by Bill Whiting
Computer voice: ‘Hello and welcome to the Cosworth Emergency Services. You are in a queue, so please wait a short time for assistance (music plays for two minutes).’
Then…
Computer voice: ‘Hello, you have reached the Cosworth Emergency Services Selection Station. Please press one for general enquiries; two for media enquiries; three for our maps and local service; four for police; five for ambulance or six for the fire service – or press the appropriate numbers in succession if you require a combination of police, fire and ambulance services.’
Then, you press button six and…
Computer voice: ‘Hello, you have reached the fire service. You are in a queue, so please wait a short time for assistance (music plays for three minutes).’Then…
‘Hello, this is the fire service. For emergencies please press one followed by hash. For other services press two followed by star.’
You press one/hash and then…
Computer voice: ‘Welcome to the fire emergency service. Please enter your postal code, followed by your national insurance number. If you do not have a national insurance number, please press two, followed by hash.’
You then dash to get your national insurance number and then tap the numbers in (after closing the kitchen door as smoke enters the hall)…
Computer voice: ‘Hello, you have reached the fire emergency call-out unit. Your call is important to us, so please wait a short time for assistance (music plays).’
You step out of your front door to escape the smoke and heat, but then finally hear a real voice…
Man with foreign accent: “This is fire service, How may help you today?”
You: “My house is on fire. I need a fire engine now!”
Man: “Ah, emergency! Your name and where you live please?”
You: “My name is Mulcahy.”
Man: “Ah, mister Mil… Mul… How do you spell?”
You: “M-U-L-C-A-H-Y. Who the hell are you anyway?”
Man: “Telephone name, Keith.”
You: “Forget it, Keith – it’s too late.”
Miller sat reading the freshly printed edition of the Chronicle, winced a little, and turned to King. “You don’t think this is a teeny bit over the top then?”
“No, it’s fine,” King said. “Shocking, but perfectly believable in this weird day and age. And, anyway, no-one can prove whether the stories are true or not. They’ll be denied, of course, or they’ll just dismiss them as crackpot rumours.”
“Did you print their denials?” Miller asked.
“I would have done,” King replied, “but I didn’t ring them until one o’clock in the night and we went to print at six. Not my fault if they work nine to five. News happens twenty-four seven. Anyway, I can print their denials next week. Meantime, the world will have moved on.”
Miller flicked through the Chronicle and stopped on the Readers’ Letters page. “I see there’s plenty of letters from readers all of a sudden. Bit off-beat, aren’t they?”
Miller started to read out loud:
I am a well-known anti-smoking campaigner and last week appeared on television in Scotland to warn people that this habit is costing them and society dear. I took my ten-year-old son with me to Glasgow. You can imagine my horror on returning home to find someone had stuck three high-strength nicotine patches on the back of my son’s neck. It’s smokers’ revenge. As a result I am now extending my campaign to have these dangerous patches banned by law (name and address supplied, but withheld at writer’s request).
“Can’t you think of something more realistic than that?” Miller asked. “Like, can’t you do a letter complaining about the parking restrictions in the town or something?”
“Nothing wrong with that letter,” King protested. “Quite possible, I reckon. Smokers get right pissed off with the anti-smoking preachers.”
“Well, what about this one then?” Miller said.
When I watched the Remembrance Day Service on TV, the commentator annoyed me by stating that the first war stopped precisely at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. I believe that, in fact, hundreds of men must have been killed after eleven o’clock, because there were ten million soldiers involved and the old-fashioned watches they had in those days were always quite a bit slow or fast. I know these things, because I am very interested in watches and clocks (name and address supplied, but withheld at writer’s request).
“I mean, why do all these letters have to be from nutters?” Miller asked.
“Not as nuts as you think,” King answered. “I had exactly that thought myself once, during a long night on an aeroplane.”
“Okay, you’re the editor, Bill,” Miller said, “but for God’s sake try and make this stuff a bit more realistic. I mean, you’ve got somebody here who says meat-eating cats are nearly always thin and grass-eating cows are nearly always fat, so it proves the Atkins high protein and high fat diet works. And there’s someone else here saying the NHS should treat flatulence urgently because farts contain gasses which contribute to global warming.”
“Okay, fair point,” King said. “I’ll see to it next week.”
Miller moved on a page and began reading intently. “Rachel,” he said, “this problem page is a bit far out too. It’s a family newspaper, you know.”
Rachel looked up and said, “Starting on me now then, are you? What’s the problem?”
“Well, for a start,” Miller said, “you’ve got somebody here who’s in love with an Alsatian dog and says it’s mutual and they should be entitled to a legal civil marriage.”
“Well, there’s a lot of funny stuff goes on in this world, you know,” Rachel replied, “and anyway, if you read the whole thing, you’ll see she’s asking for a legal wedding, so if she dies the dog can inherit her money.”
“Well, how about this one then,” Miller said.
I was at a lap-dancing club where a naked girl stripped off and gesticulated in a lewd manner on top of the table where I was sitting. A pubic hair fell in my beer and I swallowed it. Do you think I may have caught a sexually transmitted disease?
“No, be fair,” King interrupted. “I wrote that one. Something like that happened to me in Bangkok, only worse. A girl at a club had an act where she shot ping-pong balls out of her vagina, and one went straight into my beer. Luckily, I spotted it, but I might not have done. It was really dark in there.”
“Well, I think I’ll join the editorial team from now on then,” Miller said. “Looks like a lot more fun than flogging advertising. I’m getting nowhere with that. I think all the local businesses have been nobbled by the Post. They’re discounting their rates to put the squeeze on us. We’re going to have to do the same. We can’t afford it, but needs must.”
“Well, at least you can show the advertisers that the Chronicle’s editorial content has improved a lot,” King said. “That means more people will bother to flick through the pages and see the ads.”
“Good point,” Miller responded, “but we need money badly.”
As the discussion at the Chronicle continued, the management at the Post were gathering inside Sir Basil Hathaway’s office. “Come on, hurry up!” Hathaway boomed, as his eyes began to bulge.
Already at the table, McKinlay stared down and sank low into his seat.
“I’m not happy,” Hathaway began. “Not happy at all. Advertising Department: good work! Promotions Department: good work! Editorial Department: an absolutely bloody awful performance! What are you doing, McKinlay? This week, we’ve led the paper with a pathetic storm in a teacup: ‘Residents protest at removal of pedestrian crossing’. Meanwhile, have you seen the Chronicle?”
Hathaway angrily hurled a copy of the Chronicle across the table. “Read it!” he shouted. “The local fire brigade are going to pot and the local church has gone stark raving mad. And we missed both. The biggest
stories in these parts in ages, and they get not one word in the Post – while a bunch of moaning old women who can’t figure out how to cross a bloody road get forty column inches.”
“But our story is true, Sir,” McKinlay protested.
“Well,” Hathaway shouted back, “you’d better get on to the county council and the church diocese and get them to damn well do something about it then.”
“Do what, Sir?”
“Sue the buggers, of course,” Hathaway screamed. “This must be libellous or something. It’s defamatory. It’s scaremongering. Lies, lies, damn lies, and they won’t get away with it!”
“I’ll get on to it straight away, Sir,” McKinlay said, rising from his seat, “and we’ll run a story ourselves next week, exposing the Chronicle for gutter journalism.”
“And while you’re at it, you can fire whoever edits the Readers’ Letters page,” Hathaway said.
“What’s wrong there, Sir?” McKinlay asked.
Hathaway glared. “What’s wrong?” he said. “How come they’ve got all these letters in the Chronicle? Very interesting too, some of them. But what have we got? Boredom, that’s what we’ve got. See this one, let me read it out for you…”
Sir, I have discovered that the building at number sixteen Silver Street, Cosworth, was once occupied by W. G. Beattie, who was the Southern Railway Company Locomotive Superintendent and Chief Mechanical Engineer from 1850 to 1871. Readers may know that the revolutionary prototype Bo-Bo Deltic D5903 diesel engine, which had a massive tractive effort of seventy thousand pounds and weighed one hundred and thirty-eight tons and two hundredweight, was named Beattie, after our former resident. However, they may not be aware that Mr Beattie’s grandfather inspired the earlier development of the famous X-Class steam engine, with the breakthrough superheated taper boiler, producing a remarkable two hundred pounds per square inch to the twin outside cylinders, which drove the world’s first trailing driver traction wheels. In light of this and the obvious strong points of interest to tourists, I think the council should consider applying a blue historic plaque to the front of the building. A vast number of people are extremely interested in tractive…
“And it goes on and on to fill a whole boring column,” Hathaway raged. “What’s going on?”
“I agree it’s a wee bit dull, Sir,” McKinlay answered, sheepishly, “but you’d be surprised how much interest there is in railway history. It could well be that—”
“McKinlay,” Hathaway interrupted, “number sixteen Silver Street is the building occupied by the Chronicle. Who wrote the letter?”
“Er… Mr W. King, Sir,” McKinlay answered, looking puzzled.
“Yes,” Hathaway raged, “King – the co-owner of the Chronicle! It’s a wind-up. They’re getting us to print unbelievably dull and fatuous letters. There’s another one here saying how incredibly repetitive it would be if the ants, walking in two parallel long lines in opposite directions – one line to and one line from the nest – had to keep saying good morning to each other. And we fell for that too. And others here! Sack the letters page editor, McKinlay, and pull your socks up, or you’ll be next to go.”
The room sat in silence. “Well, get on with your work then,” Hathaway boomed. “Go on. Out! Out! And make sure those liars at the Chronicle get what’s coming to them.”
Meanwhile, back at the Chronicle office, the discussion continued about the advertising crisis.
“I think this is a numbers game,” Miller said. “It’s like selling double glazing. Knock on enough doors and we can get the advertising in. We need the money, so we should lend a hand with selling space. If we don’t sell more, nothing else will matter.”
“So what do we tell the advertisers?” King asked. “Please help because we’re going broke?”
“I’ve worked the sales pitch out,” Miller answered. “For a start, we tell them that our display ad column-inch rate is ten per cent below the Post. But our free delivered circulation is thirty per cent more than that of the Post’s paid-for sales. Take off thirty per cent for disinterested people who bin the Chronicle straight away – a generous number considering the big editorial improvement we’ve now got – and it means our cost per thousand readers is fifty-four per cent better than the Post.”
“I’m not sure I’ll remember all that,” King said, “but I’ll try.”
“It’s a damn good pitch, Bill,” Miller said. “Those local businessmen are money-minded. They pick pennies and go for value every time. Put a fifty-four per cent efficiency gain in their faces and you’ve got their attention.”
“Tits would work better,” Rachel said.
“Tits,” Miller said in a puzzled tone.
“Yes,” Rachel said, “a nice pair of tits in their faces would get a lot more attention that all that cost-per-thousand stuff. Those businessmen are even more interested in tits than they are in money. If you appeal to their heads, you won’t spark much interest. But if you get the balls first, the mind is guaranteed to follow.”
Miller and King looked at each other knowingly. Rachel had a point.
“So what exactly are you saying, Rachel – what do we do then?” Miller asked.
“First, we hire a new sales rep,” Rachel answered. “She needs to be young, slim and blonde. She needs long legs, pouting lips, nice black eyelashes and minimum thirty-six-inch D-cup tits. Then we put her in a miniskirt with white boots and a tight white T-shirt, with ‘Chronicle’ printed on the chest. She will then go into the punters’ offices, with white boards on easels and marker pens, and write down the key points of your sales blurb, as she makes our pitch.”
“Could we get a rep like that to handle the sales pitch professionally?” Miller asked.
“Well, the main thing,” Rachel answered, “is that she remembers to drop her marker pen at regular intervals. The sales pitch won’t matter much if she keeps her legs straight while she bends over to pick the pen up. The punters will want to hear the pitch three times a week and will soon know it off by heart.”
Miller and King looked at each other again, open-mouthed.
“Cynical, misogynous, socially unacceptable – and pure genius!” Miller said. “One big snag, though. We can’t afford to hire a sales rep.”
“Well, I’ve got some money coming to me and I would be prepared to put some into the business if you give me a bigger share,” Rachel said. “I could also be the sales rep.”
“How much money?” Miller asked.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” Rachel answered.
“Twenty fucking grand!” King shouted. “That would do it. How much share do you want?”
“Bring my share up to a third,” Rachel said.
“We’ve got no choice,” Miller told King. “We’re dead otherwise.”
King nodded. “Okay, Rachel, you’re on.”
As Rachel shook hands with Miller and King, Miller asked her where her windfall was coming from. “Someone left you money in their will?”
“No,” Rachel said, “I’m going to win the twenty-thousand-pound prize in the Post’s reader competition this week.”
Miller and King both looked stunned. “Shit, she hasn’t got twenty grand, she’s got a fucking lottery ticket,” King said.
“No, hang on a minute,” Miller told him, as he turned to Rachel. “Why do you think you’re going to win?”
“I just think I will,” Rachel answered, “but it’s got nothing to do with the fact that I know the promotions manager at the Post is playing away from home, and screwing my cousin twice a week. Nor anything to do with the fact that I phoned him this morning and told him that I know he’s cheating on his wife. No, it’s nothing to do with that. I just feel lucky, that’s all.”
Miller whistled a cartoon theme tune and declared, “That’s all, folks!”
ELEVEN
Miller and King were able to look forward to the
new week in a more confident mood. They were not yet out of the woods, and still far from the riches they dreamed of, but the darkness of recent weeks had at last been broken by a slim ray of hope. More important still: they were on the offensive. The combined punches of Khan, Hathaway and McKinlay had put them on the floor for the count of nine. But now they were back on their feet and ready for another round.
As the radio alarm sounded in the office, Miller and King both leapt from their camp beds in a race to reach the telephone on Rachel’s desk. Miller was first to get there and touch it. “Me first,” he shouted in triumph.
“Fair enough, I’ll get the bloody coffee,” King said.
Three days after they had first moved into the office, they had made a pact: the first one to touch Rachel’s phone would be entitled to be first to climb into the sink in the office’s tiny kitchen. The pact had ensured that acrimonious disputes, which had occurred in their first few days, were avoided. The arguments had resulted in shouting matches and aggressive shoving; and had they continued, the pair would certainly have come to more serious blows.
The kitchen sink, with a hose fitted, served as their shower; and using it for this was a messy, time-consuming and, since it was some four feet high, precarious business. In particular, placing the hose between their legs and directing the water upwards to rinse the crack between their buttocks, was an almost impossible manoeuvre to execute without soaking the entire kitchen area. They had therefore agreed that they would shower immediately one after the other, in order that only one clean-up was needed. The loser in the race to touch Rachel’s phone, not only had to shower second, but also had to clean up. A simple agreement to rotate the order on alternate days would have been easier, but both had calculated, separately and selfishly, that they would benefit from a competitive, rather than co-operative, process.