No sooner had we pulled off the greatest heist the village had ever seen (the famous great train robbery of 1986 - we stopped the annual pensioners' pilgrimage before it left the station and got away with a massive haul of boiled sweets and semi-soaked tissues) - than it was straight around the corner to Jake the Butcher's for a little cosmetic surgery. At the time, we were willing to relinquish the rugged handsomeness of our granite jawline to escape the long arm of the law, and thereby leave us free to while away our days on an island paradise in relative anonymity, living off our ill-gotten gains.

Alas it was not to be. Jake was out of anesthesia that day (apparently Granny TechEye had been in the midst of making up a fresh batch of her home-brew brandy and decided to sample a tipple or two and hadn't been well enough to make her morning delivery) so all we had for comfort was a bit of bone to bite upon. No sooner had he made the first incision (on our thigh, for some reason, though we hadn't asked for liposuction), than we leaped off the operating table/chopping block and hightailed it to the hills to lie low while the scandal and national manhunt died down. Luckily for us, the old dears hadn't twigged they'd been robbed at all, thanks to a combination of rampant senility, access to the train's beverage bar and the low drone from the hardcore faithful rattling off their Hail Mary's from the back of the no-smoking coach, which drowned out our warning shots and shouts. So it wasn't long before we could return safely to our hovel, our visage unaltered and our tail, firmly if legally, between our legs.

Yes, a little disguise can go a long way, and our popularity down at the local sailors' bar always reaches new heights when we come dressed in our finest fishnet stockings and blue silk dress with a touch of mascara on the eyes to brighten the seamen's day. But enough of this cross-dressing prattle and back to the more muscular business at hand, namely the shape-shifting temptress that is the Dell M2010.

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