George and The Griffin

or Why The Griffin Was Late

“Sorry I'm late,” panted the Griffin, leaning against the doorframe as he struggled to regain his breath while gauging the faces of the distinctly unimpressed editorial team, “you see, what happened was...”

George was an evil chav-knight from a gang known as the C4Mbrigade. Apparently the 'four' had some special significance relating to the founders of the gang (allegedly Gary, Gary, Gary and Gary #2's girlfriend at the time, Sharon).

George was loitering outside Fitzwilliam College because he had no taste in architecture, when he noticed an impeccably dressed Griffin exiting the Plodge. George concealed himself in a lone shrubbery, suspiciously placed there by the gardeners purely as a plot device, and awaited the advance of this obvious target.

The Griffin was tired and wondered if he'd had one too many flaming sambucas (or is that sambuci?). Frankly he should've known better than to take on Dragon Harry. Frank had warned him after all. The guy breathed fire for Master's sake! The Griffin was still waist deep in thought when a short chap jumped out from behind a nonsensically positioned shrubbery.

“'Ere,” said George.

“Oh, watch out!” warned The Griffin, pointing at the ground, “I think you just dropped an H.”

“I dropped an eighth?” asked George, looking suddenly perturbed that he may have lost some of his precious skunkweed, a magical mix of herbs that he used to relax and speed his healing between battling vicious beasts.

“An H,” The Griffin repeated patiently.

“No, I said 'ere,” explained George, “the H is silent.”

The Griffin merely shrugged and mumbled something unintelligible about making perfectly good words sound like body parts.

“Right, I'll 'ave your wallet. Your mobile. And your iPod.”

“How do you know I have an iPod?” asked the Griffin, genuinely impressed.

“What other twats wander around with bright white earphones stuffed in their...”

“Ears?” offered The Griffin helpfully.

“Seemed a bit defunct having said 'earphones'”

“How about 'aural cavities'?”

“Bit pretentious, but yeah, that'll do,” and after a moment, “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”

“So...”

“Oh yes, right, wallet,” The Griffin handed it over, “iPod,” handed that over too, “mobile,” ditto.

George seemed pleased by the lack of resistance as he stashed the ethically questionably acquired goods.

“Hate to be a bother,” began The Griffin apologetically, “but I really need bus fare to get back to College and I should probably call ahead just to let them know I've been delayed. Do you mind if I...”

“Yes,” said George, and thumped The Griffin over the head with one Nike emblazoned gauntlet. The Griffin slumped to the ground, unconscious, while George waltzed away to the tune of Chopin's Nocturne No 7, in C sharp minor. The Griffin would have commented that this was odd since the time signature would have been totally wrong for a waltz, but didn't on account of being unconscious.

Many hours and drunken students passed (out) before The Griffin finally awoke. His sigh was deep as sighs are wont to be, and he began the long march across Cambridge back to Downing.

“They're going to bloody kill me...”