Bob awaits the homecoming of his war heroine sister Roberta unaware that scatter-brianed Uncle Brian has left the proceeds of the T4 Popworld Presenters Benevolent Fund in Old Man Pooter's lap. Back at home, Bob steps on FredandFreds finger, impairing his ability to learn how to Say Underpants. Meanwhile, Violet Bick has arrived in Manhattan where she has hooked up with a 200 strong Welsh Male Voice Choir and is about to be given a roasting she won't forget in a hurry (...and as much rarebit as she can fit down her brassiere....) We rejoin the story as Bob swallows his pride and pays a call to his arch rival, the money grabbing tight-wad Old Man Pooter......
"Well, 30k a year would probably do at first as an advance. By the way, can I just ask - what exactly is a novel??" Bob takes a well-known global publishing firm to the cleaners in 2006
...You called me a warped frustrated old man.... Old Man Pooter's droning on and on about how I never got to go to college, never got to travel, ended up counting buttons in The Old Building and Loan....why doesn't he put a sock in it, he's making me want to top myself....If I didn't know any better I'd say you were in danger of becoming a warped, frustrated, slightly younger man...oh just put a sock in it Potter and give me some dosh. But what would you be able to provide as security, Bob? Asks the cunning old skinflint, although he knows as well as I do that aside from my six-figure inheritance left me by Auntie Maude, the only thing of any value in my life is a two-bit comedy satire blog that pays out only if I can find a hugely successful global publishing firm to turn it into the world-wide publishing event of 2006...
A completely gratuitous Lisa Hilton, the woman behind Belle de Jour, says - "please make Bob Swipe the world-wide publishing event of 2006..."
I don't wait for an answer as his "you're worth more dead than alive, Bob" reverberates around my head like some spooky overdub effect from a movie. I make my way to Martini's, past Old Man Gower the druggist - you know, the one who slapped up my bad ear because his son had copped it in the previous war. Wanker - I've always hated him...I get to Martini's. Say, Martini, give me one of those carpet cleaner and vodka specials of yours - and hold the pickled herring. Wassamatta you, eh Bob? Martini asks. But I'm not in the mood for his Joe Dolce karaoke routine so I tell him what's wrong with Dean Martin, already? and lay with my head in my hands on the bar. I'm not a praying man, I whisper, but if you're listening up there, I really could do with some help - I'm just about at the end of my tether. I sob into my beer for a while before I notice that a tall man bearing a large stomach shaped plastic bag and a spangly dance costune is bearing down on me.....that's what you get for praying!
Joe Dolce delight at avoiding La Dolce Vita caption...
Well, by the time Mr. Welch had finished with me, I had an arse like a blood orange and a mood to match. Jeez that woman was strong - at least I knew my kids'd be safe in a fight if old Ma Welchy was on their side! I'd cut my lip in the ensuing melee - I remember thinking to myself - that'll be useful for dramatic purposes later on when I come out of the dream sequence. I ended up by the Old Footbridge watching the river gush below me in Shades of Grey - a Scary Duck bobbing about on the surface like a yellow plastic groaner (read up on your T.S. Eliot - I had to...) I kept hearing Pooter's words in my head "you're worth more dead than alive....your blog's shit....you can't write for toffee - give up you talentless twat...." until I could hardly not bear it not any longer anymore (...Christ, Pooter's right - I can't write for toffee...) I was just about to throw myself down into the hurtling chasm of watery doo-doos when I heard something at my side. A strangely polyglot voice let out a strangled scream.....Help! Help! Help! it said in five different languages, all of them heavily accented and grammatically precise and relayed to hundreds of delegates from around the globe by way of an intricate network of translators and headsets. Who are you? I asked as representatives from five of the most powerful nations on earth (and Great Britain) leapt from the footbridge, spiralling down before crashing into the dark, tumultuous waters. Help, cried the United Nations Security Council - for it was they. But little did I know that they would also turn out to be my Grauniad Angle!!
To be continued.....
Tune in tomorrow for the concluding part of It's a Wonderful Blog!
Love on y'all,
Bob
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