The Pratts Go To 'Ollywood

By Peter Loaf Wunderlich

The Pratts are off to Los Angeles and a crazy new adventure awaits!

After an eventful flight across the Atlantic Ocean and a terrifying journey on a shuttle bus, they arrive to the top notch hotel they're staying at. The room is luxurious, but unfortunately, the Pratts have a tendency to mess everything up.

Hiring a car, they find that driving in LA is not that easy. In their itinerary is also a trot in Griffith Park on the saddles of hired horses, and that's where the real difficulties begin.

After stumbling upon a meeting of two dodgy characters, the Pratts witness something not meant for their prying eyes. Soon, they have to deal with the notorious Tripods, the police, and a group of local gangs. Can the Pratts make it out of L.A. in one piece?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: May 18, 2024

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

CAT AND…

The cat litter box was full to overflowing, and Felix, the resident feline, so named because of the annoying habit he had of running his prickly tongue over everybody’s hands and face. People were constantly saying, ‘Felix me one more time, and I will strangle the scraggy fur turd’… Now he was none too happy about the state of his latrine. I mean, where was he going to crap now? It’s not as though he could just pop outside.

He was suddenly startled by a huge commotion, as people dashed about No. 10 Downing Street in a frenzy. He decided to see what was going on and moved stealthily from his cosy room in the residential area to the entrance hall, where he weaved in between the feet of the newly arrived MPs and other, we’re important as well, people.

Felix then followed them as they made their way through the cloakroom, the anteroom, the secretarial room, and finally into the Cabinet Office, avoiding having his tail trampled on by high-heeled and flat-heeled shoes alike.

Where’s the Prime Minister? The Deputy Prime Minister yelled anxiously.

He’s in the loo! A stressed secretary answered.

The PM could hear his name being shouted and muttered to himself, Bloody prostate, as the slow never-ending tinkle-tinkle of urine dribbled into the toilet for what seemed an age. He shook himself and hoped he had dried up for a while, as he headed to the Cabinet Office to join the others.

He entered the packed office and was greeted by a cacophony of people yelling and gesticulating at each other, many of whom he didn’t recognize, well he thought he didn’t, but his rapidly depleting brain cells were playing havoc with his memory of late.

For God’s sake, one at a time please, the PM yelled, as he felt an overwhelming need to piss again. What’s all the commotion about? Has there been a terrorist attack?

No, sir, a senior adviser answered. It’s worse! He quickly passed a note to the Prime Minister. This has just arrived from MI6. He stepped back, and everyone stared at the PM with fear-smitten eyes.

The PM read the words on the note frantically, his hand trembling. It slipped from his grasp and drifted to the floor, like a leaf from a withered old tree branch. He looked at everyone present one at a time and opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was dribble, like he was a teething baby.

Well, Mister Prime Minister, sir? A female Cabinet minister asked.

I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do! He blustered, jigging about and crossing his legs as the first stream of pee began to seep into his incontinence pants, which would soon struggle to cope with the oncoming tsunami. Maybe we should call an emergency Viper meeting.

Everyone looked at their elected leader, embarrassed and despondent.

Don’t you mean Cobra, Mister Prime Minister, sir? A top-ranking police superintendent suggested politely.

No, I mean Viper, Mister Police Superintendent, sir… I know damn well what I mean. I am the bloody Prime Minister, you know, the PM answered, annoyed… Ah, at last, someone who understands me.

Just then, Felix jumped onto the table and looked up at the PM, who turned to him and smiled.

So, what do you think I should do, Felix? I’m sure you could sort this mess out, being so purr-fect, he guffawed at his own joke. No one else made the slightest attempt to even smile.

Felix looked up at the stupid buffoon, who he had unfortunately inherited when he became Prime Minister and took over his domain. His look was one of utter bemusement, as were the looks on the faces of everyone else present. Felix’s answer to his new master’s question was simply… ‘me… ow?’

Says one pussy to another pussy, someone at the back of the room whispered, which brought about a few titters.

Shouldn’t you notify the President of the United States, sir? A different Cabinet minister proposed.

Yes! Yes! Get him on the phone immediately, he replied before dashing off to the nearest loo.

CHAPTER TWO

… MOUSE

Across the Atlantic Ocean, the day was just beginning on the east coast of America. Inside a big white house situated at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington D.C., it was so quiet you could have heard mouse droppings falling onto the luxurious carpeted floor, and that’s exactly what was happening, as a sneaky little dormouse squeezed itself out of a tiny crack in the skirting board of the press secretary’s room, dropped its load, and sniffed the air.

Everyone in the building knew there was a mouse in the house, and he was given the derogatory name Vladimir Verminov, but no number of traps, cats, or pest exterminators could catch the elusive little bastard. They were sure it was not real, as some of the more paranoid staff believed the mouse was, in fact, a Russian animatronic spy. Well, if it was, its droppings and love of cheese were very realistic.

The mouse now made its way through a lobby and stopped outside the Secretary of Defence’s office, where he heard a loud commotion. He squeezed under the door to be confronted by a man straddling a woman who was sprawled across the desk and screaming in ecstasy… Launch that missile, Mr Secretary, and nuke me! Nuke me! Fucking nuke me!

Vladimir Verminov scurried from the room, terrified, and entered the Oval Office. He easily climbed onto the President’s desk and proceeded to drop a few gifts from its arse into the President’s sweet dish full of chocolate-coated nuts and raisins. He hoped, I’m sure, that he would mistake them for the real thing. Vladimir then hot-footed it back to his hidey-hole.

Meanwhile, upstairs on the second floor, the President of the United States of America was awake and sitting up in bed, his eyes glued to the TV. He was watching a rerun of some crappy reality show about unreal people, in an unreal setting, doing and acting in an unreal manner, and talking a load of unreal shite.

His wife, the First Lady, was propped up in bed, ear plugs stuffed into her ears to cut out the squawking sounds coming from the TV. She was reading a book called ‘The Pratts Go to London’ and tutted, laughed, and shook her head as she tried to make sense of it.

The phone rang, and the President slid from his bed, groaning at the aches and pains stabbing at his fast-ageing body, and picked it up.

Who is it, dear? His wife asked, laying the book down on a bedside table and removing the plugs. It’s very early. I hope it isn’t that damn annoying Senator Yee Howdy, trying to convince you that guns are safe in the right hands… Well, unfortunately, we have a lot of people in this nation who have the wrong hands and I for one…

The President put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to his wife. For goodness’ sake, be quiet for a moment, please. It’s that prick of a Prime Minister from England. Says he has something very urgent to tell me, that could potentially be a threat to the security of the United States, or something like that. He looked back at the phone and realised to his horror that his hand had slipped from the mouthpiece. Are you still there, Prime Minister? He asked awkwardly.

The President moved the earpiece away from his head a little way as a torrent of angry words travelled down the line from London to Washington, D.C. No, no, no Prime Minister. You misunderstood what I said. It’s my strong southern accent that made it sound like I was calling you a prick, the actual word I used was… hum, was… slick, yes… It’s that slick of a Prime Minister from England… By the way, I was going to call you later today about a very beneficial trade deal between our countries, that I am sure you will find very pleasing. The President lied as he tried to smooth over his offensive faux pas. So, what was it you needed to tell me that was so urgent you had to call so early?

The President listened intently and made the appropriate mouthed noises and gestures with his head to show interest. After the PM had finished what he needed to say, the President thanked him and said he would act on it immediately. He laid the phone on its cradle and turned to his wife, shrugging his shoulders.

Well? His wife asked expectantly.

Nothing really. Bloody Limeys panicking about damn all. It’s not as if the most powerful nation in the world were not capable of handling a couple of Brits called the Pratts.

Fuck! His wife exclaimed fearfully, as she glanced over at the book on the bedside table. "They’re coming here? To Washington D.C?"

The President ignored his wife’s profanity; it was something he had learned to live with, as long as she didn’t use it in public.

No, he replied drolly, the Pratts are going to ‘ollywood.

CHAPTER THREE

THE PRATTS ARE GOIN’ ON A, EFFIN’ ‘OLIDAY

The weeks leading up to the big day seemed to drag on and on, like a dog scraping its itchy arse across the floor.

Finally, the morning of the day that would change their lives (yet again) arrived, and Andy and Ursula stood outside their house, waiting for the taxi to take them to Birmingham International Airport.

They both wore football shirts; Ursula was adorned in her West Bromwich Albion top, and Andy in a Wolverhampton Wanderers jersey. He also wore ragged jeans and trainers, while his wife, as usual, was made up as though she was going to a nightclub, apart from the top of course, looking splendiferous in an arse-hugging short black skirt and high-heeled black shoes.

Ursula was still glowing from the dream she had had… In it, she was walking down Hollywood Boulevard, crowds screaming her name, cameras flashing, as she made her way down the walk of fame to unveil her very own… The memory of that dream was quickly erased by her husband’s whining voice.

A ‘oliday for two to Los Angeles! Andy moaned for the umpteenth time. Ya know ‘ow much I ‘ate the frickin’ Yanks! Why couldn’t ya ‘ave won a ‘oliday to Greece? I love the Greeks.

Ya don’t know any ruddy Greeks, Ursula sighed.

I ruddy do. Wha’s ‘is face and ‘is brother down the kebab ‘ouse, Andy grunted.

Give me bloody strength… Ya mean Ahmet and Mehmet the Turks from Turkey, which of course is in Greece… Not! Ursula laughed… So, ya don’t want to go then? Fine. I’ll go on me bloody own. Might meet some rich American.

Like ‘ell yer will… Can’t ya see ‘ow excited I am about goin’ to the good old US of A, he muttered sarcastically as he put a finger in his mouth and pretended to throw up, which he almost did as his finger went a little further than he was planning and tickled the back of his throat.

The taxi finally arrived, and Andy picked up his sports bag and watched with just a little too much satisfaction, as his wife struggled to pull the two very large suitcases that battled to move on wheels that seemed to scream in agony, as though they were being tortured.

As Andy had pointed out when he had seen the bulging cases for the first time, ‘If ya need to take so much crap for a week’s ‘oliday, then ya can drag the friggin’ things around yaself.’

Even the taxi driver sat impassive as