I wanted somewhere private to have the necessary conversation with Philip Stiffit. He suggested the Hall of Mirrors and I reluctantly agreed. I stared at my reflection in the glass and an ugly, misshapen creature stared back. A grotesquely hunched body stretched painfully beneath a wide and lumpy head. I roared at this comical sight.

“Come on Den - the Hall of Mirrors is through here” called Philip Stiffit.

We stood before an undulating glass, neither of us able to say anything through the thick fog of hatred and loathing which engulfed us.

“So, you’ve been keeping well, Den?”

“...nis Brent. Yes, not too bad, Philip Stiffit” I replied.

“I mean, apart from the dying thing.”

“Yes, well, that did rather cast a pall.”

“Except that you're not really dead.”

“No, well, that helped a bit I admit.”

“Faking your own death, Den.”

“...nis Brent. I didn't.”

“At least Reggie Perrin faked his death and came back a few days later with a beard. You've cleverly faked your own death and come back dressed as yourself. I think the last person to do that was Jesus.”

“I didn't fake my own death, Philip Stiffit, it was the newspapers and the police who declared me dead. I was on my way to correct it when people started being nice to me and giving me things and I realised everything would be so much better if everyone thought I was someone else. I didn't know that the Dennis Brent brand was such a cult favourite amongst the proles. If I'd known I would've franchised and licensed myself years ago. All these Dennis Brent impersonators - think how much money I could've made from giving them a special seal of approval or a permit.”

“That's all very well, Den, but my conscience is pricked” he told me with a look of faked gravity on his face.

“Live and let live” I said with a warm smile.

“But that's just it - I feel morally obliged to tell these people that you're not dead. That their fun and joy and pleasure and ecstasy and celebration and entertainment and happiness at your death is based on one small misunderstanding.”

“Couldn't you just... forget you've seen me. I mean me me not him me?”

“I could do that, Den.”

“...nis Brent. Good. Glad we had this little chat.” I began to depart but he reeled me back in.

“I could do that... as part of a mutually beneficial agreement between us.”

“You mean blackmail.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it blackmail, Den.”

“...nis Brent. In what way is it not blackmail?” I demanded.

“In… the… sense… that it is blackmail but between two friends? I know this is dreadfully sordid, Den.”

“…nis Brent. On the contrary - blackmail is the only sensible thing to do in a circumstance like this. If the boot were on the other foot I would be blackmailing you to within an inch of your life. But I have to warn you if it's money you want I'm afraid you're out of luck. My affairs are bound up in red tape following my demise. According to my will, my estate is left in its entirety to myself.”

“You left everything to yourself?”

“I literally couldn't think of anyone worthy of inheriting. I did some sums and worked out that it was more likely I'd be mistakenly reported dead and that I'd subsequently be able to prove to the satisfaction of my legal team that I was in fact alive than it was I would meet someone I respected before I died.”

“It’s a good job then that I’m not after money.”

“Then what do you want, Philip Stiffit?” I demanded.

“I’ve got a rather ambitious project in mind, Den.”

“…nis Brent. Something foolish no doubt. Something that brings you short term popularity in the saccharine press and gives all we sensible telehistorians a bad name in perpetuity?”

“It concerns my written records archive. I need a hand with them and I was wondering…”

It was my lucky day and no mistake. Even when being blackmailed by my nemesis I was still being offered the chance to work in Philip Stiffit’s written records archive. The single largest written records archive I hadn’t previously visited. He is a selfish and thoroughly obnoxious fellow and refused all reasonable requests for me and Francois Devine to spend a few weeks poking around in his vaults. I told him he needn’t take time out of his schedule to supervise us – we’d be perfectly happy alone in his archive. Francois Devine with his suspiciously big coat with the extra pockets and me with the secret compartment in my satchel. Oh yes, we’d be more than happy to be down in Philip Stiffit’s sanctum. Obviously, he collection paled compared with my own but I always say that if someone in television took the trouble to write something down, it is worth me taking the trouble to catalogue, index and (where necessary) give a better home to it.

“…if you think that sounds fair” concluded Philip Stiffit.

“Oh yes indeed” I moaned. I mean ‘said’.

“So it isn’t really blackmail – just an arrangement whereby I get what I want and you don’t get what you don’t want. Right, Den?”

“…nis Brent. I agree entirely, Philip Stiffit. Just one thing, I wasn’t listening to a word you said and would appreciate a prÈcis.”

“I thought you glazed over when I said ‘written records archive’. It’s like this…”

He slapped me in the face.

“Hold hard, Philip Stiffit” I ejaculated.

“You glazed over again. I was half way through when I saw you had that look on your face thing.”

“What look?” I demanded. He showed me. I really must say the words ‘written records archive’ while standing in front of a (proper) mirror and see what happens. From his demonstration it appears to be something between a moment of pure joy and a stroke.

“What I want, Den, is for a team to spend a few weeks in my writ… in my basement, going through all my old papers…”

“I’d love to.”

“…with a view to getting them into a logical order…”

“I’d love to.”

“…so we can scan the whole lot.”

“I’d love to… what? Scan? What on earth does that mean?”

“Putting them onto a computer.”

“A computer? What on earth would you want to put them on a computer for?”

“Den – I’ve got a wife now. I’ve moved on. There are more important things in life than written records.”

“No there aren’t” I protested.

“Yes there are. So I’ve decided to scan my entire archive and put the papers online so everyone can read them.”

He slapped me again.

“Hold hard…!” I exclaimed.

“Thank Christ that worked – I thought for a moment I’d have to give you the kiss of life.”

“You want to put your modest written records archive on the internet for the proles to read? And you want to blackmail me into helping you commit this… this… this… blasphemy?” I spluttered.

“No, Den, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I don’t want you – I want your employee.”

“You want to borrow my employee?”