Bang

Chapter One

Johnny Tyburn and the prime minister were not the best of friends. They had never lent garden tools to each other or gone for a quick drink after work. In fact, they could not agree on anything. The right honourable Hugh Sedgewick wanted the journalist to work long hours and pay more tax but Johnny did not want to know.

The prime minister was not amused. He needed lots of money very quickly. The Olympik Bribe Committee had sold him the London games and he now owed millions of pounds to a warlord in Afghanistan who had lent him the cash. Corrupt MPs, lapdancers, pimped out limos and Class A narcotics did not come cheap either.

Hugh refused to give up his Savile Row suits, the best the taxpayer could afford and there was only one solution. The stupid voters would have to work their stupid fingers to the bone. Citizens were ordered to slave away for the glory of the treasury slush fund and the government sent Johnny a bribe repayment alarm clock. Lazy workers were fined £100 for every five minutes they stayed in bed past 3 o’clock in the morning.

The plan was firm but fair and the clock debt display showed how much money the prime minister had left to pay Omar ‘The Lion of Kandahar’ Abdullah. The Afghan tribal chief was a friendly bloke but did like to kill people who owed him money.

Johnny did not know or care about the prime minister’s lack of cash. He worked hard, paid most of his taxes and helped old ladies across the road. Even when they didn’t want too. Hugh though needed lots of money and hoped that people like Samantha Fitzsimmons would do the government’s work for them.

Samantha was Johnny’s girlfriend and had many fine qualities. She was the complete opposite of her boyfriend. She ate and drank in moderation and was always ‘in the right’. She also ran the Golden Goddess keep fit clinic in the north London borough of Isledon. Where thin rich women paid a fortune to get even thinner. Sam was happy to help and was an expert at getting the rich and foolish to hand over large amounts of money.

Johnny lusted after Samantha’s lush brunette hair, bouncy backside and bright sparkling eyes. But did not want to wear lycra himself. He was 37 years old, had once been handsome in a James Dean sort of way and lived on fried food, HP brown sauce and vodka. Journalism was the only job he could do and he was suspicious of any plan to keep him alive until he dropped dead of old age. Sam did her best to teach him about health food and regular bowel movements but that was not his idea of fun.

Some people (for example, Samantha) were born to exercise their gorgeous bodies in a skin tight leotard. While other people (for example, Johnny) were content to sit and watch. It was a good arrangement and Johnny saw no reason to change it. He was happy to edit the Isledon Mercury newspaper, full of stories about council mistakes and cats stuck up trees. There was no need at all for the government to boss him around.

Mr Sedgewick disagreed and included a simple voice programme with the Get Up And Pay Lots of Money To A Homicidal Afghan Warlord (Or Else) alarm clock. Citizens were told to think of helpful phrases to get bed bound partners off to work. It was a stroke of genius the government would not repeat in the five years it clung on to power.

Samantha liked the idea of boyfriend torture. This had taken Johnny by surprise. ‘I thought you loved me,’ he said, ‘How could you programme an alarm clock with a stutter?’

Very well it would appear.

Johnny waited nervously each morning for the sonic pain that would start his day.

‘BEEP BE BEEP BE BEEP BE BEEP. Ti ti ti time to get up Mister Jo Jo Johnnyyyyyyyyy. GET OUT OF BED NOW AND PAY OFF LOTS OF WONDERFUL GOVERNMENT DE DE DE DEBT!’

‘Sod off,’ said Johnny still half asleep.

‘I ca ca ca ca cannot sod off Mister Jo Jo Johnnnyyyyyyyy. Get up now and work hard to pay more taxes. All hail our glorious prime min min min minister.’

Johnny grunted and went back to sleep. Five minutes later the alarm clock nagged him again. This time with a recorded message from the right honourable Hugh Sedgewick. ‘Good morning you utter waste of space. You have failed to vacate your sleep station in the allotted government time quota. One hundred pounds has been deducted from your bank account. Thank you loyal citizen for your generous donation.’

‘Donation?’ said Johnny, ‘I’ll give you a generous bloody donation.’

He reached for a baseball bat by the side of the bed and raised it high into the air. THWACK, SMASH, SHATTER. Johnny and the wooden bat showed no mercy as broken bits of the bribe repayment alarm clock flew across the room in all directions. It felt good to hate but the happiness did not last long.

Samantha called out from the kitchen, ‘Have you been smashing up your alarm clock again?’

‘Of course not my sweetness. It just fell on the floor and broke into lots of tiny pieces.’

‘I don’t know why you bother. The government will just send you another one when they see the GPS isn’t working.’

‘Yes dear,’ said Johnny.

‘And make you pay for it.’

‘Yes dear,’ said Johnny.

Samantha was right of course. In fact there were few times when she wasn’t. She was also right about Johnny’s caveman like attitude to food. She hoped he would eat fruit and vegetables on a voluntary basis. Johnny said it was simply a matter of ambition and expectation. Sam’s health freak fanatics would not pay good money to be shouted at by a lard arse in a shellsuit. They needed a dream to aim for and she had a duty to flog them without mercy to the point of exhaustion.

Johnny on the other hand was a journalist. Great abs and a cute bum were not that important. His life was a success if he didn’t die before the Isledon Mercury was printed each week.

Sam smiled and put down a bowl of cereal in front of Johnny. And kissed him in a way that made him glad he was wearing loose fitting pyjamas. She said she was late for work and had to go. Her gullible £1,000 a month anorexics could not exercise themselves and the Golden Goddess keep fit clinic was grateful they could not be bothered too. Regular meals and exercise were the answer. But the women in £700 designer tracksuits did not want to hear this. So Samantha did not tell them.

Instead, she sold them the latest super food bizarre exercise regime so they could feel superior to their friends. Who in turn boasted about their latest super food bizarre exercise regime. It was a happy vicious circle of deceit and social climbing snobbery. As Sam said, it was her moral duty to make them pay for their stupidity.

The keep fit instructor grabbed her coat and said to Johnny, ‘Don’t forget dear, you mustn’t use the toaster.’

The journalist looked up from the small puddle of milk on the kitchen table he was trying to draw with his finger into a funny face. ‘Why?’

‘Because you haven’t been on a government Use Toast Safely course,’ scolded Samantha gently. ‘Ministers say you can’t make toast until you have full authorisation from the Department of Scary Health Facts.’

‘Yes dear.’

‘You don’t want to be arrested again do you?’

‘No dear.’

Samantha left Johnny staring with contempt at the toaster. And the two limp slices of Mexican organic tuna friendly bread she said would help him live to 186 years old. He sighed, plugged the machine in, loaded the bread and turned his mind to the problem of ambitious over achieving young trainee journalists who used the Mercury as a stepping stone to a job on the national newspapers. Fresh faced graduates with a degree in bugger all annoyed him and he did his best to make sure they never got a job.

Although when he felt like it, he did sometimes employ ambitious over achieving trainees just to humiliate them. Chino wearing blokes called Jasper and Harry were sent off to write features about cake making etiquette. While pretty young girls with more lipstick than sense were made chief sewage reporter. They never lasted long and Johnny gave jobs to young ambitious over achievers just so he could fire them a few weeks later. For being too young, too ambitious and over achieving far too much.

There were many ex-Mercury reporters with a grudge against Johnny. And a lot of talk in Fleet Street about their former editor who had tried so hard to wreck their job prospects. To be fair Johnny had also ruined his own career. It would have been selfish of him not to share his one true talent.

He was thinking about putting the Mercury’s chic young fashion editor in charge of the weekly Compost Corner garden advice column when the toaster began to talk. This was odd and Johnny stopped to listen. Just in case it had something interesting to say.

‘Warning,’ said the matt silver appliance, ‘The government has not received confirmation of attendance on a Use Toast Safely course. Please remove all non-approved items for toasting at once.’

‘Really?’ said Johnny, ‘And what will you do about it if I don’t?’

The toaster said that Johnny was playing a dangerous game. It demanded the Mexican organic tuna friendly bread be removed at once. Johnny refused. The toaster said that government refuseniks had to be punished and set itself ablaze. Johnny raised an eyebrow and reached for a fire extinguisher on top of the fridge. He aimed the nozzle at the base of the flames and waited for a stream of ice white powder to engulf the fire. Nothing. Not even a dribble. He squeezed the nozzle a second time. Again, nothing happened.

Johnny peered with stinging eyes through the smoke at the instructions on the side of the metal canister. Thank you for buying the new improved deluxe WhizzoClean fire extinguisher. Please telephone the number below for your activation code.

‘For the love of god,’ mumbled Johnny, ‘I just want to put out a fire.’

He dialled the premium rate number in Cambodia and waited.

Ring ring, ring ring.

Ring ring, ring ring.

‘C’mon, c’mon, hurry up for heaven’s sake.’

Ring ring, ring….

‘Good morning….’

‘At last.’

The recorded voice continued. ‘…..and welcome to the WhizzoClean Quick Response Activation Code Hotline. Press 1 for a pre-recorded message that will send your phone bill into five figures. Press 2 for career advice on how you can and come and work for WhizzoClean. Join the multi-national firm that flogs more foreign child workers to death than Father Christmas…..’

‘Get on with it.’

‘Press 3 for a free WhizzoClean instruction leaflet on, How To Put Out Fires Quickly! Let our experts guide you through our simple 53 stage programme. NOW!’

‘Sometime in the near future would be good. Before my flat burns down.’

‘Press 4 to listen to a never ending loop of soap powder adverts that will send you slowly insane…’

‘C’mon, c’mon.’

‘Press 5 to be ignored for 17 minutes and then lose the will to live…’

‘Just give me my bloody activation code.’

‘And press 6 to speak to a WhizzoClean Quick Response Activation Code Hotline Operator. To access your personalised product activation code.’

Johnny pressed six on the telephone key pad.

Ring ring, ring ring.

‘Good morning….’

‘Hurrah.’

‘…….and welcome to the WhizzoClean Quick Response Activation Code Hotline. All our telephonists are busy at the moment. Please stay on the line until an operator has finished painting her nails and can be bothered to talk to you.’

Badly recorded classical music began to play.

‘I want to cry,’ said Johnny as he sank to his knees. Just in time to avoid being hit by a piece of Mexican organic tuna friendly bread as it shot out of the toaster in a final fit of rebellion.

Finally, Johnny heard a human voice in his telephone ear piece.

‘Good morning sir.’

‘I’m sorry……did someone say good morning?’

‘I certainly did sir. I am your WhizzoClean Quick Response Activation Code Hotline Operator. How can I help you today?’

‘You’re not a machine are you?’ said Johnny.

‘No sir,’ said the female voice, ‘My name is Tracy.’

‘Well Tracy, I need the activation code for my fire extinguisher.’

‘And which one is that sir?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Which model of fire extinguisher do you own sir?’

‘I don’t bloody know.’

‘Sir, I will have to terminate this conversation if you continue to use abusive language to violate my human rights as a WhizzoClean Quick Response Activation Code Hotline Operator.’

‘What about my rights as a customer who is about to go barking mad because he can’t use his fire extinguisher for the one reason he bought it for in the first place?’

‘I understand your position sir.’

‘Can I have my activation code then?’

‘Of course sir.’

‘Thank god for that.’

‘After you have answered a couple of pre-authorisation questions.’

Johnny took a long deep breath. ‘Why Tracy? I bought a fire extinguisher and now I want to use it. What is your problem?’

‘Sir, you may not be the rightful owner of this premium quality WhizzoClean product. You do not know which model you have bought and my computer has many boxes that need ticking. Further information is required, sir.’

‘Tracy, my kitchen is on fire. I want to put it out. It’s that simple.’

‘I’m sorry sir, but I do have company guidelines to follow. I must ask you several more questions. Or you can write to the WhizzoClean Quick Response Activation Code Department which guarantees a reply….’

‘Yes?’

‘…within 28 working days.’

‘Not exactly a quick response is it then Tracy my dear?’

‘No need for sarcasm sir, I’m only trying to help. Now, can you tell me where you bought your WhizzoClean fire extinguisher?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘My girlfriend bought it.’

‘Please sir, I need to know where your fire extinguisher was purchased. I have a box on my computer screen that needs ticking before I can proceed.’

‘Okay, okay, she bought it in……..Aberdeen.’

‘Really sir?’

‘Really Tracy.’

‘Where do you live sir?’

‘London.’

‘Sir, are you telling me that your partner travelled over 400 miles to buy a fire extinguisher?’

‘She might have done. There may have been a shortage of fire extinguishers in Isledon and Aberdeen might have been the nearest city with similar products at comparable prices.’

There was a long pause. Interrupted only by the sound of exploding popcorn as the fire reached Johnny’s main food cupboard.

‘Your girlfriend hasn’t been to Aberdeen has she sir?’

‘No Tracy, she hasn’t.’

‘So that’s a ‘Don’t know’ to where your WhizzoClean fire extinguisher was purchased.’

‘Tracy, I’m about to be roasted alive. An activation code would be quite useful right now.’

‘Of course sir.’

‘Thank goodness.’

‘After you have answered one last question.’

Johnny struggled hard to control the anger building up inside of him and asked Tracy, ‘For the love of god’, what she needed to know.

‘With regards to your quality deluxe WhizzoClean fire extinguisher, that your girlfriend may or may not have bought in Aberdeen, are you (a) completely and utterly over the moon (b) happy to the point of delirium or (c) just mildly ecstatic.’

Johnny kicked his blameless cat as it came within booting distance. Then shouted down the phone, ‘How the bloody hell should I sodding know. I haven’t used the stupid thing yet. How can I possibly give an opinion on your idiotic bloody fire extinguisher if you won’t give me the fucking activation code…..’

The phone clicked and a stern male voice came onto the line.

‘Good morning sir, I am Malcolm, Tracy’s supervisor and I have terminated this conversation because you are in direct contravention of the European Federation’s Call Centre Communication and Frustration Act, Section (d), Sub-Section 5.7685, which prohibits abusive language towards call centre operatives.’

‘Even if they drive you to the point of suicide?’

‘Especially if they drive you to the point of suicide. Tracy will now need six months off work and intensive victim counselling therapy to come to terms with the trauma she has just suffered. As for your urgent request for an activation code….’

‘Yes?’ said Johnny, by now completely demoralised.

‘…please send a self-addressed stamped envelope to the WhizzoClean Quick Response Activation Code Centre, PO Box 4379, South East Asia. The code will be with you within 28 days. Thank you for calling the WhizzoClean Quick Response Activation Code Hotline.’

Click.

Chapter Two

Johnny slammed the phone down in despair and looked at what was left of his kitchen. The fire had run out of things to burn and the black smoking pieces of bread taunted his failure to pass a government Use Toast Safely course. He could just imagine what Samantha was going to say. Something like, ‘I told you so’. Or, ‘You great useless idiot’.

Burnt out kitchens were not Johnny’s only problem. Work had started to become a bit too much like, well, work. The Isledon Mercury often printed quirky animal stories when it couldn’t find councillors, priests and lapdancers having drug-addled sex with each other. But something odd had started to happen at the beginning of the year. Reporters had noted an increase in phone calls from the owners of cats who were stuck up trees. Readers liked to go ‘Aahh’ at cute photos of rescued moggies but the occasional story was soon not enough.

Neighbour turned against neighbour as sweet little old ladies tempted their feline friends up trees with handfuls of fishfingers. Just to get their photo in the paper. Teenage boys with air rifles made a fortune protecting cats for publicity mad owners and the obsession was never ending.

Firefighters were ordered to work around the clock to rescue the cats and no longer had time to put out fires. They were too busy climbing trees and posing for photographs. Rival firefighting teams even let down the tyres on the vehicles of colleagues. Just so they could rescue a cat first and get their picture in the Mercury.

Everyone wanted a piece of the cat stuck up a tree action and Johnny knew that something had to be done when large men in dark suits and blacked out limos offered him money to fix the Mercury’s Cat Rescuer Of The Week award. Foreign betting syndicates were making a fortune and the matter reached breaking point when Johnny’s chief cat stuck up a tree reporter woke up one morning to find a small bloody furry head on his pillow.

The Mercury editor said enough was enough and to a sigh of relief from exhausted colleagues, announced to a weary newsroom, ‘No more cat stuck up a tree stories’. Reporters with years of experience in war zones broke down and sobbed tears of gratitude.

The madness passed as quickly as it had started. Little old ladies no longer had to pay protection money to snotty schoolboys and firefighters had time at last to put out fires. The cats, puzzled by the sudden lack of attention, went back to snoozing on doorsteps.

The only real loser was Isledon Council. Which lost thousands of pounds in shop rent as the cat food and air rifle stores went out of business. To claw back the lost money, the local authority voted to go after local shopkeepers for petty non-existent offences.

There was no malice or hatred. Just wave after wave of red tape regulations that sent business owners crazy with frustration. Shelf racks, window displays and product sizes