Antibell's Pants & Nightshirt

As you’ll remember, ANTIBELLs underpants (for our USA cousins that's undershorts) and nightshirt were found in his bath with The Sandal and the rabbit. On close inspection by the disciples – an act that left them feeling more than a touch queasy - it was found that the material used to make both bits of clothing was not easily identifiable. In texture it was rough, only a few degrees short of sackcloth – presumably chosen to make men aware that they’re destined to be eternally uncomfortable in that area. Clearly, they are a form of cilice.

The colour is an off-white/grey mix but, deeply hidden in the weave, is what appears to be the faintest outline of a man’s face. It is so indistinct as to be almost indistinguishable to the untrained or unwilling eye but, with practice, one can make out a chap who looks very much like the singer Kenny Rogers. On a good day, ANTIBELL bears more than a passing resemblance both to Kenny and other silver-haired, bearded and beatific divinities. (Throughout religious history the beard seems to be a prerequisite of divinity, although why they chose to cultivate on their faces that which grows naturally in darker regions is a question that leaves me with a headache.)

On hearing that these relics had been salvaged, ANTIBELL broke down and wept bitterly. He was rapidly consoled with a couple of quarts of brandy and champagne and when he finally regained his composure, or what passes for it in his bizarre world, he fixed both disciples with a steely glare. (I have to say that, being there and witnessing it first-hand, it was an unnerving moment. His lazy eye didn’t help matters because neither of us knew who he was addressing, if either.)

“I’m either going to have to kill you or take you into the confidence of a deep, dark secret.” He said menacingly.

“Since I like you both a bit, it’ll probably be the latter.” He said, even more cryptically.

There followed an interminable silence, punctuated only by the two of us throwing our wallets at him, pouring more wine and the comfortable buzz of the rabbit which we’d left switched on since it seemed to soothe him.

After an absolute eternity he said; “OK. It’s been decided.”

The Celtic Warlord and I exchanged nervous glances. Decided by whom, we wondered? Had he been communing with his secret friend in some unseen way? If we were going to die, did we have time to ring our stockbrokers or put clean underwear on? Worse still, how would we explain our gory demise to our womenfolk – they thought we were in Switzerland at a retreat for abused choristers? (The Warlord is Welsh by the way. I went to Switzerland with him not because I was Welsh or had been otherwise abused but purely on the strength of the local sausage and sauerkraut, a renowned therapy. We’d escaped early because of the size of the Warlords wallet and my breathing-through-the-ears trick, and made our way to Nice in search of R and R.)

“No. No. They deserve to know.” He said to no-one in particular, or at least no-one we could see.

“They’ll have to undergo the Davey Discomfort of course but that should be enough.”

Had we not been extremely Relaxed, this might have been scary. As it turned out, it was very scary indeed.