by AnonYMous
As I approached I heard shrieks of rather camp laughter. I stopped to watch the procession as it made its way round the quadrangle. First came a handsome, silver-haired clergyman. He was dressed in a white and gold embroidered cope and looked as if he were at least a bishop. He was accompanied by a couple of golden-haired little boys in white lace suplices who were swinging incense censers. Then came the two principals. It was a lesbian wedding and both brides were tall blondes in magnificent dresses. Never have I seen such glamour! Despite the incense, the scent of lilies from the chapel was overwhelming. The brides themselves were stupendous – wonderful elaborate hair styles piled up on their heads, discreet, elegant make-up, real lace veils, vertiginous six-inch high heels and perfectly manicured long pink finger-nails. This was a ceremony of the highest quality with no expense spared. I wondered what they both did for a living.
As they glided past, one bride turned to the other. She put her arm round her fiancée and said in a deep, masculine voice, ‘Come on old dear, here we go!’ They smiled at each other and the two of them disappeared into the chapel. There was a burst of clapping from the assembled congregation. ‘Well!’ I thought to myself. ‘A drag wedding! I wonder what the founding fathers of St Sebastian’s missionary college would have thought of that?’
After collecting a pile of letters, I limped back to the car and drove through the suburbs in the direction of the Golf Club. Perched on a hill surrounded by a magnificent golf course stretching across green fields, the Club House was an Edwardian red brick mansion with marble pillars. I caught sight of a sizeable outside swimming pool and an archery range in the distance. I had never been before. It was not the usual haunt of my colleagues – university salaries do not stretch that far.
I parked my old Volkswagen in the car park. It looked shabby beside the glossy Audis, Volvos and Saabs. However, I did notice that there was no outsize Mercedes-Benz. Clearly Helga had won her point over the Flanagan family motor-car. I went directly to the club house and was greeted in the hall by a porter. He was expecting me and led me into a vast Victorian conservatory filled with lush green plants. It had a very good view of the ninth hole. Seated in a large wicker armchair was Flanagan wearing his golf hat. Next to him was a white-haired gentleman with a pink face and slightly trembly hands. Both were drinking large pink gins.
‘Come in, Felix, come in’. The Vice-Chancellor made me welcome and, without even asking my preference, demanded another pink gin for me. I was not used to spirits and was very aware that I was driving. I resolved to make the drink last.
‘This,’ declared the Vice-Chancellor, ‘is Jimmy Brewster. He’s the owner of Brewsters’ Brewery. Brewster by name and Brewer by nature.’ Mr Brewster must have heard that joke a thousand times before, but he still seemed to be amused by it. ‘Now, Felix,’ Flanagan began, ‘how are you?’
‘Much better,’ I said. ‘I don’t need the crutches any more. And I’m feeling fine.’
‘Good to hear it,’ Flanagan said, clicking his fingers for the waiter. He ordered two more pink gins.
‘Now,’ Flanagan began, ‘I’ve something to tell you. Jimmy here is about to retire. Tired of brewing beer, aren’t you Jimmy?’
‘I never liked the stuff anyway,’ said Mr Brewster. His ‘s’ sounds were very slightly slurred.
‘I’ve just got a good slug of money from the European Union,’ continued my boss. ‘The university is going to take over the brewery premises and it’s going to become a centre for our new degree programme in Brewing Technology!’
‘Brewing Technology?’ I asked. I was not sure that I had heard correctly.
‘That’s what I said.’ Flanagan was a man in a hurry. ‘As you know I got rid of that boring bloke Ralph Randolph, but I was stuck with his two remaining chemists. They both have old-style tenure and I couldn’t just give them the push. I was at my wits’ end. But Jimmy here came up with this brilliant idea. The chemists will continue the brewing operation and we’ll keep most of the old brewery staff. That’s what the European Commission cares about. Keeping jobs!’
‘You can call the beer “Flanagan’s Finest”.’ Mr Brewster wheezed with laughter at his little joke.
Flanagan was rather taken with this suggestion. ‘Good idea!’ he said. ‘We were going to introduce Travel and Tourism anyway next year and the brewery can be the centre for all that. We’ll move the Union Bar over there as well. It can be staffed by the students as part of their work experience which’ll save on the salary bill. And we’ll make sure it only stocks our own particular beer. It’ll make a fortune! Can’t lose!’
‘Are you going to rechristen the bar Flanagan’s?’ I asked slyly.
The Vice-Chancellor paused to consider this idea. ‘Well it would bring the whole thing together …,’ he said.
Mr Brewster heaved himself up from his seat. ‘Gotta go, Alf. The little woman creates merry hell if I’m not in for lunch. Good to meet you, Freddie.’ He nodded at me and made his slow way to the door.
I took a deep breath. The university had abandoned degrees in Philosophy and Chemistry. We were now concentrating on Travel and Tourism, Professional Golf and Brewing Technology. How much further would things go?
‘Diversification’s the name of the game,’ Flanagan announced. ‘Got to keep moving. Can’t stand still. Anyway, Brewing Technology’s only one area. We’re having a degree in Professional Golf. Travel and Tourism will take off, mark my words. We’re already snowed under with applications for Celebrity Studies and we’re only just beginning to tap the surface of Film, Dance and Drama.’ The Vice-Chancellor loosened his tie and leant towards me. I could smell the gin on his breath.
‘Now Felix,’ he said. ‘I haven’t forgotten that hot water bottle.’
I felt bewildered. What had hot water bottles to do with Celebrity Studies? Flanagan, however, was in full flow. ‘I’m going to reorganise the university. My predecessor’s scheme was hopelessly uneconomic. We’re going to group all the subjects together under three faculties. There’ll be Social Science, Humanities and, most important of all, Entertainment. I want you to be the Faculty Head of Entertainment.’
‘Me?’ I was astonished.
‘Oh yes.’ Flanagan was very positive. ‘I’ve had my eye on you from the start. And I was quite right. You’ve become a bit of a celebrity yourself. A Hollywood film, and a bestselling novel! That certainly puts your colleagues in Theology in the shade.’
I tried to point out that the film was by no means a certainty, but Flanagan was not listening. ‘No buts!’ he said. ‘I’m appointing you Head of the Entertainment Faculty. It’ll be the largest of the three groups. To begin with it’ll have Dance, Drama, Film, Professional Golf, Celebrity Studies, Brewing Technology and Travel and Tourism.’
‘What about Philosophy?’ I asked quietly.
Flanagan paused for a moment and then he chuckled. ‘Why not? You’d get all your Research Assessment Exercise money and it’d pay for your salary for a few years. Theology won’t be pleased to lose the loot, but too bad! But when the cash runs out, you’ve got to raise your own salary, mind.’
For the first time I was beginning to feel that early retirement was looking like an attractive option. I made one last attempt. ‘But Vice-Chancellor, you don’t know what I’m like as an administrator. Casino Management was not exactly the greatest success.’
‘Not your fault, mate, not your fault.’ He took out his mobile telephone and put it on the table beside him. ‘Sorry about this, don’t want to interrupt our talk, but I’m expecting a call from Florida. Another old orphanage mate, Leroy Jones. Now he had a hell of a time with those monks. He’s half West Indian and they really did treat him like dirt.’
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘Well … it’s quite a story. He ran away from the farm when he was fourteen and the next thing we heard he’d stowed away on a ship going to America. Always did have lots of initiative did Leroy! He settled in Florida and he now owns a chain of dance studios all a
long the coast from Miami to Tallahassee. He calls them the Pussy Galore Clubs.’
‘Pussy Galore?’ I asked.
Flanagan was dismissive, ‘After the James Bond heroine.’
I raised my eyebrows. I could think of another explanation. ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘He wants his students to get degrees and he’s heard that St Sebastian’s offers partnerships. That’s what we’re trying to arrange. He’s always up very early in the morning. It’s about seven in Florida and that’s when he likes to call.’
At that moment the mobile on the table began to cuckoo in a manic fashion. Flanagan turned on the speaker phone and said, ‘Alf here.’
A deep voice with an African-American accent responded, ‘It’s Leroy, mate. I’ve got some news for you, The partnership deal’s sewn up. My share-holders are very keen. They’re sure impressed with the notion of a degree in Artistic Dance. It sounds just fine! And they’re prepared to finance the whole thing ….’
‘That’s great!’ said the Vice-Chancellor, giving me a wink. ‘Look, Leroy,’ he grinned. ‘I’ve got the new Head of the Entertainment Faculty with me now. He’ll be sure to see you right, won’t you Felix?’ I opened my mouth and closed it again.
‘That’s terrific,’ said Leroy. ‘Now there’s just one thing. One of my shareholders raised a question. He’s a boring old fart and went to somewhere like Harvard himself. He didn’t think a university would take us on. You do understand we specialise in exotic dancing, don’t you? We advertise it as artistic, but between you and me, it sure is exotic.’
Flanagan gave a great bellow of laughter ‘We’re flexible, Leroy. That’s the point of St Sebastian’s. Our Entertainment Faculty offers all kinds of dance – ancient dance, modern dance, national dance, exotic dance. It’s all the same to us. Tell them that St Sebastian’s is delighted to take the Pussy Galore Clubs on board. Tell them …,’ the Vice-Chancellor hesitated. Then his voice boomed across the airways to Florida. ‘Tell them at St Sebastian’s we positively specialise in Exotic Dance. Tell them… at St Sebastian’s University … Striptease That’s Us!’
The Whistleblower
For Richard
PROLOGUE
SECRET LIFE OF KINKY CLERIC
The Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral has been EXPOSED by a STUDENT he GRADUATED …
Saucy Susie reveals that he is a regular client …
[Accompanying this article were three photographs. The first was of a pretty young woman in gown and mortar-board receiving her degree certificate from a distinguished-looking clergyman in academic dress. The second showed the same young person, but this time she was dressed in a tight black satin costume with nipped-in waist, high leather boots and a fearsome whip. The third was more fuzzy. It seemed to be of a middle-aged gentleman with very few clothes on. He was cavorting with the girl and, on close inspection, appeared to be the same clergyman as in the first photograph.]
There is a sense of outrage in the normally quiet precincts of St Sebastian’s Cathedral this morning. The Very Reverend Doctor Cyril Woodcock, the Provost of one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the south of England, has been exposed as a liar and a hypocrite.
Woodcock is well-known in ecclesiastical circles as an able administrator and one of the best preachers in the Church of England. Only last year he was a finalist in a competition run by our rival newspaper, its annual ‘Times Preacher of the Year Competition.’ According to our Religious Affairs Correspondent, ‘Woodcock was the favourite, but he was pipped at the post by a rather inspiring nun!’
Today he is not thinking about sermons. Last week, your Sunday Enquirer was approached by the luscious Miss Susie Strict. The severe and beautiful Miss Strict regularly offers her attractions through a well-known escort agency in London. ‘We only advertise in the best places and our services do not come cheap,’ she insisted. ‘I wouldn’t like you to think that the Provost would use any old girl. My agency charges at least two hundred pounds for an hour of my time …’
This did not protect the unfortunate cleric. He did not know that only six months ago, Miss Strict, under her real name of Julia Patterson, graduated with an Upper Second degree in Dance and Drama from the local University of St Sebastian’s. The Provost, as the Visitor of the University, conducted the Degree Ceremony and gave her her diploma at a public ritual in front of hundreds.
‘My mum and dad and little brother came down from Wolverhampton to see me graduate in my academic costume. They were really, really proud that I’d done so well. I shook the Provost’s hand. There’s a photo of me. He gave me my certificate and afterwards we all had lunch. My family were thrilled to see the Provost close to. My mum said that he looked a very holy man and he gave an ever so funny speech at the ceremony,’ Miss Strict told the Enquirer.
‘It wasn’t easy to get a regular job after I graduated and of course I had a lot of student debts. So I thought I’d just help out a bit at the agency and they introduced me to some very nice men. Some of them were very generous and I soon had my own personal client list. One of the other girls got ill and she asked me to take over one of her regulars. She said he turned up about once a month and was no trouble at all. I just had to spend forty minutes or so spanking his bottom.’
‘Well of course I recognised the Provost straight away. I could hardly keep a straight face and I almost told him the truth once I got his trousers off. But I didn’t want to spoil the old fellow’s fun so I kept quiet. But then I thought that it really wasn’t right. There he was pretending to be ever so holy, saying prayers and giving sermons and all that and all the time he was cheating on his wife and visiting escort agencies. So I took a few photos of him with my mobile phone. He was so excited he never noticed and the next day I contacted the Sunday Enquirer.’
This is yet another blow for the Church of England. Cyril Woodcock was tipped for the very highest office in the Church. He is not the first clergyman in his family. His father was for many years Archdeacon of Wellington while his grandfather was Bishop of Basutuland in the 1920s. There was never a breath of scandal about either of them. Cyril Woodcock himself was until today a respected member of the British establishment. He was said to be heading for great things. There was even talk that he might some day become Archbishop of Cannonbury. Yet like so many of his fellow vicars, he just could not resist temptation …
After a tip-off early yesterday, Woodcock and his wife were seen driving their car out of the St Sebastian’s cathedral precincts, heading for an unknown destination. Mrs Woodcock looked stony-faced. Through its press secretary, the cathedral has announced that the Provost has tendered his resignation. The official communiqué declares, ‘He wishes to spend more time concentrating on his family and his academic work. He has an important book on the Holy Spirit to write.’ When your Editor confronted the cathedral spokesman on the telephone with the true facts, the Press Secretary stuttered that it was all most regrettable. ‘It could happen to any of us …’ he said and put the receiver down. Since then the telephone has been permanently on the answering machine …
For an in-depth interview and further pictures of the saucy Miss Strict, please turn to our double-page feature on pages 6 and 7.
CHAPTER ONE
Miss Strict Strikes Back
It was a beautiful day in mid-October. The leaves had turned and were gently drifting off the trees as we drove through rural Shropshire. Ahead of us were the misty Welsh hills and the air felt fresh and clean. My wife and I were on our way to visit my father-in-law, Sir William Dormouse. Although nearly ninety, the old man continued to live in the castle of his ancestors on the Welsh border. Victoria was excited. She was devoted to her father and this was the countryside in which she had grown up. In a real sense she was returning to her roots.
I had just retired. For many years, I had taught Christian ethics at St Sebastian’s University, but three years ago I had been offered a retirement job at a small liberal arts college in the United States. I, Professor Harry Gilbert, had held the Thomas
Jefferson Porpoise Distinguished Chair of Theology at Sweetpea College, Virginia. It had been a successful and happy experience, but we had increasingly missed our friends and relations in England. In particular, Victoria was worried about her father. By any standard he was not young and the family felt that the time had come for him to hand over the castle to his eldest son Billy and to move into some sort of sheltered accommodation. Even Sir William was becoming adjusted to the idea. It was time for us to come home.
Billy and his wife Selina had invited us to stay at the castle for several weeks. The idea was that Victoria would help her sister-in-law find a suitable place for the old man and, at the same time, we would identify a nice retirement cottage for ourselves. We still owned our old house near St Sebastian’s. It had been locked up while we were in America, but someone had come in weekly to clean and mow the lawn. Most of our furniture was still there and it would have been possible to move straight back. But Victoria was Sir William’s only daughter and she wanted to be nearer her father. We felt that our life in St Sebastian’s belonged to the past. We wanted something new. So we planned to stay on the Welsh border while we went house-hunting.
We passed through lush green valleys dotted with sheep and stark black and white Shropshire buildings. Eventually, we came upon a huge pair of stone gates surmounted by two Welsh dragons. We drove through them down a long gravelled drive. I could remember a time, not so long ago, when the drive was almost impassable with puddles and potholes, but now it was smooth and well-maintained with a fresh layer of gravel. We also passed a series of cottages. They all looked prosperous and in good repair. Then, in the distance, we had our first glimpse of the vast grey castle with its Regency turrets and romantic battlements which was my wife’s ancestral home. A Welsh flag was flying from the roof and crows and ravens were circulating round the towers, outlined against the cool October sky.