10:00 – 11:00

I was going to show Mr (so called) Grade that Dennis Brent wasn’t the sort of man who sat on his laurels. For one thing it would squash them (and laurels are quite expensive) and for another thing I had a plan. Wicks had made a fatal error in talking to Dennis Brent in the middle of the night. Robbed of vital sleep he had let slip his heart’s greatest desire when normally there would’ve been a thick wall between honesty and Dennis Brent. He wanted a framed photograph of himself and Grantham in “costume” from the Miss Firkinside Beauty Pageant and a framed photograph of himself and Grantham in “costume” from the Miss Firkinside Beauty Pageant was what he was going to get. Naturally I had no suitable photographs of men in dresses in the vast photographic archive of Brent Towers. Obviously. I considered checking my videocassette collection in the hope of capturing a “screen grab” from ‘Good Afternoon Firkinside With Tim Flimsy and Marion Frott’ but the quality wouldn’t be good enough as the source material is only Super VHS (a mere 500 lines of pictorial definition which is fine for television viewing but would not produce photo-realistic images, alas). There was only one place which would have the necessary image and that was the offices of the Bendaton Bugle.

It was a stroke of luck that the offices were closed when I arrived. A sign on the door read as follows.

“Citizens of Bendaton. The Bugle Staff are on their Christmas Holidays and will return on the 5th of January with a brand new issue. The Bendaton Bugle – Blowing Hard for Bendaton Since 1971”

Below it was a second sign.

“Burglars of Bendaton. The Bugle Staff are working hard throughout the Christmas Holidays but are doing so quietly and in the dark to conserve electricity. Please do not break in as there are either lots of people inside or nothing worth taking anyway. The Bendaton Bugle – Blowing Hard for Bendaton Since 1971”.

I weighed up the evidence and decided that the second sign was a cunning ruse to confuse Bendaton’s only burglar – Mr Dairylee – who was dropped on his head as a child and is easily persuaded. I imagined that the Bendaton Bugle offices were the BBC’s records archive and slipped my Forbidden Planet loyalty card between the lock and the frame and… well I wouldn’t want to incriminate you by going into any extra detail <g>

I crept up the stairs towards the editor’s office.

“I hope you’re not doing anything we’d disapprove of” said Mr Grade loudly. I jumped (in a sensible, manly way naturally) and bumped my head on a dummy of Piers Morgan which hung from the ceiling.

“I am taking all necessary steps to generate festive pleasure” I snapped. “As you requested me to do. Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving me alone.”

“Waking or sleeping, Mr Brent, waking or sleeping.”

“Meh.”

“Sorry?”

“I saw it on some childish website and it seemed to sum up my general feelings at that moment.”

“Good luck Mr Brent. Bwahahaha.”

“It’s good that you enjoy your work but if you wouldn’t mind leaving me to my burg… business.”

I always find it’s a good policy to start at the head and work my way down until I reach the bottom. Hence me being at the editor’s desk and looking for a sensible floor plan which would lead me to the photographic department. I noticed there was a copy of the next issue of the Bugle on his desk. I noticed two odd things about it. Firstly it was reporting stories that hadn’t happened yet and secondly it appeared to have been written by hand. I recognised Mr Cockgrip – the editor – as the author as I had had several childish letters of rejection from him when I had taken time out of my busy schedule to write fascinating pieces for his juvenile paper. The front cover had a close up of Mr Knockers – the decorator who did such an average job of sprucing up Brent Towers – with the headline “Painter Enters Bungalow for Turner Prize – Gloss-finish Swearing Condemned by Homeowner”. After some carefully disguised rummaging I found a plan of the office and made my way down to the photographic suite.

My first instinct was to fill my pockets with as many snaps as possible but, with a slap to my face, I remembered I wasn’t in the BBC archives. I was pleased to note that the room was filled with alphabetical filing cabinets. Unfortunately every single item had been filed under P for Photograph. I began a painstaking search for Miss Firkinside which I feared would take me all day.

After perhaps twenty minutes I had a thought. Some perverts enjoy looking at scantily clad women. The Miss Firkinside Pageant is second only to the Beaver Burger Bar’s Annual Miss Bikini Babe Bash in the Firkinside pornographic stakes. If I were a deviant where would I put such stimulating snaps? Exactly. I stuck my hand down behind the bulging “P” cabinet and withdrew a slim but sticky folder. Inside I found a complete set of Miss Firkinside pictures – myself, Wicks, Grantham, Ian Devine and Tomsin Baker (along with a sensibly dressed Pip and Jane Baker and a sparkly suited Tim Flimsy. I found the best picture of Wicks and Grantham, slipped it into my satchel, returned the folder to its hiding place and switched off the lights.

I was on my way back to the editor’s desk (to have advanced warning of any private advertisements and thereby steal a march on the proles) when I heard footsteps. My heart began to pound in my ears as if melodramatically counting down the seconds.

10:59:58

10:59:59

11:00:00