Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls Read Free Page B

being developed. I’ll have them back by Thursday. I’ve got the receipt, here, I’ll show you if you want.”
    “Don’t put yourself to the trouble. Why don’t you just come back on Thursday,
with
the photographs, and we’ll talk about it then. I think we might be able to come up with something moderately convincing, if we put our heads together on this one.”
    “Moderately convincing?” Soap was now clearly appalled. “But it’s the truth. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”
    The editor settled back in his chair and sniffed at his bright red rose. “Mr Distant,” he said. “I am a professional journalist. The truth rarely plays a part in my work. I sell papers. The more papers I sell, the more money I make. If papers told nothing but the truth they wouldn’t be in business very long, would they? Most news is terribly dull. You have to put a bit of a spin on it.”
    “What’s a ‘spin’?” Soap asked.
    “It’s a slant, if you like. An interpretation.”
    “A lie,” said Soap.
    “Just because it isn’t the truth doesn’t mean it’s a lie.”
    Soap Distant picked up his hat from the floor and stuck it once more on his head. “I will get to the bottom of this,” he told the editor. “Getting to the bottom of things is what I do best.”
    “Do whatever you like, Mr Distant. But if you wish to pursue this, and you
do
have some pictures, and the pictures look moderately convincing—”
    “Grrrr,” went Soap.
    “If the pictures come out OK, then I’ll see what I can do.”
    “Right,” said Soap. “Right. Well, we shall see what we shall see. But when I get my knighthood from the Queen—”
    “Ah yes,” said the editor. “The Queen. This would be Queen Elizabeth, I suppose.”
    “Of course it would be, yes.”
    The editor set free another sigh. “You really must have been underground for a lot longer than ten years,” he said. “Queen Elizabeth was assassinated twenty years ago.”
    “Twenty … twenty … ass … sas … sass …” Soap’s jaw flapped like a candle in the wind.
    “Fair pulled the old shagpile rug from under us all, dontcha know,” said Mr Justice, shifting suddenly and seamlessly into his Lord of the Old Button Hole persona [1] . “But listen, me old pease pudding, can’t spare you any more time for the mo’. Got me personal Penist popping over in five little ticks of the clock to give me me Tuesday reading. So why don’t you cut along like a nice gentleman and call back Thursday with the old snip-a-snaps. And here” – the Lord fished out his wallet and extracted from this a one-pound note – “you seem a decent enough cove. Take this as a down payment on the exclusive. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”
    Soap took the oncer in a pale and trembling hand.
    “And no naughties like going to another paper, eh? I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin, you know.”
    “No,” said Soap, “no,” and he shook his head numbly and dumbly.
    He gazed down at the oncer in his hand and then he screamed very very loudly.
    For the face that grinned up from that one-pound note was not the face of Her Majesty. It was instead a big and beaming face. A bearded face. A toothy face.
    It was the face of Richard Branson.
    Rain of Frogs
    Down it came in great big buckets,
    Emptied from the sky.
    Watch the batsmen run for cover,
    Cursing you and I.
    Cursing rain and speedy bowlers,
    Ill-timed runs and garden rollers.
    Saying “This is not my day, I wish that I would die.”
     
    Down came frogs and fancy footwear.
    Down came trees and tyres.
    Raindance wizards on the hillsides
    Dowsed their pots and fires.
    Saying “This is not too clever.
    Will this rain go on for ever?”
    Saying “Blame the rich land barons. Blame the country squires.”
     
    Down came dogs and armadillos.
    Down came latex goods.
    Turnips ripe and avocados.
    Full sized Yorkshire puds.
    Packets of nice Bourbon bikkies.
    Ancient Bobby Charlton pickies.
    Ivy Benson tea dispensers, small Red