The Reginald Perrin Omnibus

by David Nobbs

  ‘Did you really expect that you would be as successful as you have been?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. I only started it all as a joke.’

  ‘A joke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you are on record as saying that you perform a social service.’

  ‘Yes. I thought that was the sort of thing they like to hear on the BBC, so I said that on Pillock Talk, which you asked me not to mention. Incidentally, your drinks are better than theirs.’

  ‘But do you believe that you perform a social service?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you said you did.’

  ‘I’m a liar. A congenial liar.’

  ‘Don’t you mean a congenital liar?’

  ‘No. I’m in a very good mood.’

  Sheridan Trethowan looked as if he was about to be sick. Those with colour sets rushed to adjust them.

  ‘Social service schmocial schmervice,’ said Reggie. ‘I’d given a quarter of a century to puddings. I’d ended up working on a pig farm. I wanted a bit of fun. I thought I’d go down with flying colours, cock one last snook.’

  ‘Instead of which you’ve been a great success?’

  Terrible, isn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t welcome your success.’

  ‘Of course not. Frightful bore.’

  Reggie smiled angelically.

  ‘Very briefly, because we don’t have much time . . .,’ said Sheridan Trethowan, thinking privately: ‘Thank God.’

  ‘That’s your fault,’ interrupted Reggie. ‘You shouldn’t have squeezed me in at the end of the programme because you were narked with me for talking to the BBC.’

  ‘Very briefly, Mr Perrin, where do you go from here?’

  ‘Home. You should have cut that item about the reorganization of local government. Boring boring. Yawn yawn.’

  ‘Reginald Perrin, thank you.’

  Nobody seemed very upset that Reggie had so blatantly contradicted himself. In fact they all said that they would watch him on Money-Go-Round on BBC2.

  The producer of Money-Go-Round seemed a little narked.

  ‘You didn’t tell us you were going on BBC 1 and ITV,’ he said, in the hospitality room.

  ‘You might not have wanted me on your programme if I had,’ said Reggie with a sweet smile, accepting the proffered glass of whisky.

  ‘Anyway,’ said the producer, ‘I don’t go for the recriminations bit. Besides, your appearances have sparked off some interest.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m trying to make things interesting for you by saying different things on each programme. I thought tonight I’d talk about the philosophical questions posed by my shops.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be quite relevant,’ said the producer. ‘You’re part of a series about British businessmen moving into Europe. Last week we did a featurette about how our washing up liquids are cleaning up in the Iberian peninsula.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Reggie. ‘I see. Is the programme live?’

  ‘Yes. We still go for the live bit here. It keeps us all on our toes, keeps us up to the minute news-wise.’

  ‘Good,’ said Reggie. ‘Good.’

  The interviewer was Peregrine Trembleby. They sat in elegant chairs at either side of a glass table.

  ‘Britain in Europe,’ said Peregrine Trembleby, following a montage of introductory shots of the continent in question. ‘Tonight we meet Reginald Perrin, one of the most fascinating men on the British shop scene. High Street prankster or social visionary? Well, Europe is soon going to have a chance to make its own mind up, because Mr Perrin’s rapid-growth brain child, the rubbish chain Grot, is really beginning to move into the Hauptstrasses and grandes rues. Which countries are you aiming to infiltrate, Mr Perrin?’

  ‘Well, Peregrine, I’d like to talk if I may, briefly, about the philosophical basis of my commercial enterprise. I confess to being worried that there are innate and inevitable paradoxes inherent in the concept behind Grot.’

  ‘And you feel that this is relevant to what you may find in Europe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it’s the European side of the venture that we are interested in tonight.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Peregrine Trembleby smiled. His smile had charmed Vietnamese generals, British politicians, French financiers and even Norman Mailer. He saw no reason why it shouldn’t charm Reginald Perrin.

  ‘Let’s leave individual countries for a while,’ he said, ‘and talk about Europe in general. How do you expect the average man in the rue and the Strasse to react to your shops?’

  ‘I state that everything in our shops is useless,’ said Reggie. ‘Yet people buy them. Either they buy them because they can find a use for them, in which case they are ipso facto not useless, or they buy them because they like useless things. Are they therefore no longer useless? Isn’t to be liked to be of use?’

  ‘Mr Perrin, I do wish to discuss your ventures with particular regard to Europe. Have you had any marketing surveys made on the Continent?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked me that,’ said Reggie.

  He paused. Peregrine Trembleby gave a little half smile. His little half smile had charmed half the little Vietnamese generals he had interviewed. He hoped desperately that it would half charm Reginald Perrin.

  ‘Let’s posit a man who makes an entirely pointless speech,’ said Reggie. ‘He is told: “I thought your speech was pointless.” He replied: “That was the point. I wished to prove that one can make a completely pointless speech.” Was his speech pointless or did it in fact have a point? I’m no philosopher. I just toss these things into the cauldron of speculation.’

  A thin film of sweat was breaking out on Peregrine Trembleby’s domed brow.

  ‘Mr Perrin, I am talking about Britain in Europe,’ he said.

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry, Trembleby old man,’ said Reggie. ‘None of your questions has yet fired me with enthusiasm. Try again, though. We may get the European kite into the air yet.’

  ‘Have you learnt anything from the highly successful experiences of firms like Marks and Spencer in Europe?’

  ‘Take a cruet set with no holes. We say: “The purpose of a cruet set is for condiments to emerge when it is tilted, the better to season our food. We tilt this cruet set, but it has no holes in it. Therefore no condiments emerge. It is useless.”’

  ‘Mr Perrin, please …’

  ‘It is useless as a cruet set. But maybe it is decorative. Maybe it is prettier than a cruet set with holes. Maybe it amuses people. What merry laughter will ring round the family table as short-sighted Uncle George endeavours to season his soup!’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about cruet sets.’

  ‘But I do. Because a pretty little proposition now awaits us. We posit an object which is useful as a cruet set with no holes. We may then say of all other cruet sets: “What a useless cruet set with no holes. It’s got holes. See, the salt and pepper are trickling out. What kind of a cruet set with no holes is that?”’

  ‘Mr Perrin!’

  ‘Perhaps my quest for true uselessness is useless,’ said Reggie. ‘Perhaps the pursuit of uselessness is the only truly useless thing.’

  ‘Reginald Perrin, thank you,’ said Peregrine Trembleby.

  The reaction to Reggie’s television appearances appalled him. People shook him by the hand and said it was about time those TV interviewers were taken down a peg or two.

  At Perrin Products several people thought it was all a splendid publicity gimmick.

  Early on Friday evening, trudging home wearily through the Poets’ Estate, Reggie suggested to Elizabeth that they stop for a quick one at the Ode and Sonnet.

  The Ode and Sonnet was mock-Tudor outside and reproduction furniture inside. They were hailed by several members of the early evening Climthorpe crowd who were discussing the death of their MP.

  ‘I wonder who we’ll get to replace him,’ pondered the branch manager of a finance company.

  The usual bag
of dum-dums, I expect,’ put in a history master noted for his cynicism towards anyone born after 1850.

  ‘I had a lot of time for Simon Watkins,’ admitted the managing director of a clock factory.

  ‘He wasn’t a Winston Churchill,’ opined a solicitor. ‘He wasn’t an Aneurin Bevan. He wasn’t even a Barbara Castle. But he was a good constituency man.’

  ‘When he first got in everybody thought he was a dumdum,’ recalled Reggie.

  ‘That’s politics,’ declared the history master.

  ‘Why don’t you stand, Reggie? You’ve got the gift of the gab,’ suggested an ear, nose and throat specialist.

  ‘What would he stand as?’ posed Elizabeth.

  ‘Independent. We need a bit less of the party line in this country,’ averred a systems analyst. ‘We need a few individuals.’

  ‘Stand as the party of the individual,’ agreed the branch manager of the finance company. ‘Give them all a run for their money.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Reggie.

  Chapter 25

  Reggie decided that if he was to have any chance of destroying his empire he must sack the four men whom he had appointed in order to destroy it.

  He arranged to see them all in his office at hourly intervals, on Monday, October the eighteenth.

  Tom came first. He sat down, glanced with ill-concealed distaste at the paintings by Drs Snurd, Underwood and Wren, and waited confidently, ignorant of the storm that Reggie was intending to break over his head.

  ‘Well, Tom,’ said Reggie. ‘You’re having quite a success.’

  ‘I’m amazed,’ said Tom. ‘I had no idea I was a publicity person.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Reggie. ‘Yes, you’ve done very well. It’s a pity you aren’t happy.’

  ‘I am happy, Reggie.’

  ‘You’re a man of conscience, Tom, a man of integrity. You’re miserable in your work.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I assure you that you are, Tom.’

  ‘I’ve never been happier in my life, Reggie. Linda and I – we always tried to conceal it from you, but we went through some bad times. We’re happy now, Reggie.’

  ‘This happiness is a cloak, Tom, with which you hide your misery.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense,’ said Tom.

  ‘I’ll give you a golden handshake.’

  Tom stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘I don’t want a golden handshake,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything for nothing. I’m just not an anything for nothing person. I want to work here, Reggie. Anyone could have done my job at the estate agent’s, but I doubt if there’s a single person in the whole world who could do my job here quite like I do it.’

  ‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘I doubt if there is.’

  He would sack the other three, but he couldn’t sack Tom, for Linda’s sake.

  Jimmy came next. The grey on the unfrocked warrior’s hair was spreading steadily, but his back was still ram-rod straight.

  ‘Well, Jimmy,’ said Reggie. ‘Still hankering after the smell of cordite and the rumble of distant guns?’

  ‘Fighting days over,’ said Jimmy. ‘Learnt my lesson. Lüneburg Heath, tactical exercise, captured Fidel Castro single-handed. Not really Fidel Castro of course. Second Lieutenant Jelly. Represented Fidel Castro. Proud moment, though. Never thought I’d be as happy. Am.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Clive Anstruther, thing of past. Wound healed. No bitterness. May he rot in hell. I’ve a new life here, Reggie. Alongside you. Alongside big sister.’

  He couldn’t sack Jimmy, for Elizabeth’s sake.

  He would sack the other two, but he couldn’t sack members of his own family.

  With Doc Morrissey he tried a different tack.

  ‘I’ve got the Doc’s report. Doc,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  Reggie had persuaded Doc Morrissey to undergo a medical examination.

  ‘It doesn’t mean a lot to me,’ said Reggie. ‘You were a doctor. You’ll understand it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Doc Morrissey without conviction.

  ‘You have advanced carconic deficiency of the third testicle and incipient nephritic collapse. Your hydrophylogy is weak and there’s faint pullulation of the sphynctular crunges.’

  ‘I see,’ said Doc Morrissey, shifting nervously in his chair.

  ‘As I understand it, these symptoms are not necessarily grave individually, but the combination is pretty serious. But you don’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘Well, I’m a bit vague about some of these terms,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘There are a whole lot of new parts of the body since I was at medical school. It … er … it doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘No.’

  Doc Morrissey stood up. Suddenly he looked old. If Reggie hadn’t known that there was no such thing, he would have thought the ex-medico was suffering from incipient nephritic collapse.

  And Reggie realized how much he liked his old friend, how deep was the bond formed by their changing fortunes.

  ‘I made all that up,’ he said wearily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re in excellent health for your age. All that stuff about testicles was balls.’

  Doc Morrissey sat down again. He gave a sigh of relief and mystification.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you this,’ said Reggie. ‘I employed you because I thought you’d be a failure.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? I wanted to destroy all this. You’ve let me down, all of you. You’ve been successful.’

  Doc Morrissey grinned ruefully.

  ‘I surprised myself,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t sack you,’ said Reggie. ‘Have a cigar?’

  Doc Morrissey took the ritual cigar. His hands were shaking.

  ‘I seem to have a natural talent for overall strategy,’ he said. ‘You were right, whether you meant to be or not.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ten per cent rise,’ said Reggie, ‘if you’ll try not to be quite so brilliant in future.’

  ‘It’ll be difficult,’ said Doc Morrissey, ‘but I’ll try.’

  He would sack Seamus Finnegan, but he couldn’t sack old friends.

  There was a gleam of sharp intelligence in Seamus Finnegan’s eyes. Reggie would have noticed it when they first met if it hadn’t been dulled by drink.

  ‘What do you think of my pictures?’ said Reggie, noting the Limerick wizard’s glance.

  ‘Novices,’ said Seamus Finnegan. ‘They will fall at the first fence.’

  ‘How are the reorganizations coming along?’ said Reggie.

  ‘Very well, sir. A little too well for you, I think.’

  ‘What can you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, sir, I think when you employed me and some of the other eejits you were thinking you would bring the company to its knees.’

  ‘Why on earth should I want to do a ridiculous thing like that?’ said Reggie.

  He knew then that he would never sack anybody.

  The employment of C.J. had also turned out to be a mistake. Not only was he running the European side of things too efficiently, but he was mooning over Elizabeth. It had become so obvious of late that even the tea-lady had noticed.

  A mention of this might perhaps persuade C.J. to leave.

  ‘Come,’ said C.J. with a residue of his erstwhile hauteur.

  Reggie entered.

  ‘Ah, Reggie. Welcome to my modest den.’

  Reggie sat in the chair provided. C.J.’s office was a drab symphony of window, filing cabinet and dingy brown paint, much like Reggie’s office of yore.

  ‘You’re in love with my wife,’ said Reggie.

  ‘What?’ said C.J., turning pale.

  ‘Will you go to the trade fair on the ninth?’

  ‘Oh … er … yes. For one moment I … what trade fair?’

  Reggie met C.J.’s eyes and smiled pleasantly.

  ‘You gaze at her like a love-lorn moose,’ he said.

  ‘I … er �
� I’m sorry,’ croaked C.J.

  ‘Milan,’ said Reggie. ‘I think it’s about time we tried to break into the Italian market. Turin, Milan, Florence, Rome.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said C.J. ‘Certainly in the north.’

  ‘If you find the situation embarrassing and want to leave, I shall understand,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Yes, I … I … yes. I’ll bear that in mind,’ said C.J.

  ‘Good. Well, perhaps you’d like to go on a four-day Italian recce, then.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Reggie,’ said C.J. with difficulty. ‘Nothing like that has ever happened to me before, and it won’t happen again. I didn’t get where …’

  ‘… you are today …’

  ‘… by being in love with…’

  ‘… my wife.’

  ‘Perish the thought, Reggie.’

  ‘Goodbye, C.J.’

  Mr Milford had set up a committee to organize Reggie’s election campaign. Bar takings at the golf club were down two point three per cent.

  Reggie would make his first election speech on Saturday. Encouraging support had been promised. The venue was the Methodist Hall in Westbury Park Road. There was no hall on the Poets’ Estate. It had never occurred to anyone that the inhabitants could possibly want to meet each other.

  A loudspeaker was being fitted on to Mr Pelham’s car, and Reggie would tour the shopping areas on Saturday.

  Leaflets and posters were the responsibility of Climthorpe Football Club through their usual printers, G. F. Fry (Printers) of Hanwell.

  FITTOCK, CLENCH (2) and PUNT had all promised votes.

  Reggie had seen the photographs of the Conservative, Labour and Liberal candidates. All three looked like dumdums.

  Even so, it was a surprise, on opening the Evening Standard on Thursday, October the twenty-first, to read the results of the first opinion poll.

  Thirty-four per cent said they would support Reggie.

  ‘My God,’ he said, as they turned out of Wordsworth Drive into Tennyson Avenue. ‘I’m going to get into Parliament now.’