives built their own airstrip next door to the real one. And they dressed up in pretend American uniforms and imitated all the things the Americans did. And waited for their planes with their cargo to land. And they got it into their heads that the pilot, the Godly sky pilot who brought the cargo, was called Jon Frum. And they set up shrines to him and lit candles.

Of course, no aeroplane ever did land on their pretend airship and after the war the Americans went home and no more planes at all landed. But the natives never gave up hope. They maintained their airstrip and went through the magical motions.

I recall seeing a TV documentary about Tanna and the Jon Frum cargo cult, and this smart-arsed Christian reporter was interviewing an old cargo-cult priest. And he said to this priest-

‘How long have you been waiting for Jon Frum’s return?’

And the priest said, ‘Twenty years now.’

And the Christian reporter said, ‘Then don’t you think that perhaps you should give up? Because he’s clearly not coming back.’

And the old priest said, ‘But you have been awaiting the return of your Jon Frum for nearly two thousand years.’

And the interview went no further.

And I remember that it really tickled me at the time.

And so I assumed that this George Formby business must be something like that. But exactly how had it come to pass?

Now that was a question.

And it was one that I put to the priest – the high priest, he was – over dinner.

And dinner was served in the big royal dining room, on the big royal dining table, from all the very best royal plates. The gold ones. And there were thirty or so of Begrem’s top bods seated about that table and I was issued with three scantily-clad golden girlies to attend to my every need. But, not wishing to take any risks regarding protocol, I didn’t get any of them to administer to certain manly needs in an oral fashion from underneath the table.

The food was, happily, not of gold. It wasn’t too heavy on meat, but it was pretty big on mushrooms. And there were things in bowls that looked startlingly like cockroaches with their legs pulled off, which failed to tickle my taste buds. The wine was good, though, as was the bread. And there’s always bread, isn’t there? No matter where you go in the world, there’s always bread in one form or another.

And I’ve always wondered about this. How did Man discover how to make bread, eh? It’s quite a complicated process and you could never just stumble upon it by accident. But every culture appears to have invented bread. It’s one of life’s mysteries.

‘What do you think of the bread?’ asked the high priest, who sat on my right hand (well, not actually on my hand), for I had the big best seat in the house, right at the top of the table. On a big throne chair.

‘It’s splendid bread,’ I told him. And I told him also how I’d always wondered about how Man came to invent bread. And he told me that in his opinion there was very little mystery.

‘Just grind up your cockroach legs, mix with water and bake,’ he said. And I moved on to the soup.

But I did broach the subject of George Formby. In as subtle a manner as I could. Because he was under the impression that I was a follower of the cult, a missionary or something, I supposed. So I had to tread with care.

‘Speak to me of the George,’ said I, ‘and of how the word of the George came unto your kingdom. Ee-oop, Mother.’ And I did a Formby giggle.

‘Ah,’ said the high priest, speaking with his mouth half-filled with bread, which frankly I could have done without. ‘In ancient of times, there was a former priest of Begrem, one who held to the old wicked ways of necromancy and the breeding of the Homunculus. He claimed that he had received a divine revelation that there was a world above this one. That we inhabit an underworld, this dull, monochrome, worthless world, but high above there is a beautiful world where there are more colours. And you are here, from this world, which proves it. Although we did get it wrong initially when we thought that you were an evil demon sent down to destroy us all. But I have apologised for that.’

And I nodded and I smiled and said, ‘Go on.’

‘The priest had a mighty tower constructed that reached up to the rocky sky. And he set his underlings to cut into the rocky sky and tunnel upwards. And this they did for a considerable length of time, but as we have no concept of night and day, it is difficult to say quite how long.’

And I made a certain face to this, but bid him continue anyway.

‘They tunnelled up and finally broke through into a tiled tunnel above. And it was not all mono-coloured. It was of many colours. And then they saw the folk above, gathered in congregation before the George.’

And I did noddings of the head to this, recalling the George Formby movie posters I’d seen in the station above. The tunnellers had clearly broken through during one of the nightly showings.

‘And the priest passed down word of what he had seen, many words, the holy hymns – “The Lancashire Torreador”, “Limehouse Laundry Blues” and all the rest. Because he saw the George as a great vision upon the wall, far bigger than any man.’

The movies for sure, I thought.

‘And he passed on all of these wonders to our people, who turned then from their old evil ways to embrace the hymns and sayings of the George, that all might be happy and go to the foot of their stairs in a state of grace and abiding joy.’

‘That’s a lovely story,’ I said.

‘Story?’ said the high priest.

‘Well, I know it’s all true, obviously.’

‘And so our people prepared to go above, to join the worshippers in the Tunnel of the George. But as the priest climbed up there, the terrible Wheelie Monster mashed him all to pieces.’

‘He was run over by a train,’ I said, with some degree of sadness. And some degree of a smirk, which I hid. But I could see the funny side.

‘A train?’

‘It’s a Wheelie Monster, like you said.’

‘And so we knew that we were not yet worthy, that we had not yet earned the right to go above. And so the tunnel was filled in and the great tower demolished. But our prophets claimed that some time in the future, someone would descend to deliver us from this terrible place and take us above into the Tunnel of the George.’

‘Yep,’ I said, raising my glass. ‘That’s me. But why did you think I was some horrid monster and want to stab me up with your big knife?’

‘It would appear that an underling turned over two pages at once of The Great Book of All Knowledge (and Selected Lyrics). For it is written that two shall come down from above, The first being the Deliverer, the second being the pinky-pink monster that must be all cut to pieces at the hurry-up.’