“You can’t take my employee” I protested. “I’m sure I could scrape together a few hundred pounds if you’d prefer cash.”

“I need a safe pair of hands to help with my project, Den. Time is of the essence – I haven’t got time to advertise.”

“But I’d be lost without my employee. He’s loyal, very economical to run and extremely discreet. It would be like losing my left arm if I had to go on without Saragh-Jayne.”

“Nevertheless, either you give me your employee or I’ll tell that rabble outside that you’ve lied to them. That you’ve hoodwinked them into being nice to the real Dennis Brent. There will be suicides, violence and a good deal of property damage. Bendaton might not exist this time tomorrow.”

“If you don’t want cash I could give you goods of equivalent value. My jacket for example. A couple of well placed patches and it has years of hard wearing left in it.”

“I don’t want your jacket, Den.”

“…nis Brent. Well, aside from everything in my collection which I obviously prize even more highly than my employee, what is there that I could give you? Would you have a use for Francois Devine?”

“It’s your employee or nothing, Den.”

“…nis Brent. He’ll be heart broken. He won’t be of a damned bit of use to you. He’ll pine for me. He’ll probably spend all his time scratching at your back door and whimpering until you let him out so he can run and find me.”

“Yeah. Whatever, Den” he said dismissively.

“…nis Brent” I added to ensure I had the last word and so escaped the whole wretched affair with some shred of dignity.

“Stop doing that” he said.

We made our way through the throng in search of my employee. The first thing he did when we found him was give me yet another fat envelope.

“The royalties for sales of ‘Dennis Brent is Dead’ t-shirts, posters, bibs, garden furniture, tea towels, snow storms, statues, mince pies and bumper stickers. Not a bad little earner.”

I took the fat envelope with a tear in my eye.

“Could we possibly have a word, Saragh-Jayne?” I said emotionally.

“Surely, boss” he replied. His crass informality made my sad news somewhat easier to deliver. Well, it did until I remembered the fat envelope and I was once more heavily conflicted.

“Saragh-Jayne, there comes a time in every working relationship between a gentleman and his employee where circumstances require that relationship to enter a new and rather more distant phase. Over these past few hours I’ve come to regard you as the member of staff I never had. But due to events beyond my control, Mr Stiffit here will be taking over the role as your employer while, but not exclusively for the duration of, work continues on a special project of his. I hope we part as sensible colleagues and that, were there not an insurmountable caste divide between us, we could enjoy a drink together at the Elk and Bush one evening and talk over the happy times we’ve shared during your spell under my wing.”

He looked at me with a puzzled look.

“You’re sacking me?” he asked.

“I’m giving you the opportunity for reasons I don’t wish to discuss here to leave my employ and take an alternative position with an almost commensurate telehistorian.”

“You’re sacking me.”

“Yes.”

“Fair enough. I’ll take that fat envelope in lieu of notice and we’ll say no more about it. Did you say this chap had a job for me? Aren’t you Philip Stiffit by the way?”

“I am” said my nemesis.

“I thought so – I was reading an interview with you in FHM a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh that! Yeah, it was an ok piece. But I don’t really have six lingerie models working in my written records archive.”

“Mmmm – lingerie models” murmured Saragh-Jayne.

“Mmmm – written records archive” murmured someone else. I went rather light-headed at that moment and can’t remember who was being aroused by what.

“I’ll take you over there now so you can check the old place out” said Philip Stiffit. He and my ex-employee went off together – they might as well have been hand in hand for all I cared – and I wandered off, no longer in the mood to enjoy the street party. I was about a hundred yards closer to home when Francois Devine caught up with me in a state of some disquiet.

“Oh Dennis Brent (impersonator) I have terrible news” he wailed.

“You’re being stung with extra council tax because you’ve been personally classed as a separate postcode?” I guessed.

“My woe is not a subject for mockery or idle speculation. I am wrought with two pieces of dreadful news. One affects me – which is by far the most serious and which is the one I intend to talk at length about, and one affect you – which only concerns me because I will no doubt suffer as a result because I am forever being dragged into your tangled webs of mayhem and intrigue.”

“Francois Devine, you are becoming insensible. Take a deep breath and tell me what is the matter before I wander off having lost all interest in your footling affairs” I said firmly.

“You have hit the nail upon its head, Dennis Brent (impersonator). It had been my intention to temporarily adopt the name Francois Devine to extract an ex gratia payment from my French relatives. But last evening I dined at the most wondrous restaurant in the whole world. La Maison is a gift from the gods, a more magnificent creation I have not yet come across. They are also the most expensive eatery I have ever dined in and in order to feed my addiction I am beholden on a regular allowance from my continental estates. Thus for the duration of my dependence on the fine food of La Maison I must remain Francois Devine. Oh woe. Woe is me. I am woe. Woe woe woe.”

“That is unfortunate, Francois Devine, but my troubles are rather more severe” I snapped.

“You mean you already know?”

“Of course I know – my employee has been stolen by Philip Stiffit to go and work on a project which will place his written records archive on the internet for all and sundry to see.”

“All?” he gasped.

“And sundry.”

“That certainly is a serious blow to you and to the entire telehistorical community. You’re obviously in a weakened state. I’ll come back later with my bad news.”

“Bad news? I’ve already told you the bad news, Francois Devine.”

“No – you’ve told me some bad news. The bad news of which you speak and the bad news of which I speak would appear to be two separate pieces of bad news, linked only by the common theme of you being the one with most to lose from them.”

“Then will you please spill your beans for me before I get extremely annoyed and write you a strongly worded letter?”

“The early edition of the Bendaton Bugle is out” began Francois Devine. He held it up.