Onward and Upward

by Tony Wilson

Chapter 22

  Normally the press treat me with a modicum of respect as I never actively seek publicity, although one particular tabloid regularly pushed its luck, but finally in February (it must have been a quiet news month) they overstepped the mark big time. They had recently run several articles saying that I was hording the ‘treasure trove from the desert’ (although I hadn’t told anybody which desert) all to myself, even though it was now general knowledge that I would be ‘loaning’ almost everything, in almost all cases ‘permanently’, out to deserving causes. For some reason Mr Morris, the owner of the Daily Comet, and the father of one of first people to receive an ‘on your bike sunshine - they are not going to private collectors’ letter from Maria, seemed to have selective amnesia on that minor point, even after my English Solicitors had pointed this out to him. His son was the type of ‘Collector’ who collected anything, just as long as it was rare, and horded it away; he couldn’t even fly, and the following day there was a front page article about Alice and her brief foray into the alternative lifestyle, obviously they had contacted Burt at HM Prison Holloway, and the day after that there was a piece about my ‘estranged’ son selling me his kidney just to get his hands on some of my money’.

  My Solicitors were furiously seeking an injunction when I received a phone call from a distraught Emma, my daughter-in-law. Whilst trying to obtain some follow-up photos of her and Mark (my grandson) at Thorpe Park, a staff photographer from the Daily Comet had been ‘slightly over-enthusiastic in trying to get a legitimate close-up’ (according to a half-hearted apology from Mr Morris’s P.A.) and smashed his camera into Mark’s face, at the same time pressing the trigger. Mark was now in hospital, blind, with a broken nose and requiring a large number of stitches in his small face; he was only just four years old.

  War had now been declared.

  Within an hour the injunction had been served. If Mr Morris, the Comet, or any publications that he may (or may not) own - now, in the past, or in the future, even printed so much as mine, or a family members name, let alone a picture, then he would go to prison and they would throw away the key (he had recently done an exposé on the judiciary), and even as he sat at his desk reading it I was in Lady S (the flying one) hot footing it to England, so fast that I thought that the Avon was running on fumes as I came into land, and was then, still in my immersion suit, whisked quickly away by the fastest helicopter available to Marks bedside. As I had charged through the skies, high above the Bay of Biscay I had devised a plan, but as I sat there by his bedside, it metaphorically went out of the window. He had required over thirty stitches, and the surgeons reckoned that even with cosmetic surgery he would still be scarred for the rest of his life. He was permanently blind in one eye, and even with further operations he would only ever have partial sight in the other.

  The war had now escalated.

  Less than a week later, as he sat quietly at home Mr Morris received, via the hand of a very nondescript courier, a very derisory offer for his newspaper group, a bankers draft for the said amount, and a yellow folder. In it was material that would not only ensure that he would go to prison for a long time, but that he would also be spending it in solitary confinement – for his own safety. On the front of folder was a post-it written in my own hand promising him that if he told absolutely no one of our deal, then I would not divulge its contents to anyone; and as anyone that knows me knows, I never break a promise; although I didn’t mention anything about the red folder. An hour later, after he had left his home (and his wife) for the last time, transferred the bankers draft into an off shore account and went off to find an aeroplane heading in the general direction of the Bahamas, I was stood in front of the Comets Head Office, after first handing an envelope containing the red file to another nondescript courier. This one was addressed to a senior member of Her Majesties Constabulary, who had been anonymously tipped off to expect it, and after removing the surgical rubber gloves that I had been wearing I entered the grandiose portals, wondering if Mr Morris would actually make the aircraft.

  First off the Security Guards recognised me and made tracks to stop me, but a solicitor bearing documents proving that I was now their boss got to them first, and they quickly joined in the procession behind me, they didn’t want to miss a second of the hoped for ‘ensuing carnage.’I had chosen the timing of my arrival to perfection, Ms Wonting and her editorial team were putting the final touches to that evening’s edition as I walked in. My tame solicitor, Lord ‘something or other’, who was running point for me handed out more copies of the document, and I slowly worked down a list of names that I had in my hand, taking great pleasure in firing each one of them on the spot, and informing them that if I had anything to do with it then their careers in journalism were over – permanently, but there were two other persons in the room that were not on my list, but I calculated that any unfair dismissal claim in the future would be more than worth it, just for the short term gratification that I would gain from firing them as well, so I did. One editor stood and decided that he wanted to argue the toss with me, but David carelessly let his jacket fall open, and that put an end to any dissent. Each person was then searched for any Comet property, mobile phones, files, computers, safe keys, pencils, dust etc, and then escorted out of the building, then I was off, I was on a roll and wanted to get to the remainder of the list before word got out. I entered the staff reporters/photographers office, and two of the gentlemen took one look at me and tried to bolt for it, but David and a couple of the Colonels finest persuaded them otherwise, and then after I repeated my jovial standard greeting to both of them, plus a few others in the room for good measure, David took both of them to one side.

  ‘If they knew what was good for them they would quickly find a rock and crawl under it, never to feel the sun’s rays again, before the boys in blue arrived’. Unfortunately, in their haste to find a rock, they both fell down the stairs; and were arrested in the ambulance Mark idolised David, and the feeling was reciprocated.

  After that I had two further small jobs to do, first I went back downstairs to the entrance hall, and taped a sheet of A4 paper containing a brief statement to one of the glass doors. Basically it said that even though the vast majority of employees of the Comet were not involved in the decision making process, they all willingly worked for the paper (I had nearly put newspaper) so as of this moment the Comet, and all of its subsidiaries were defunct, and all of their employees made redundant, and then I stepped outside for a press conference.

  As I had been enjoying myself inside, a few selected TV news departments and newspaper editors had been notified that I would be making a brief statement that might be of interest, in a few minutes time, and a surprisingly large number of their staff, with cameras and notebooks at the ready were there to greet me, and surprise, surprise, in the front row stood Sandra, live on air, we may no longer be an ‘item’ but we were still friends. As I watched the ‘late’ employees starting to stream out of the offices (bad news always travels fast), the security staff confiscated any files, discs or laptop that made their way to the doors (I let them keep the pencils and dust), I knew that this scene was being repeated at the remainder of the Comets subsidiaries, the Security Guards there being ably assisted/watched over by yet more of the Colonel’s finest. I then made a brief statement to the gathered throng, briefly explaining the reasoning behind my actions. Even though I had sated some of my anger, I was still raging inside, so I did not mince my words, and although I had said at the start that there would be no questions on completion of the statement, a Daily Mirror reporter just had to push his luck, ‘and Mr Michaels what would happen if another news group did a similar thing’ he shouted.

  There was a deadly hush as I turned and looked him in the eye, and calmly said ‘Then I will just have to dig a little deeper into my petty cash’. Why hadn’t Sandra asked me that question? She already knew the answer.

  After the statement I was driven back to the hospital, but as I walked into its entrance I fel
t a very strange sensation course through my body, and quickly glancing around I found out the answer, lo and behold there wasn’t a paparazzi in sight.

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