The Secret Diary of Dennis Brent - Volume II

2nd February

I had a conference with my financial consultant Mr Penistone of the Bank.

“Mr Brent” he began.

“Yes Mr Penistone” I replied, always keen to help the professional classes. They tend to be less childish than the tabloid reading, fish and chip loving proles. Some people might think that snobbish but Dennis believes in honesty, honesty, honesty.

“Mr Brent – I understand you have recently left your job at,” he consulted a piece of paper, “Bargainsave”.

“I felt the job didn’t offer sufficient stimulation, Mr Penistone” I said.

“It says here you were sacked for sexually harassing a young member of staff. It sounds to me as if it offered too much stimulation” replied Mr Penistone.

“What do you intend to do next ?” he asked.

“I’m sure something suitable will turn up sooner or later.”

“No Mr Brent – not sooner or later. You are to report to Bendaton Job Centre at nine am tomorrow morning for an interview with one of their people.

“But…” I began, knowing full well that a rare episode of ‘Bless This House’ was on cable television at that time and I needed to catalogue it for my archives.

“Your appointment is with Miss Clittlique of their ‘Restart’ team.”

“But…” I began again, Sidney James and Diana Coupland preying on my mind.

“No buts Mr Brent – either you see Miss Clittlique or we foreclose on your account and I send the boys round to take items of equal value to pay off your debts.”

“Yes Mr Penistone” I said with resignation.

It was a Dennis with a heavy heart that came home today. I consoled myself by having a fascinating technical discussion with someone on “the internet” about whether the six seconds of material cut from the recent BBC2 showing of the pilot episode of Dad's Army was an act of vandalism (the prole’s point of view) or an excellent opportunity to add an addendum to that episode’s archive record. I won the discussion (obviously) and the prole left me with a cheery ‘go and boil your backside’.

3rd February

I arrived at the Job Centre at a punctual two minutes to nine and observed the formidable Miss Clittlique. I had seen her a couple of times at the Elk and Bush and strongly suspected she was of the h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l persuasion. I took a seat in the waiting area and awaited her summons.

“Mister Dennis Brent” called Miss Clittlique.

“Yes Miss Clittlique” I said, keen to be helpful.

“You have a sickeningly bad employment record Mr Brent. Absolutely vile. What are you planning to do about it ?”

“I thought I’d be more careful about the jobs I accept next time” I said.

“No” she replied, harshly.

“No?”

“No – you will take the next job offered to you and you will keep it or I am going to make your life such a living hell that you’ll look forward to the resulting fatal heart attack. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes Miss Clittlique”

“It’s MIZZ Clittlique to you, peasant” she replied. “It so happens that I have a vacancy here which will suit you down to the ground. Have you done much sewer work?”

“I fully explored the sewers of London as research for my fascinating technical manual “Attack of the Cybermen – The Production Chronicles””

“Then you will enjoy working as a sewer consultant.”

“A what?”

“You put on overalls, go down into the Bendaton Sewer System and make sure it’s all working satisfactorily.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“You will make it satisfactory or you will not be allowed to leave the Bendaton Sewer System at the end of the evening. You will be kitted out with one hammer, one screw driver, one small brush and one nose peg. Report for work at seven am tomorrow morning. Remember – a living hell awaits you if you do not do as ordered. Leave me.”

I got up and left, feeling as I imagine a Karfelon would feel after a particularly troublesome meeting with the Borad.


4th February

My first day in the Bendaton sewers didn’t go very well. It seems that my friend Ian Devine tipped off the locals and I'm sure they deliberately visited the lavatory more than was biologically necessary. I dislike practical jokes. My team leader was Mr Stroquette – a rather bullish man who told me his motto was “They flush it, we make sure it doesn’t lead to cholera or typhoid”. Not, I think you’ll agree, as snappy as “Nice to see you, to see you nice” or “I’m the Doctor, whether you like it or not”. I spent the morning following one particular piece of matter as it weaved its way through the sewerage system. Mr Stroquette told me it would help me to better understand the global interconnectedness of what we do. I walked for miles in pursuit of the slithering mess and, at times, imagined myself stalking a Cyberman. Childish I know but it passed the hours. Eventually it slipped out of sight and I had to find my way back to my colleagues. Not an easy task as Mr Stroquette hadn’t given me a map.


7th February

I finally managed to find my team mates. Three and a half days alone in the sewers have given me chance to reflect on my life. Three and a half days with no one to talk to except a chubby rat (which I wittily named Ian Devine <g>). Three and a half days with no light except the watery beam of my pocket torch. I thought about how I would have a very nice life, free from Mr Penistone, free from Mizz Clittlique and free from worry if only I stopped buying so much valuable junk. Uncle Gaylord settled a large sum on me each month and it would be more than enough for Dennis to thrive upon. By day two I became a little delirious and started wondering whether I should give up writing fascinating technical books and perhaps turn my talents towards entertaining the unwashed proles with fiction. I’d always had an idea in the back of my mind for the ultimate novel – where the Daleks and the Cybermen join forces with the Sontarans and the Wirrn to attack the newly formed alliance between the Timelords and the Rutan. Seven of the Doctors (missing Tom “Dipso” Baker, naturally <g>) team up with an earlier incarnation of the Master and send the evil alliance through a black hole and thereby create a second Eye of Harmony. The second chapter would see the baddies join forces with Omega… I decided to put something on paper and send it to my friend Terrance Dicks for his opinion. On day three I was chatting with my rat friend Ian Devine and he told me to be nicer to the proles. I agreed with Ian Devine and made a new year’s resolution to stop telling the proles the truth about how stupid and childish they are and start lying to make them feel better. So, as you can imagine, Dennis was feeling spiritually awakened when I stumbled on a loose brick and fell into the sewage. But hold hard – do not worry for Dennis. Although I landed face first in excrement, I still came up smelling of victory. For amongst the filth there was a ring. Not a magical ring (<g>) but a diamond ring. Evidently someone in Bendaton had dropped it in the water closet and not been able to retrieve it. I let out a whoop of joy as even in the dim light of my pen torch I could see it sparked like a million dollars.

“Is that you Brent ?” came the booming voice of Mr Stroquette.

“Yes Mr Stroquette” I replied, my voice thin through lack of food and unstable owing to my not wanting to let my excitement spill out.

“Come on Brent – we’ve been looking for you all morning Brent.”

“But I’ve been missing for three days” I told him.

“Have you? Oh well – we only noticed you’d gone this morning.”

I stumbled, exhausted but excited, towards the light.

“Your face is covered with shit” said Mr Stroquette.

“Yes Mr Stroquette” I said weakly.

“Go home and clean up, Brent. You’re no use to anyone with shit all over you.”

I rushed home, showered and bathed (I really was most filthy) and dashed over to Mr Nutglove, Bendaton’s oldest pawn broker. He took one look at the ring (I’d put it in the dishwasher to remove the excrement) and said he’d happily give me fifty thousand pounds for it. I played hard to get in an effort to raise the price a little and, after half an hour of my playing hard to get, he agreed to give me forty five thousand for the ring. Not my finest piece of playing hard to get but I was still ahead of the game. I will take the cash to Mr Penistone’s office tomorrow and then I will be free. Life is good.


8th February

My meeting with Mr Penistone was a joy…for about two minutes.

“Mr Brent – I heard you were covered in shit” he said.

“Eat human waste, Mr Penistone” I said, slamming the case of money on the desk, chipping the venire in a pleasingly anarchic manner. “I’ve had all I can take of you. This money should pay off my debt and I can go back to being a gentleman of leisure. Never more shall I cower before you, never more shall I be sent to see that evil h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l at the “Job Centre”. Dennis has defeated you. Good day Mr Penistone.” I got up to leave.

“Mr Brent – these notes haven’t been legal tender since the 1970s” said Mr Penistone, holding up a five pound note which was bigger than a page from a camera script. “Did Mr Nutglove give you this ?”

“Um, yes” I muttered.

“He’s been pulling that trick for years. Did he give you a receipt?”

“I, um, said I’d trust his word as a gentlemen because he told me his family had been serving Bendaton for over a hundred years” I mumbled.

“Well, this money is worthless, your debt has just increased by the cost of getting that small dent removed from my desk and I have every faith you will be covered in shit again by ten am on Monday morning. Good day Mr Brent.”

I left his office a broken man.


9th February

I went round to see Mr Nutglove and, as Mr Penistone had implied, he flatly refused to admit he had ever seen be before, he’d certainly never given me money for a diamond ring and he hadn’t come into contact with pre-decimal currency since it ceased to be legal tender. I retired to the Elk and Bush and sobbed quietly into a half pint of real ale.

“Blubbing like a child?” boomed my friend Ian Devine just before striking me on the back with a powerful blow of friendship. I gave him a summery of Dennis’s problems.

“Dennis, my friend, you saved my life once and I’m going to further repay that favour. Leave it to Ian Devine.” He tapped his fat nose and a couple of crumbs of pie crust dropped out. “Ooh – I’ve been looking for those” he said and he sucked them up from the table top using his pie straw. I pressed him to explain what he meant but he wouldn’t be drawn. My friend Ian Devine may be a wobbly bottomed cad but he is my friend and I’m sure he’ll sort everything out. If he doesn’t it’s back to the sewers on Monday morning. Life is so unfair.