Tunisia - A rather ungentlemanly affair...

Well, dear reader, it is with heavy heart that your devoted penman recounts this, the last chapter to involve your once beloved furballs, Messers Tom and Charlie Esq. Even as this tale unfolds, they have returned to the greenest and pleasantest of lands, stepped out of their breeches, poured themselves a stiff G&T and, not before time, attended to the long neglected hounds.

Recounted previously is a somewhat abridged version of their final hours of intrepid exploration. However, in the interests of fair disclosure, the hero's tale is here given the recognition it deserves, in full, unabridged and, since you ask, tackle out, damn your impudence.

True enough, their sea-borne abode did dock and, truer still, spirits were high, conversation was eclectic and MEL Dad was uncomfortable due to a certain illegal Chesterfield-based seating arrangement. It was therefore decided, by said concerned Pater, that to 'avoid any potential issues,' Tom and Charlie should dig out their canes, straighten their cravats and stroll off in a state of van-less dismount.

Therefore, with wallets firmly pocketed and passports gripped, the chirpy duo sauntered off to be the first furballs to plant the one true flag firmly on African soil. Indeed initial progress went well and, with the exit and associated freedom firmly within sight, the pair forged on towards the dusty haze and bustling Souk of Tunis.

Unfortunately, however, this Promised Land was not to be reached thanks to the unwanted attentions of a certain Tunisian official who instructed them, in the most uncertain of terms, to proceed 'elsewhere'. Perhaps, in fact, 'un-official' would be a more apt description as this chummy certainly possessed none of the authoritative attributes that one may have become accustomed to in one's local peeler.

The fabled 'elsewhere' turned out to be some form of Girl Guides convention or, as less popularly referred to, the Tunisian Border Police passport control. A rather bizarre uniform of side arms and hand bags had been adopted by the gaggle of giggling girlies who, at least at first, displayed a sort of bemused indifference towards the indifferently bemused furball pair.

However this bemusallry, unfortunately, was short lived. Initial questions about the lack of any hotel reservation ignited an uncharacteristic flicker of what, at first, appeared to be professionalism in this flock of femme fatales. Unhappy as to the preposterous claim that the two were capable of sourcing a hotel on the day, further questions and subsequent discontent emerged since the accommodation was to be secured with a means other than cold, hard Tunisian Flick Flacks. This highlighted the apparent professionalism as nothing more than the petty minded bureaucracy it actually was.

As the pettiness increased, the seniority of those involved rose in almost direct proportion and the furballs soon found themselves back 'downstairs' being interviewed by a far more intolerant and frankly intolerable group of un-official inefficients.

Despite a change in personnel, however, the interrogation followed a familiar script to that of earlier. A lack of baggage and non paper-based return flight arrangements were also raised as additional concerns by the animated but rather unhelpful natives. Although each accusatory question was answered and explained, and the pair were confident of the eventual rubber stamping of their arrival in Tunis in time for G&T and hubbly bubbly, the enemy still had one unwelcome line of inquiry up their sleeves...

It is perhaps pertinent at this point to regress slightly to events which transpired onboard the ferry on that previous afternoon. A general consensus was held that admitting to holding a Commission in Her Majesty's fine forces, whilst generally considered to be the most honourable of professions within the first world, would unduly panic the indigenous populous. For this reason it was decided that alternative employment should be alluded to when completing Disembarkation cards. Brains were wracked, creativity engaged and pens put to respective papers. A Beekeeper/Philosopher and a Children's Entertainer were deemed to be suitably inoffensive lines of work for Messers Thomas and Charles respectively.

Now, inoffensive as these vocations may be, it does not necessarily make them easily explainable in either pigeon French or survival Arabic that were, unfortunately, the levels of linguistic competence possessed by our heroes. Needless to say, under interrogation these professed professions were exposed for the lies that they were and the chances of gaining entry plummeted accordingly.

At this point we shall hop onboard the good ship 'Haste' and propel ourselves forward a couple of hours in the interests of wrapping things up in time for tiffin. The scene is a Tunisian harbourside (you didn't think they'd actually been let in yet did you?), darkness has descended, and we have a multitude of new characters to introduce. But fear not, you will be spared the details and instead they shall be grouped into opposing factions. For the sake of argument they shall henceforth be known as Italians (on the side of the protagonists) and Idiots (on the side of imbeciles the world over). In a stand off that eclipsed the well documented Montague-Capulet fracas, insults were now being merrily bounced back and forth above the heads of an admittedly confused Tom and Charlie who had by this point assumed the role of net in the dusty, floodlit Roland Garos of Arabia.

Skip forward again and you will be hard pressed not to notice that the Idiots have taken 3 straight sets after exacting heavy political interest on the poor, unfortunate umpire who had only wanted to see some exciting play and get home in time to catch the last half hour of Flip Flop Gear.

So the final act takes place in the hold of the very same vessel that had deposited our pair not 4 hours previously. The difference now, of course, is that they find themselves under the armed guard of an individual who could have benefited from some under arm right-guarding of his own. Their passports have been confiscated; their baggage is in a campsite over an hours drive away, and they are about to be shipped to Sicily with one bar of telephone battery and a slightly smaller chance of seeing their families again between them.

Acquiescence. There comes a point when a man knows surrender is his only option. It is not a proud moment but it is a necessary one. This point came in the belly of that Italian ship when an official leaned conspiratorially close to Tom's ear and, mustering all of the English that he could, whispered menacingly, 'we have other ways of making you leave...' Tom didn't doubt this for a second. The battle was over. Idiocy had won through.

'Salerno' pulled away from her mooring and starting chugging back towards civilization. For 2/6 or, if you prefer, 1/3 of team 'Great Balls of Fur', the Adventurists Africa Rally 2008 had come to a premature end.