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If Enid Blyton's "Secret Seven" Books Were Set In Modern Britain

They'd definitely go for a Cheeky Nando's, for one.

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The Seven were on the trail of a pair of rotten thieves, who had been stealing horses from the local gentry.

"There they are," said Peter, pointing directly at one of the very dangerous men, while standing only feet away. "Foreigners probably. First they take our jobs, then our horses!"

"Oh no, that's Tony," Barbara cried, pointing at the pony. "They can't get away with this."

"Quick," Jack shouted, whipping out his iPhone, "take a picture."

The gang all pulled out their phones and began snapping. Meanwhile the horse thieves made a hasty exit from the field.

"What filter are you going to use? I'm thinking Mayfair," George said, fiddling with the contrast.



"Come back here!" cried Peter, following up with a selection of xenophobic expletives he'd heard his father shout while driving.

"He'll never catch them," Janet admitted. Colin was playing with his phone. "Colin this is not the time for Snapchat, we're on a case!"

"I just ordered an Uber," Colin replied, snarkily. "Typical though, there's bloody surge pricing."

"Must be a lot of people trying to catch horse thieves today," Pam offered, and Janet audibly groaned. Fucking Pam.



"What is this even for?" Janet asked, ducking the frigid water.

"Charity," Susie replied. "All the money goes to JLS, the boyband."

"Aston is so dreamy," swooned Pam, allowing herself to be drenched head to toe.



The Secret Seven were minding their own business enjoying the endless privilege afforded them by their middle class lives, when Pam noticed a man at the window.

"The jolly awful paedo is here again," she told the others.

"Has he got his cock out again?" Colin asked, most astonished.

"No, he's just fiddling away in his corduroys."

Janet picked up the tea pot, freshly brewed and piping hot, and walked toward the window.

"Shall we pour him some tea?" She looked at Peter, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Well he does look thirsty," Peter replied, opening the window as Janet threw boiling water all over the incessant masturbator outside.




With the 2015 General Election approaching, Peter, Colin, and George set light to an effigy of Ed Miliband and pushed him down the street in a hand cart.

"Do you think, maybe, this is a bit much?" George asked Peter, nervously.

"What, and let fucking Labour win a seat? We'll be flooded with benefit scroungers and foreigners. Now hush, and pour some more lighter fluid on Ed's face."



Janet had been leading the Secret Seven for several weeks now, after besting her brother Peter in a footrace to the bottom of the garden, and had been doing a rather fine job of things. Rushing home for tea after their meeting, Janet and Barbera encountered a group of ruffians from the boy's school.

"Show us yer tits!" one of the boys shouted, and the group began pointing and catcalling. Janet, never one to back down from a challenge, calmly walked over to the leader, clutching the bottom of her sweater, and kicked him square in the bollocks.

"There you go," she smiled politely, looking at his friends. "Would anyone else like to see?"



As the Seven frolicked around the field, tripping all kinds of balls, Colin realised he was in a bugger of a K-hole.

"Are you there, God? It's me, Colin."

"Colin, you clown. That's not God, that's noted celebrity gardner Alan Titchmarsh," Jack giggled, pointing at the scarecrow. "Show us your bulbs, Alan!"



"I am not going in there with you," Janet said.

"But the ghost!" Jack pleaded.

"I'm sure there is something small, white, and scary in there," Janet exclaimed, marching off, "but a ghost it jolly well isn't."




The Seven had spent all afternoon watching Peter fly his new drone.

"Marvellous, isn't it? Just like the ones our boys are using against those awful ISIS types," Peter cooed. Janet eyerolled so hard she risked permanent sight loss.

"Fuck this noise," Colin shouted, standing up in a huff. "Cheeky Nando's anyone?"

"Yes, but–" Barbera started, "–why is it 'cheeky'?"



"It's jolly dark down there," George complained. "But I'll be damned if that rotter Colin get's the better of me. Get your phone ready I want this to go viral."

Jack and Peter lowered their friend into the hole before quickly replacing the heavy iron cover.

"Well that's what he gets for snapchatting nudes to my sister," Peter laughed, as Jack kept very quiet indeed.



The Seven were having a party with lashings of White Lightning cider Colin stole from his alcoholic Uncle.

"I set up a Facebook event," Pam said, looking at her iPhone, "but it must be broken because it says here fourteen-hundred people have RSVP'd."

"Golly," Peter said, astonished. "I hope you made it clear it was BYO. We haven't enough cider for all of them."

Twelve hours later, with two dead, seven hospitalised, and half an acre of farmland still ablaze, Pam rather regretted setting up the Facebook event. Still, she thought, it was quite the party.



"Shit," said Jack. "It's the fuzz."

"Don't worry," Peter said, calmly. "We know how to deal with Narcs, don't we?"

The Seven laughed riotously and Scamper, who belonged to Peter and Janet, barked along.

"I'll get the acid," giggled Barbara, skipping away into the dark.