Web Site Story

Mad John was shouting at Volvos today. 'What?' he shouted at Derek. 'Speak up. What?'

'Mad John,' said Derek, putting his arm about the loony's ragged shoulder. 'You're my friend aren't you?'

'I'm no friend of Volvos,' shouted Mad John. 'Hatchback or the estate, they're both the same to me. I hate 'em.'

'Yes,' said Derek, or 'yesh', because it's 'yesh' that you say at such times. 'Yesh, you're right old friend of mine. But I love the woman. And I'm a bit posh.'

'You're a bit pissed,' Mad John shouted. And 'You'll get yours, come the revolution,' to a passing Volvo fast-back, with the cross-body spoiler and the legendary cage of steel.

'But money can make you posh, can't it?' said Derek. 'It made Posh Spice posh. Or did it just make her rich? Same thing anyway. Posh is just rich with good manners, everyone knows that, although the posh ones won't admit it. And having a posh voice, that helps, doesn't it? Would you say that I had a posh voice?'

'Listen,' said Mad John softly, removing Derek's hand from his shoulder. Tmjust doing my job, mate. I'm paid to shout at shoes on Sundays and Volvos on Thursdays. The rest of the week, my time is my own. Mostly I spend it watching old Richard and Judy reruns on UK Gold. I'm not a philosopher, or an agony uncle. Why don't you just go home to your mum, Derek, and sleep it off?'

'But if I had money,' said Derek. 'Say I had lots of money. Then a chap with lots of money can get himself a posh woman, can't he?'

'A man with lots of money can get himself pretty much any woman,' said Mad John. 'So why have a posh one? They're really high maintenance and most of them are rubbish in bed. Believe me, I've had loads. If I had a quid for every posh woman who's taken pity on me, invited me back to her home, given me a bath and then, as if for the first time, noticed how ruggedly handsome I am, and then given me a right seeing-to on her four-poster bed, before filling my pockets with cash, I'd be a rich man myself by now and able to get myself pretty much any woman I wanted.'

Derek stared lopsidedly at Mad John. 'Is all that true?' he asked.

'Gawd, you are drunk, aren't you? Come on, I'll help you home. It's knocking-off time for me anyway.'

And so Mad John helped Derek home. Derek's mum thanked Mad John for his trouble, then told him that she felt a terrible guilt that such nice people as Mad John had to sleep on the streets with no roof over their heads and would Mad John care to come in and have a bath?

'Why thank you very much, madam,' said Not-so-Mad John. 'Let's get your lad up to his bed first, shall we?'

And so Derek had an early night.

Mad John didn't, but that's another story. And as it's a rude one, propriety forbids its telling here.

Two streets north of Derek's mum's abode, and just one from the rather posh house where Mad John lived, but where no-one saw him sneak into at night, was the pinkly-painted terraced dwelling of one Big Bob Charker.

At a little after eight of the delicious Brentford evening clock, Minky Charker answered the knock at her front door to find Kelly Anna Sirjan, freshly showered and looking radiant, standing on the doorstep of pink stone.

'Oh,' said Minky, wife of Bob the Big and missing. 'You are the very last-but-one person I expected to find upon my doorstep.'

Kelly didn't ask. She just said, 'Can I come in?'

'Ming the Merciless,' said Minky Charker. 'In case you had been thinking to ask, but were too shy to do so. Do come in then, I'll put the kettle on.'

Kelly went in and Minky put on the kettle.

'Do you think it suits me?' she asked.

'It's the right shade of pink,' said Kelly. 'But I came here to ask about your husband. I don't suppose you've seen him today, have you?'

'Gracious me, no,' said Minky, taking off the kettle and hugging it to her ample bosoms, as one might a puppy or a small dwarf named Dave that one has taken a sudden liking to. 'I thought that he'd been Raptured. Or at least I think that's what I thought.'

'I see you have a lot of candles burning,' said Kelly.

'You can never have too many candles burning,' said Minky, giving the kettle the kind of stroke that you might give to a really friendly otter. Or a hamster, or perhaps a quill-less porcupine that you had taken pity on. 'You can never have too many candles burning, or too many bottles of nail varnish, or too many different brands of kitchen cleaner under your sink.'

'Or toilet rolls,' said Kelly. 'You can never have too many of those.'

'Exacdy,' said Minky. 'Although I never keep them under my sink. There's no room.'

'So you haven't seen your husband?'

'No,' said Minky and she tickled the kettle under the spout. 'But I wouldn't be expecting to, what with him being Raptured and everything. But I'll see him when my time comes to be carried off to glory. And then I'll have some words to say to him, you can be assured of that.'

'If he did turn up here,' said Kelly. 'Say he returned from Heaven for some other reason, to pick up a change of underwear or something. Could you phone me?' Kelly paused. 'No, not phone me, come round and tell me. I'm staying at Mrs Gormenghast's.'

'Madam Puce,' said Minky. 'What an eccentric, that •woman, eh?'

'I'd really appreciate it,' said Kelly. 'It's, er, just that I have some money for him. A great deal of money. It's a surprise. I don't want you to mention it to him. But it's a great deal of money.'

'I'll take that then,' said Minky.

'No, he has to sign for it.'

'I can forge his signature.' Minky stroked the kettle's lid. 'It's something all wives have to do. You'll understand when you marry yourself.'

'Why would I marry myself?'

'Because then you can be assured of getting everything when you get divorced.'

'Oh, I see,' said Kelly. 'All these things are so simple, once they're explained.'

'Except for logarithms,' said Minky. 'They're not simple. Or advanced calculus, quantum theory, or Fermat's last theorem. Not to mention the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter.'

'The transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter?'

Minky Charker shook her head and patted the kettle.

'Go on then,' said Kelly. 'Say it.'

'Shan't,' said Minky.

'Oh go on, you know you want to.'

'Oh all right. I told you not to mention that.'

Kelly left the house of Big Bob Charker, not to mention Minky, and took to some wanderings of her own. She felt that she ought to speak to Derek. Warn him. Tell him all that she knew. He was her friend now after all and she didn't want any harm to come to him. He really should be warned to keep his hands away from anything that might contain a Mute-chip. And anything meant nearly everything.

Kelly went around to Derek's. She knocked and waited and knocked and waited some more. She felt certain that she heard moans of pleasure coming from an open upstairs window. But nobody came to answer the door, so Kelly wrote out a note for Derek to contact her as soon as he got home, but not by phone, in person. And that it was very very urgent. And then she folded it up and popped it through the letter box, where it fell upon the welcome mat, which, like that of Derek's Aunty Uzi, had long worn out its welcome.

And then Kelly wandered on and knowing that she needed a drink and with it something