INTRODUCTORY NOTE - if this is the first time you have come across this ongoing saga then suffice it to say that you have missed a great deal of the plot. But all is not lost since the essence of the tale is easy to grasp. Basically, the author acquired a legendary 'hemp nuclear device' from a certain Mr. Anonymous, a hitherto unknown affiliate of the Gaian Intelligence Agency. The device (one of four constructed in the 1950's by infamous Swiss chemist Albert Hoffman according to the dictates of the Gaian Mind) was an organic marble-sized green sphere the exterior of which was fashioned from compressed cannabis leaf. The inner core consisted of botanical material containing the decidedly potent entheogenic (i.e. psychedelic) alkaloids mescaline, DMT and psilocybin in significantly exacting amounts. Supposedly, ingestion of this antique alchemical device would set off a massive explosion in the psyche of the consumer resulting in some sort of spiritually-charged vision that could verily change the world…..

Before the author gobbled down the shamanic 'bomb', he decided to seek advice from his wealthy Polish friend Horatio Konklommedy, an expert in entheogens and other esoteric issues. Konklommedy was also the owner of a smart chimpanzee whose genome contained DNA stolen from the bone fragments of Albert Einstein. The chimp's vocal apparatus was wired up to an electronic voice box thus enabling him to express his intelligence (as well as his idiosyncratic humour).

Finally, after much discussion, Konklommedy, Einstein (the chimp) and the author were now poised to consume the hemp bomb between themselves and thence embark on the psychedelic trip of a lifetime…..

It was Sunday afternoon and the three of us were ready to consume the psychoactive bomb that very evening. According to Konklommedy however, certain negative cosmic forces were beginning to manifest themselves in order to prevent, or at least to put off, our immanent mystical venture. We had already been visited by a so-called reverse Jehovah's Witness who was keen to persuade us that the Universe was a meaningless accident. This was a creed absolutely contrary to what the three of us believed but nonetheless Einstein had been somewhat perturbed by the visit. Then the phone had rang. Konklommedy picked it up and spent a few minutes nodding and grunting. When he replaced the receiver he had a frown on his face.

"The forces which oppose us are moving in," murmured Konklommedy gravely. "It's a kind of negative synchronicity, a phenomenon the Celestine Prophesy failed to mention. Just as we are to embark upon the ultimate sacred visionary quest, so it seems does the dark side of the Universe conspire to upset us or even to halt us."

"What do you mean Jean?" squealed Einstein, his pink hairy jowls chattering with anxiety. "Who was on the phone Joan? Who gave you cause to worry Murray?"

"It was my lawyer," intoned Konklommedy as he slumped heavily into one of his Edwardian armchairs. "Apparently Eric Von Daniken is taking me to court for slander. He is suing me for five million pounds."

"Eric Von Daniken the sensationalist writer?" I quizzed. "The chap who reckons advanced aliens landed on Earth thousands of years ago?"

"The same," sighed Konklommedy.

"How come he's suing you for slander?" I asked. I was perplexed. I had avidly read Eric Von Daniken's books when I was a young teenager. His tales of alien spaceships landing all over South America had fascinated me. How could he possibly be suing Konklommedy?

"I wrote a critical article about him in the Times last week," explained Konklommedy. "I accused him of being a half-brained herbert who would fabricate any old story in order to gain fame and sell books. Well, to be sure about it, I suggested that he was insane."

"Surely you cannot be incriminated for simply suggesting someone is insane?" I said.

"It was more explicit than that," said Konklommedy nodding towards the fireplace. "Look, the article in question is over there."

I saw that there was a recent copy of the Times in a rack next to the fireplace. I picked it up and thumbed through it until I reached Konklommedy's article. The headline read: ERIC VON DANIKEN IS VICTIM OF DAMAGED BRAIN ASSERTS POLISH SCHOLAR.

"That's, er, pretty incendiary," I pointed out. "Its no wonder he's peeved. So tell me, why do you dislike him so much? I thought his books were pretty intriguing. Chariots of the Gods and all that."

"Its drivel," bemoaned Konklommedy. "Sure, the pictures are good. And there's much amazement to be had from learning about the Nazca Lines in Peru for example. But its another thing altogether to suggest that the Nazca Lines were made as part of some communication with extraterrestrial spacecraft."

I knew the Nazca Lines well. Indeed, it had been Von Daniken's books that had spread word about these mysterious drawings that lie across vast stretches of the deserts and mountains of Peru. Some are just lines which stretch perfectly straight for miles. Other drawings are of mythical animals. What is so strange is that the immense markings can only be appreciated from up in the sky. At ground level, all that one can discern are slightly raised rows of desert rubble whereas from up in the air huge pictures can clearly be perceived. This is what led Von Daniken to propose that the ginormous markings were constructed to communicate with flying spaceships.

Von Daniken had also suggested that a famous Mayan tomb depicted a helmeted Mayan king strapped into an advanced spacecraft adorned with joysticks, circuitry and electrical switches. And if my memory served me correctly, Von Daniken also collated various ancient historical artefacts which, according to him, were carved into the likeness of supersonic aircraft. I even recalled a set of parallel grooves carved into rock in South America which Von Daniken claimed to be a landing strip for alien spaceships.

"It's a bit harsh of you to lay into him like that," I said to Konklommedy. "I mean Horatio, for many everyday people his work provides a fascinating source of wonder. At the very least it allows people to break out of their normal mundane frames of conception."

"You've not seen his latest book about the Nazca Lines then?" sneered Konklommedy to which I shook my head.

"Basically, Von Daniken makes fun of plant-based shamanism and this was why I felt justified in forcibly laying into him," said Konklommedy as he lit up his favourite Victorian tobacco pipe. "As you know SG, visionary plants like the peyote cactus played a major role in the spirituality of ancient Central and South American cultures. Indeed, shamanism reached a kind of peak in parts of South America. The Chavin culture of Peru for instance, who predated the Incas, evinces artwork testifying to the use of psychoactive shamanic plant species. Numerous sculptures found in holy temples depict shamans transmutating into fierce feline jaguar creatures, their nostrils streaming with mucus. This is related to the fact that the Chavin shamans were employing powerful entheogenic snuffs containing DMT, a practice employed by certain Amazonian tribes to this day. A profusion of mucus from the nasal passages is, of course, a side effect of snorting DMT preparations.

"Now, the important thing is that recent excavations in Nazca have uncovered huge wall murals which depict Nazca deities with the exact same mucus flowing from their nostrils. This can only mean one thing - namely that Nazca shamans likewise employed entheogenic DMT-based snuffs. Which implies that, as with most other ancient South American cultures, their spirituality was bound up with plant-based shamanic practices. No surprise here of course because, as we know only too well, visionary plants have the power to take one to the Source. What all this means is that the Nazca Lines are likely bound up with shamanism as opposed to aliens. As many scholars point out, shamans often report experiences of flying and this might explain why the Nazca Lines were laid down - as a sort of enduring ground map."

"And you say that Von Daniken dismissed this notion?" I asked.

"The oaf found the idea laughable," muttered Konklommedy whilst ejecting thick plumes of smoke from his mouth.

"That's probably because he has never experienced a psychedelic plant," I said. "That's the problem with many historians and such - they do not realise the sheer power of the visionary plants employed by native cultures. Who can ever understand the numinous power of psilocybin, mescaline, DMT or even cannabis without having experienced them directly? Its like a blind man trying to imagine what its like to see."

"That is exactly the point I made in the article," asserted Konklommedy. "Take a look at the paragraph at the bottom of the page."

Glancing at the foot of the page I said, "Its says something about Posh Spice from the Spice Girls. Its about her hairstyle. And there are a few words about footballer David Beckham's new shoes….."

"No, the other page!" snapped Konklommedy.

"The bottom paragraph seems to be about the fact that Elton John spent 200 hundred grand on flowers in a single day," I said in a bemused voice. "What a crass waste of wealth….."

"Just above that!" huffed Konklommedy.

"Ah," I said glancing up the page. I quickly scanned what Konklommedy had written - which was to do with the saliency of the visionary experiences elicited by entheogenic plants.

"I see you mention Wasson's hypothesis," I said. Wasson's hypothesis referred to the very beginnings of mankind's enduring spiritual impulse, thousands of years before organised religion. Wasson was the researcher who had discovered the use of psilocybin mushrooms by Mexican shamans in the 1950's and who had subsequently informed the West as to the explosive psychological power of this fungus. He had gone on to hypothesise that religious ideation originally emerged after our ancient ancestors first stumbled across the mushroom's effects.

"The point I was trying to make in that article," explained Konklommedy, "is that one does not need elaborate stories of aliens from Alpha Centauri in order to explain many of the strange and colourful practices and beliefs of ancient cultures. It makes far more sense to account for these things by invoking the use of entheogenic plants - which are now known to have been used all over the world by ancient peoples, especially in South and Central America. Such potent flora can propel a man into a visionary realm where there proceeds a direct communication with a transcendental presence."

I had to agree. In my own experience, psychedelic visions would often have a futuristic quality to them. Were I an artist attempting to convey such visions, I might well come up with artwork that, to others, might suggest advanced aliens and the like.

"Von Daniken is in the same boat as those scientists who are spending billions of dollars searching for extraterrestrial intelligence," said Konklommedy as Einstein ambled over and sat on his lap. "They seek an advanced intelligence from some remote part of space whereas the truth is that the intelligence we so keenly seek is bound up with the biosphere itself. Through certain plants and fungi we can tune into this vast source of natural transcendental wisdom. The Gaian Mind beckons would we but listen….."

"That's right Dwight," cackled Einstein as he tried in vain to grab at the smoke plumes being blown by Konklommedy.

"Which is precisely the reason we are to eat the sacred hemp bomb," I said pointing to the three equally distributed chunks of it which lay on the drawing table.

"I can't possibly take part now," said Konklommedy regretfully. "Not with this impending court case. It has weakened my composition. Von Daniken will almost certainly be victorious and so I will become bankrupt. Even my various stocks and shares do not amount to the five million smackers he is seeking to extract from me. Thus, my heart is heavy."

Konklommedy sighed and stared crestfallen at the floor. Einstein tried to cheer him up by performing a rapid series of front flips and back flips but to no avail. Then the chimp adjusted the bass controls on his voicebox and began to do an effective Darth Vader impersonation:

"I am your father Luke…."

"Its no use my hirsute simian friend," said Konklommedy trying vainly to smile. "Von Daniken's court case will be the end of me. The Konklommedy name will be in ruins. Without doubt, I shall be forced to sell the house and give you over to some zoo….."

Einstein suddenly began to twitch with rage for, understandably, he had a thing about zoos. On a burst of anger, the squealing chimp sped across to the other side of the drawing room, leapt up onto the snooker table and began to rip off the green felt with his large teeth. A few seconds later he managed to tear off all the felt in one piece. Tossing the shredded material to one side, the enraged ape dashed over to Konklommedy's antique sideboard in order to run amok some more.

"He's gone apeshit!" cried Konklommedy to me. "He did it once before when I threatened to have him neutered after he tried to have intercourse with my neighbour's wife. There's only one thing to do."

Konklommedy reached under his chair and fumbled with a leather case kept there. Then he produced what appeared to be a tranquilliser gun. He took aim at Einstein who, by now, was holding aloft an Aztec statue as if he were about to smash it to pieces.

"Put the statue down," advised Konklommedy whilst keeping the gun's sights firmly upon the maddened chimp.

"I will not be dumped in a zoo Lou!" wailed Einstein, his plaintive tones marred somewhat by the Darth Vader effect on his voice.

"Stop all this!" I shouted desperately. "Don't you two see? Von Daniken's impending court case is another manifestation of the dark cosmic forces which are out to stop us consuming the sacred hemp bomb!"

Before Konklommedy had a chance to reply there was a knock at the door.

"Not again!" moaned Konklommedy. "I bet its another of those damned reverse Jehovah's Witnesses! Here, you take the tranquilliser gun SG and keep it levelled on Einstein whilst I answer the door."

Konklommedy tossed the gun over to me and then opened the door. There were two police officers standing outside. This was not good. I realised it had to be yet another aspect of the negative cosmic forces opposed to our hallowed undertaking.

"Horatio Konklommedy?" intoned one of the officers to which Konklommedy nodded suspiciously.

"On a tip-off from a certain Mr Daniken," said the officer, "we have reason to believe you are in possession of a profusion of illegal substances. We have a warrant to search your premises….."

In a flash, Konklommedy darted to one side and ordered me to shoot at the two officers. Without thinking I fired the tranquilliser gun at one of them. There was dull 'phutt' sound and a small needle appeared on the officer's thigh. As he crumpled to the ground I fired the gun again thereby downing the second officer.

I was dumbfounded. Without thinking, I had just tranquillised two police officers. Even Einstein had forgotten his earlier rage and now stood open mouthed at the unfolding scene. Indeed, he was clutching the Aztec statue to his hairy chest as if it were a comforting teddy bear……

Our plans were being opposed by dark cosmic forces. Through a kind of negative synchronicity all manner of events were happening that were interfering with our immanent consumption of the sacred hemp bomb. The aftermath of the latest of these disturbing incidents lay strewn across the floor of Konklommedy's drawing room and consisted of two of Her Majesty's police officers whom I had just shot with a tranquilliser gun. They were alive but unconscious. Apparently, on a tip-off from sensationalist writer Eric Von Daniken whom Konklommedy had remorselessly criticised in a recent Times interview, these two supine officers had been about to raid Konklommedy's house for illicit substances. Doubtless they would have confiscated the hemp bomb - which was why I had shot them.

"Give me a hand Einstein!" puffed Konklommedy as he began dragging one of the officers towards the stairs which led down to his cellar. "He's a pretty big fellow. I mean, look at his feet! They must be a size 15!"

Einstein gambolled over on all fours, pulled off the policeman's shoes and placed them on his own hairy feet.

"Too big for me Lee!" exclaimed the chimp. "Could use them as a boat Mr Groat. Or a shed Ned."

"Have you lost your simian mind?" I asked the chimp. "We have committed a serious assault and here you are messing around with this officer's shoes!"

"You shot them, not I Mr Fry," replied the chimp coolly. "You did the crime Mrs Lime. You pulled the trigger Mr Digger."

"You're an accessory," I snapped. "You'll be convicted too. It'll mean life imprisonment in a zoo."

This was too much for Einstein. He hated the concept of zoos and always liked to let people know this in as dramatic a fashion as he could. In a flash the chimp began to beat his hairy chest and holler out loud. Adorned with such massive black shoes the vexed ape looked like an apparition from the mind of some feverish surrealist. To make matters worse, one of the officer's radios came to life, beeping out tinny messages. In his melodramatic rage, Einstein tore the radio from the officer's belt, squatted down on it and let rip an enormous fart that only a high fibre chimpanzee diet can elicit. After the last burst of gas, Einstein smelt the radio, grunted, and then tossed it into the fire which was heating Konklommedy's drawing room. In a daze I watched the radio slowly twist and melt. Although the last words it emitted - presumably emanating from the local police station - were garbled, the tone sounded confused.

"Both of you help me move these bodies into the cellar," said Konklommedy impatiently. "Then we can decide on how best to proceed."

Realising what had to be done, the chimp and I did as Konklommedy said and a few minutes later, after bolting the cellar door, we sat down by the fire and took stock of the situation. We agreed that we were now essentially outlaws and would have to leave Konklommedy's house sharpish before the two officers woke up. According to the strength of the tranquilliser darts (which were intended for Einstein during emergencies) the officers would likely be unconscious for no more than an hour. But where to go? To which safe place could we relocate and thence consume the sacred hemp bomb which, according to certain auspicious astrological conditions pertaining to the orbit of Venus, had to be consumed that very evening? Before we could decide on a course of action, there was yet another knock at the door. We all jumped.

"Curse these interfering negative cosmic forces," bemoaned Konklommedy as he got up and tip-toed gingerly over to the front window. "No doubt its more police, or the army, or even the SAS."

Konklommedy carefully pulled the curtain to one side and peered out of the window.

"It's a guy in a suit," whispered Konklommedy. "He looks innocent enough. Could be the TV license inspector. Or a council representative calling about the chimp poo Einstein deposited in next door's heated outdoor pool last week. Apparently chimp shit floats."

"A gift of excremental flotsam Mr Motsam," squealed the ape mirthfully.

"I don't think you should answer it," I said. "Its bound to be more trouble."

"He's certainly persistent," said Konklommedy as the caller knocked on the door for a third time. Then, to our surprise, the caller began shouting through the letter box.

"Mr Horatio Konklommedy!" bellowed the voice. "I am from Asda, the supermarket chain. You have won a large sum of money!"

Intrigued, Konklommedy decided to open the door. I did not think this was a good idea under the circumstances but obviously Konklommedy thought it was safe.

"Ah," said the man from Asda addressing Konklommedy. "You are Horatio Konklommedy yes? Good. Well, Mr Konklommedy, I have the pleasure of informing you that you have just won a handsome amount of prize money. Our credit card purchase records indicate that last Tuesday you entered the Totteridge branch of Asda and purchased a tin of baked beans and a loaf of economy bread."

"It was a loaf of Mighty White," replied Konklommedy. "Mighty White is not an economy loaf. Far from it. Its quite expensive actually. And the Nazi connotations are purely coincidental."

"Must be a barcode mix-up," said the Asda man as he scrutinised the clipboard he was clutching. "Anyway, the point Mr Konklommedy, is that you were our one millionth customer at that branch. Maybe you were not aware of the special promotion, but the fact is Mr Konklommedy, that you are entitled to a prize of one thousand pounds!"

Konklommedy was stunned. Coming over and standing next to him I too was now aghast at this proposition that he had won a thousand smackers. It seemed like some positive cosmic forces were now at work. I felt sure that Konklommedy could simply take the money and then make good our escape to safety.

"Is it in cash?" enquired Konklommedy.

"Cheque," said the Asda man. "Before I present you with the cheque though, we have prepared an, umm, extra something for you. A small surprise. A little publicity."

With that, the Asda man winked and then darted off to one side. Konklommedy and I were left staring down the front path that led to the garden gate. Then, as if out of nowhere, an impossibly loud music system boomed into action whilst an entire entourage of camera men, sound men and dancers jumped out from behind the tall hedge that wound around Konklommedy's front lawn. There must have been about a dozen entertainers, a full dance troupe adorned with Asda T-shirts, sporting desperately false smiles and, worst of all, moving inexorably in our direction. Judging from the professional choreography of the dancers and the numerous film cameras and microphones on display, Asda must have been making some sort of quirky TV advert. In any case, Konklommedy and I were dismayed at this unprecedented gaudy spectacle. We had some strictly shamanic business to attend to which had huge metaphysical implications for the future of human culture. The show being performed before us was little more than a profane gimmick. We also had two unconscious police officers locked in the cellar. The last thing we needed was a multitude of people converging on the premises, especially when they appeared to be singing about Asda's new range of microwave meals.

The Asda representative saw our dismay and shouted, "This is going out live Mr Konklommedy! Please smile! Its prime time television!"

To our horror, a limousine now pulled up by the front gate. The back door opened and, astonishingly, none other than Simon Le Bon clambered out, the singer from the 1980's band Duran Duran. He held a large cheque in his hand. And a microphone. Obviously the outdated relic of a singer was to present the prize money to Konklommedy as part of yet another tawdry publicity stunt by Asda. He even wore a hat with a flashing Asda logo on it. He began to approach us up the garden path.

"Fuck off!" cried Konklommedy as he sussed out what the fast approaching spectre of Simon Le Bon implied.

Simon Le Bon stopped short in his tracks, the check hanging limply in one hand. His lipstick smothered lips began to curl down at the edges. The Asda man came rushing forward and begged Konklommedy to behave.

"I insist that all of you fuck right off my property!" reiterated Konklommedy with a sweep of his hand. "And turn those bloody cameras off!"

I suddenly recalled the Sex Pistols' infamous appearance on the Bill Grundy TV show in 1976. Konklommedy and I were now on live national television and Konklommedy had said the F word. I wished that I had something pertinent to say before the cameras stopped rolling. But what could I say? What inspirational nugget of wisdom could I now convey to the masses? It was late on Sunday afternoon. Millions would be tuned in to this fiasco.

My mind began to work at breakneck speed. Perhaps, I mused, I could shout out something pertaining to the fact that modern culture fabricates artificial values which encourage greed, avarice and endless competition. I could yell out that mankind needed to get back to its roots by re-establishing a spiritual connection with the rest of the biospherical web of life. I could implore people to consume less, to cease playing the consumer game, to step out of the artificial Matrix-like reality we have woven. I could speak of Gaia and relate the main principles adhered to by the Gaian Intelligence Agency. I could, in a single sweeping sentence, convey the legitimacy of shamanic plants and how they are precisely Gaia-given tools with which to forge an intimate communion with the rest of Nature.

Considering this last idea, my eyes alighted upon the many specially bred cannabis plants right there in the garden (these had been bred by Konklommedy so that their THC molecules were cloaked and thus legal). I could yank off a leaf, run up to one of the film cameras, and thence inform viewers that here was perhaps the Greenest plant of all, a plant with medical and soul-affirming appeal, a plant with a thousand and one industrial uses, a plant that had once quite literally supported human culture through its conversion into paper, cloth and fuel.

This was it then. On prime time British television, I would thrust a healthy green fresh air-emitting cannabis leaf into the face of the film camera and enlighten the public to the Green virtues of this environmentally friendly plant. In shamanic terms, at least it was a start…..

Alas, before I could do so, Einstein suddenly dashed out the front door straight towards Le Bon. With bullish precision, the ape forcibly headbutted the ex-singer in the genitals.

"Her name is Rio and she dances in the sand!" shrieked the ape in a parody of a famous Duran Duran hit. The ape performed a double front flip and then scampered back inside the house. Le Bon fell to his knees. As the microphone he had been holding crashed to the ground a wave of piercing feedback resounded through the front garden. The ape's attack must have been the spark for a mid-life crisis or something for Le Bon now began to weep and babble incoherently. Taking control of the situation, Konklommedy ushered me back inside and slammed shut the front door.

"Good God!" exclaimed Konklommedy whilst clutching his heart and taking deep breaths. "Its pure madness out there, like some damnable nightmarish bad trip! Unbelievably, more of these dark cosmic forces are manifesting themselves. Its like the onslaught of some sort of profane static interference during the enactment of a holy drama. We must make haste and find a safe place to consume the hemp bomb. Quick, follow me!"

Konklommedy grabbed the 3 pieces of the hemp bomb which we had cut up earlier and thrust them into his pocket. Then the three of us headed out the back entrance of Konklommedy's large house, momentarily jarred by the sight of what appeared to be an Asda promotional helicopter buzzing high above us. At the end of the garden stood an old-fashioned looking wooden shed which Konklommedy escorted us into. Once inside, I was mystified as to why Konklommedy had led us there. It smelt of turpentine and mown grass and seemed to be full of rusty old gardening appliances. Before I could say anything however, Konklommedy went to one end of the shed and reached up onto a shelf. I saw that there were a number of garden gnomes placed there. One of them caught my attention as, unusually for a gnome, its hat was shaped exactly like a psilocybin mushroom and was a creamy white colour as opposed to red. It had a queer expression on its chubby face, like it knew something. And apparently it did for when Konklommedy pulled it forward it became clear that it was, in actuality, a lever. There was a whirring sound and then an opening appeared on the shed floor.

"My secret laboratory!" enthused Konklommedy. "We'll be safe and out of harm's way down there."

With little more ado the three of us descended into the ostensibly safe confines of the darkness below…