in front of her. Yanking on her steering wheel, Tess tried to get out from behind – and almost clipped a paparazzo riding pillion on a motorbike. He flipped her the bird. She slammed on the brakes.
“It’s no good,” she said. “I’ll never get parked up in this. You’re going to have to go it alone, alright?”
“Alright.”
Craning round to the backseat, she watched Miller unzip his camera-bag. “Use the in-built mic, keep the angle wide, and get what you can,” she said. “Good luck.”
Armed with his camera, Miller climbed out of the car. Bravely, he faced the throng. Swiftly, he turned back. “What if someone tries to interview
me?
”
“Swing your camera at them,” she said. “And if it’s a reporter from Newsnight, aim for their teeth.” No-one cut up Tess and got home without their gums bleeding.
Hearing the news of Fat Alan’s arrest from Mrs Meakes’ radio had been a bad moment. Tess had sworn at the unexpected police brutality, and then cursed herself for not seeing it coming. Once Sandy Plimpton ‘revealed’ the existence of a stalker, his arrest had been inevitable. Alongside virulent Eczema and clinical obesity, Fat Alan suffered the terrible affliction of being Jeenie Dempster’s One and Only Fan.
Duties included waiting outside Backchat TV for the presenter’s autograph – which naturally Jeenie never gave – and helping the
Pardon My Garden
crew carry kit between their van and their office. (Having endowed Alan with the honorary title of ‘Freight Consultant’, Tess used him like a camel). In return for his labours, the team gave him endless cups of tea and heartwarming updates on Jeenie (‘today she smoked 7 fags and jabbed the soundman with a pen’). Occasionally, the kindly Welsh production manager Di passed Alan a cast-off from his idol – a muddy sock or nicotine-stained glove – which he took with tear-welling gratitude.
Faced with his obsessive devotion to their worthless presenter, Tess had felt a strange mixture of recoil and admiration: The man
was
undoubtedly unhinged, but soddit, at least he’d committed to a course of action. Who was
she
to say staking out a TV centre was a worse route to love than hurtling round nightclubs like a rum-fuelled dodgem with the brakes off?
While Tess had spent the past couple of years vulcanising her bumpers, however, Fat Alan was still soft as a lamb and as trusting as a puppy. Ushered into a police interrogation, he’d probably accept a murder charge in exchange for a go on their coffee machine. Put bluntly, he needed help. Unfortunately, Tess and Miller were the best he was going to get.
Having filmed Mrs Meakes’ piece to camera, they’d bid a swift farewell to the old widow – she was as keen as they to see Alan aided. Starting up the car, Tess had programmed ‘Croydon Police Station’ into the SatNav, while Miller called their
Pardon My Garden
production manager. If anyone knew what was going on, it was Welsh Di. (The fixers of the TV world, good production managers traded on gossip. If the budget only stretched to one camera and an overnight in a Travelodge, it cheered everyone up to know Dean from Factual had syphilis). Sure enough -
“It all kicked off after yesterday’s show,” Di’s voice sang from the speakerphone on Miller’s mobile. “The police were shut up with Sandy for hours. Then they started on me and Gideon, wanting to know if we’d tampered with Mrs Meakes’ sofa. Her
sofa?
Of all bloody things. Well, I told ’em we were too busy digging up bodies to fuss over the covers on a buggery couch, didn’t I?” She drew breath. “Then they got arsy and marched Fat Alan off.”
“To Croydon Police Station?”
“That’s the one. We
think
they kept him in overnight, poor sod, but what can I do? I’m stuck by ’ere, holding things together while Gideon breathes into a paper bag, so tell Tess, now she’s herself into an investigative reporter,” her voice pirouetted upwards. “To keep
“It’s no good,” she said. “I’ll never get parked up in this. You’re going to have to go it alone, alright?”
“Alright.”
Craning round to the backseat, she watched Miller unzip his camera-bag. “Use the in-built mic, keep the angle wide, and get what you can,” she said. “Good luck.”
Armed with his camera, Miller climbed out of the car. Bravely, he faced the throng. Swiftly, he turned back. “What if someone tries to interview
me?
”
“Swing your camera at them,” she said. “And if it’s a reporter from Newsnight, aim for their teeth.” No-one cut up Tess and got home without their gums bleeding.
Hearing the news of Fat Alan’s arrest from Mrs Meakes’ radio had been a bad moment. Tess had sworn at the unexpected police brutality, and then cursed herself for not seeing it coming. Once Sandy Plimpton ‘revealed’ the existence of a stalker, his arrest had been inevitable. Alongside virulent Eczema and clinical obesity, Fat Alan suffered the terrible affliction of being Jeenie Dempster’s One and Only Fan.
Duties included waiting outside Backchat TV for the presenter’s autograph – which naturally Jeenie never gave – and helping the
Pardon My Garden
crew carry kit between their van and their office. (Having endowed Alan with the honorary title of ‘Freight Consultant’, Tess used him like a camel). In return for his labours, the team gave him endless cups of tea and heartwarming updates on Jeenie (‘today she smoked 7 fags and jabbed the soundman with a pen’). Occasionally, the kindly Welsh production manager Di passed Alan a cast-off from his idol – a muddy sock or nicotine-stained glove – which he took with tear-welling gratitude.
Faced with his obsessive devotion to their worthless presenter, Tess had felt a strange mixture of recoil and admiration: The man
was
undoubtedly unhinged, but soddit, at least he’d committed to a course of action. Who was
she
to say staking out a TV centre was a worse route to love than hurtling round nightclubs like a rum-fuelled dodgem with the brakes off?
While Tess had spent the past couple of years vulcanising her bumpers, however, Fat Alan was still soft as a lamb and as trusting as a puppy. Ushered into a police interrogation, he’d probably accept a murder charge in exchange for a go on their coffee machine. Put bluntly, he needed help. Unfortunately, Tess and Miller were the best he was going to get.
Having filmed Mrs Meakes’ piece to camera, they’d bid a swift farewell to the old widow – she was as keen as they to see Alan aided. Starting up the car, Tess had programmed ‘Croydon Police Station’ into the SatNav, while Miller called their
Pardon My Garden
production manager. If anyone knew what was going on, it was Welsh Di. (The fixers of the TV world, good production managers traded on gossip. If the budget only stretched to one camera and an overnight in a Travelodge, it cheered everyone up to know Dean from Factual had syphilis). Sure enough -
“It all kicked off after yesterday’s show,” Di’s voice sang from the speakerphone on Miller’s mobile. “The police were shut up with Sandy for hours. Then they started on me and Gideon, wanting to know if we’d tampered with Mrs Meakes’ sofa. Her
sofa?
Of all bloody things. Well, I told ’em we were too busy digging up bodies to fuss over the covers on a buggery couch, didn’t I?” She drew breath. “Then they got arsy and marched Fat Alan off.”
“To Croydon Police Station?”
“That’s the one. We
think
they kept him in overnight, poor sod, but what can I do? I’m stuck by ’ere, holding things together while Gideon breathes into a paper bag, so tell Tess, now she’s herself into an investigative reporter,” her voice pirouetted upwards. “To keep
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