by Alan Coren
‘Oh,’ said Cooper, nodding, ‘chickens’ doings.’
‘No, no, no!’ cried Miscellaneous Onus. ‘They’re delicious! You fry them!’
‘Get off!’ exclaimed the Briton. ‘Pull this one. I’ve seen ’em coming out.’
‘In that case,’ snapped Miscellaneous Onus triumphantly, ‘how is it that Mr The Other Cooper is buying them at eighteen denarii a dozen?’
‘Search me,’ replied the Briton. ‘He is probably putting them on his roses.’
Miscellaneous Onus sprang from his stool, waving a document.
‘This invoice carries your address!’ he shrieked. ‘How do you explain that?’
The Briton squinted at it.
‘That’s not me,’ he said. ‘You will notice it is signed Mickey Mus. Come to think of it, I’ve noticed our yard looks remarkably neat of a morning. Clearly this bloke is nipping in at night, nicking our chickens’ doings, and flogging them on the side. What a liberty! Imagine anyone stooping low enough to steal droppings. Mind you, you’d have to, wouldn’t you, ha-ha-ha, sorry, just my little joke, where would we be without a laugh now and then, that’s what I always say.’
Glutinus Sinus grabbed the paper from his aide, and threw it in a wastebin.
‘All right,’ he cried, ‘but how,’ and here he plunged a trembling hand into the sheaf, ‘do you explain this? It happens to be your list of deductible expenses for the year ending April 5, 408, in which you have not only put down the cost of enough protective clothing to dress an entire legion, but also some score of expensive items described as “professional gifts, disbursements, tips considerations, etcetera” which I cannot but—’
‘What a marvellous word, etcetera,’ murmured Mr Cooper, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, ‘nearly as good as gratis, I do not know how you lot keep on coming up with ’em, no wonder your beneficient and gracious authority stretches from—’
‘—take to be the most gross and transparent attempt to evade your dues, not only all this, I say, but also an enormous sum attributed to, where is it, here we are, “the entertainment of foreign buyers”. Mr Cooper, do you really expect me to—’
‘It is clear,’ said the Briton, holding up one massive hairy hand, ‘that you have never been up the sharp end when it comes to coopering and/or milling. On the one hand snagging your professional habiliments on splinters, nails, sharp reeds and I do not know what else, on the other coming home of an evening absolutely covered and looking like sunnink ritual cut out of a chalk bleeding hillside, you cannot wash self-raising out of a wolf pelt, sunshine, it turns to paste, try drying it by the fire and what you end up with is a flea-infested giant loaf.’
Glutinus Sinus’s favourite stylus snapped between his fingers.
‘Very well, but what is this entry: “VII formal III-piece gents’ goatskin suits”?’
‘Nor,’ continued Mr Cooper, not pausing for breath, ‘can you turn up with your casks at a smart brewer’s premises with your backside hanging out. I am, after all, a director of the company. Similarly, going about the countryside upon my unpaid charitable works and doling out flour left, right and centre, I cannot look needier than the bleeding needy, can I?’
Glutinus Sinus licked dry lips, and glanced at Miscellaneous Onus.
‘These professional gifts,’ whispered the aide hoarsely, ‘who exactly is receiving them?’
‘You name it,’ replied Cooper. ‘It is dog eat dog in the barrel game. You got to grease palms, especially with foreign customers.’
‘Aha!’ cried Glutinus Sinus. ‘At last we approach the nub, Mr Cooper, or would you prefer I called you Mr Mus? Just exactly who are these foreign customers of yours to whom you are so generous with bribes and entertainment?’
The Briton smiled.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘he is a Roman gentleman, one of my most esteemed business associates, a person of great probity and standing. I am sure you would be the first to appreciate that you cannot fob off such a man with a couple of bags of stone-ground wholemeal to stick under his toga and a ferret kebab up the takeaway.’ Cooper picked a dead wasp from his beard, carefully. ‘He is my accountant, Dubious Abacus. I understand he is a big gun. If you care to re-examine my files, I think you will discover that he has authorized my tax-returns personally. I do not know how he finds the time, what with constantly running back to Rome to do the Emperor’s books.’
After a long silence, Glutinus Sinus said:
‘We would appear to owe you a not inconsiderable refund, Mr Cooper-Miller.’
The Briton rose slowly from his haunches.
‘I’ll see the bloke on my way out,’ he said.
After the door had closed, Glutinus Sinus stared at it for a long time.
‘What year is it, Miscellaneous Onus?’ he said.
‘408, Glutinus Sinus.’
The tax inspector sighed.
‘Get our suitcases down,’ he said.
37
Blue Flics
Six English bobbies are off on a cycling tour of France. They hope to meet the ordinary Frenchman in the street and put across some idea of what life as an English policeman is like.
Daily Express
Monday at 11.42 am, a time which will be corroborated by my colleague PC Garsmold although I did not, of course, consult with him prior to taking down these notes in writing, we disembarked with our regulation machines from the ferry Sylvia Blagrove II and proceeded in single file in an easterly direction along the Rue Maritime, in so doing passing several bollards.
After approx. six hundred yards, we come to a roundabout: pausing to ascertain it was safe to proceed, we had just pedalled off when this van came round it the wrong way, hurling PC Chatterjee from his machine, causing severe damage to his left-hand pannier with the result that a mutton vindaloo prepared special by his wife as a safeguard against trots etcetera brought on by, e.g. snails legs and so forth, got scattered all over the road, rice becoming all gritty and dogs jumping on the larger lumps.
The driver of the van then brought his vehicle to the halt position, and descended from it via the passenger door, this detail spotted by PC Wisley and took down by him at the time, 11.53.
The following conversation then ensued:
Driver: Gabble, gabble, gabble, etcetera . . .
PC Garsmold: Excuse me, sunshine, is this your vehicle?
Driver: Gabble, gabble, gabble, plus arms waving about.
PC Garsmold: Leave it out, you was on the wrong side of the road, we have got you bang to rights, also sitting in the passenger seat, definitely.
PC Garsmold: Do you reckon he might be intoxicated, PC Wisley?
PC Wisely: I think it is a line of enquiry worth pursuing, PC Rimmer, due to where he is a Frog and they are all piss-artists, if I may use the vernacular, get him to blow in the wossname.
PC Garsmold then extracted his breathalyser kit. The suspect then became agitated and, clearly refusing to blow in the bag as laid down in paragraph nine, subsection fourteen, seemed about to offer actual violence. We then employed reasonable force to restrain him, and while he was distracted by the action of picking up his teeth, PC Chatterjee stuck the tube in his mouth.
The test proved negative. We informed the suspect that he was a lucky bastard, and instructed him to mind how he went in future. As we pedalled off, PC Rimmer noticed that the steering-wheel was on the passenger side, and offered the opinion that the vehicle had probably been botched up after some major accident and would undoubtedly not pass its MOT. PC Chatterjee was all for going back and bunging chummy a 703/14b, but the rest of us reckoned he had probably learned his lesson, and anyway time was getting on.
It was now 12.27.
Proceeding through Boulogne, we became aware that everybody was on the wrong side of the road, also using hooters immoderately, but decided to take no further action due to reinforcements not being available.
Reached outskirts of Etaples at 2.07 pm, stopped at roadside to consume sandwich rations. We was o
n the last of the Marmite when a vehicle drew up, and an occupant dismounted, smiled at us in what might be described as a cordial manner, exposed himself and began widdling in the ditch. He was immediately apprehended by PCs Garsmold and Wisley, and charged with an act of gross indecency. He thereupon twisted himself free, adjusted his dress, and drew a revolver. Since we had not come tooled up, we were forced to lie face down on the verge while the flasher gabbled into a pocket transceiver.
At 2.09 (approx., due to watch-hand clasped behind neck), a vehicle with blue flashing light come up wailing, disembarking a number of uniformed men carrying submachine guns. Fortunately, one of these spoke English.
He immediately charged PCs Garsmold and Wisley with importuning.
I then produced my warrant card, and explained the confusion. This decision immediately regretted by our party, since our original suspect then grasped PC Garsmold and kissed him on both cheeks, instantly confirming our first suspicions. We did not take further action, however, due to where they was all armed to the teeth, but it was useful experience. In a country where the poofs go round mob-handed carrying automatic weapons, you have to watch your step.
Tuesday Spent the night at the Hotel les Deux Souris, and came downstairs at 8.00 am for cooked breakfast, just in time to spot landlord pouring large brandy for customer in blue vest.
Two blasts on whistle brought PCs Garsmold and Wisley out of khazi on double to act as back-up while I charged landlord with Dispensing Alcoholic Beverages Contrary to the Stipulations of the Licensing (Hours) Act 1947.
The customer thereupon threatened me with a long cudgel he had clearly brought along for this purpose, and I had no other recourse than to truncheon him. As it fell to the ground, his cudgel split open to reveal several slices of salami and a thing with holes in which I originally took to be a housebreaking implement of some kind but which upon further forensic examination by PC Chatterjee turned out to be cheese.
The following conversation then ensued:
PC Wisely: I charge you with taking away a lavatory with the intention of permanently depriving the rightful owner. You are nicked, son!
Customer: Groan, gabble.
Me: To what are you referring, PC Wisley? It is my intention to nail him for assault with a deadly loaf.
PC Garsmold: PC Wisley is correct. When we was in the khazi just now, we noted that the pan had been nicked, due to where there was only a hole in the ground. It is clear to us that while chummy here was engaging the landlord in conversation over an illicit drink, his accomplice was out back half-inching the toilet. He is probably halfway to Paris by now, wherever that is.
At this point (8.06), the landlord’s wife come in to see what the altercation concerned. She was able to reassure me that our friend in the blue vest was above board, also no licensing infringements, so it all passed off amicably enough, us chipping in for bottle of brandy (see attached chitty) for customer, plus small sum in compensation for beret. Upon being complimented on her grasp of English, landlord’s wife explained she had sheltered escaping English prisoners, which very nearly upset the apple-cart again, due to where PC Chatterjee attempted to do her on a harbouring and abetting charge, since he had spotted someone in the room next door to his who bore a striking resemblance to a notice we’d had pinned up in our section house concerning a bloke wanted for the Lewisham payroll job. He can be a bit dim, PC Chatterjee, but we got to have one or two of them about, these days.
Pushed on towards Abbeville without further major incident, although PC Rimmer, when we were about halfway there down the N40, paused outside a small town and attempted to collar a bloke with a paintbrush for defacing a public sign. Turned out the place was actually called Berck.
Wednesday Further to our enquiries, and pursuing our investigations to the fullest extent, we have now formed the firm conclusion that this is a country populated entirely by the bent. At the same time, it is impossible to get a single charge, however reasonable, to stick.
At 9.47 this morning, proceeding down what was clearly High Road, Abbeville, in broad daylight, we come on a couple of wrong ’uns unloading a truck outside a butcher’s, to wit, Gaston Dubois. We knew they was wrong right off, on account of they was both smoking during the unloading of fresh carcases, in direct contravention of the Health & Public Hygiene (1953) Act, but we did not know how wrong until PC Wisley drew his notebook and approached said offenders with a view to a sight of their Licence to Convey, which is a technicality you usually nick these buggers on due to invariably being out of date.
The following conversation then ensued:
PC Wisely (sniffing): Hang about, PC Rimmer, does that smell like normal decent tobacco to you?
PC Rimmer (sniffing): No, PC Wisley, that is definitely a substance. These men are smoking a substance. That is two cast-iron charges already, and you have not even got your pencil out yet!
PC Garsmold: Were we to find a half-brick in their apron, that would be . . .
PC Wisely, Rimmer & Garsmold: ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY!
PC Garsmold: I’ll see if I can find a half-brick anywhere.
At this crucial juncture, however, an even more major crime was detected. PC Chatterjee, who spent some time in the Mounted Division until resigning upon the discovery that the mucking-out was always down to him for some strange reason, suddenly grasped my arm and informed me that the carcase being carried into said Gaston Dubois was that of a horse! I come over dizzy at the horror of this, but quickly recovered due to years of training, and we launched ourselves upon the miscreants firm-handed in the full assurance that there was a Queen’s Commendation in this, at the very least.
As for coming out of it with three stripes up . . .
Thursday They finally let us out of Abbeville nick this morning, but only after impounding our bicycles in lieu of surety. It is clear to us that the Abbeville force is unquestionably on the take, probably half a dozen fillet steaks per day per man from Mr Bleeding Dubois, but it is not our intention to stay around long enough to get an A10 investigation going. Sooner we are out of this bloody country, the better.
In accordance with this decision, and machines being in a non-available situation as outlined hereinabove, we was away on our toes double-quick with a view to hitch-hiking back to Boulogne.
It was the first stroke of luck we’d had in four days. At 11.14 am, this big truck stops, swarthy occupant in dark glasses, on his way to Boulogne. We got in the back, and he was off like the clappers.
The following conversation then ensued:
PC Garsmold: What’s in them crates, PC Wisley?
PC Wisely: Tinned Fruit, it says on the side. Export to Mexico. I’ll have a shufti. Could be stolen blouses, anything.
PC Wisley then opened a crate.
PC Wisely: False alarm. Great long pointed tins with EXOCET on the side. God knows what that is. Probably the vegetable equivalent of horsemeat.
PC Rimmer: They’ll eat anything, the Frogs.
Upon arrival at the Boulogne docks at 2.18 pm, we were at pains to thank said driver for his assistance and informed him he was the first straight Frenchman we had met. He replied that he was an Argentinian.
That explains it, we said.
38
Smiling Through
Computer scientists in California believe they have evidence that the Mona Lisa was originally wearing a necklace.
Dr John Asmus, who headed a team which investigated the picture using computer image analysis techniques, told yesterday’s annual meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science that Leonardo da Vinci probably changed his mind about the portrait and painted over the necklace.
Independent
‘Hallo!’ shouted Leonardo da Vinci, into the cocoa tin. ‘Is that Florence 2?’
He put the tin to his ear.
From somewhere deep inside came a sound not unlike a cockroach running through iron filings. He took his ear out of the tin again.
‘Speak up!’ he shouted.
&
nbsp; The tin squawked, unintelligibly.
He pulled on the string. Beyond his attic dormer, it tautened above the umber roofscape, scattering sparrows. He was about to put the tin to his ear again, when the string went suddenly slack.
‘Sod it,’ said Leonardo.
He put the cocoa tin back on his desk, and ran out of his studio, slamming the door. Caught in the slipstream of his flying cloak, a preliminary cartoon for The Battle of Anghiari trembled on his easel, floated to the floor, and came to rest face up. The moted sunlight fell across two battered Medici grenadiers crouching in a muddy crater. ‘If you knows of a better ’ole . . .’ the caption began; but, like so much else these days, it was unfinished, and would in all likelihood remain so.
On the landing, Leonardo sprang into the lift, plummeted, screamed, and was hurled off his feet as it stopped without warning between floors. He rang the emergency handbell, and was winched slowly down by a bloomered pupil.
‘Up the spout,’ muttered Leonardo.
‘Up the spout, Master?’ murmured the pupil.
‘It is a technical phrase I have invented,’ replied Leonardo da Vinci, straightening his plume, ‘to describe lifts.’
‘Is it like on the blink, Master?’ enquired the pupil.
‘No,’ said Leonardo. ‘On the blink describes telephones.’
‘Is Florence 1 on the blink again, then?’
‘Yes. There is a fault on the line. It is my opinion the knot has come out of Florence 2.’
‘It is nevertheless,’ said the pupil, simpering warmly, ‘a wonderful invention, and a boon to man!’
‘Inventing the cocoa tin was the hard part,’ said Leonardo. He sniffed, bitterly. ‘You would think that once you’d come up with the cocoa tin, it would all be downhill after that. You would think the string would be a doddle. It’s a bugger, science. Half the time, it makes no bloody sense at all.’ He pushed into the new revolving door which led to his workshop, and the pupil pushed in behind him. After about ten minutes of banging and shrieking, the pupil came out in front.