In Pieces by Nick Hopton Page B

switched to Islam in the UK each year. Si found this hard to believe, but Roberta cited the authority of her father; Si realised he should not laugh this off too lightly for fear of offending his lover. She was too good to lose so easily. He accepted her assertion, but then went off to dig around.
    Si found that there were a number of Islamic preachers based in London spreading propaganda via certain Arabic newspapers. They described London and Western society generally as fragmented, soulless and godforsaken. Inhabited by sodomites, whores and devils of all kinds. But among these lost peoples the light of Truth was shining, and each day the number of conversions was miraculous. Allah’s mercy was manifest regularly.
    Si rang up the Grand Mufti and asked him what he thought about these preachers and their claims. The Mufti told him that all the people of The Book were really members of the same faith and that Muslims, Christians and Jews could live harmoniously together. ‘All will be revealed in the fullness of time to the true believers,’ he intoned softly and declined to expand further.
    In a flash of inspiration Si recognised that he should write this story straight. He would begin with a reference to the Shadow Education Spokesman’s Commons speech, then use a description of contemporary London lifted from one of the evangelical Muslim journalists, counterbalance that with a quote from the ‘Mega Mufti’, and finally report that, following the pop singer’s example, thousands were converting every day. ‘
The Diary reports this phenomenon just in case you hadn’t yet noticed
,’ would be the ironic last line.
    Dry, very dry. Si knew Dougy would like it because it could be read in several different ways and was all things to all men. It also meant he would gain extra time to divine the exact nature of Dougy’s instructions.
    The rest of the leftover material was either too useless for words or too obviously placed at the instigation of some public relations company. They were always ringing up, these PR executives. Jolly, bouncing voices on the phone—‘Hi Si… Have I got a story for you…’ before delivering some crap idea designed only to market their client’s product / film / book / event / whatever… Didn’t they realise that he needed a hook to make the story work? Something newsworthy or humorous. PR people were his least favourite breed. Of course there were exceptions: those who catered for his needs as well as their own. But they were very much the exception proving the rule.
    Bill came back with the coffee. ‘Thanks.’
    â€˜Pleasure,’ mumbled Bill, clearly not meaning it.
    â€˜So what have you lined up today?’
    â€˜Gi’ us a chance. I’ve only just got in.’
    â€˜Sure, sure,’ comforted Si gently. God, Bill could be testy sometimes. But Si tried to remember his management-training course: never work against the grain of your staff, move with them. He sipped his coffee. It was boiling hot and almost burnt his tongue.
    After a pause Si forgot his management training. ‘So?’
    â€˜So what?’
    â€˜So what have you got that might make a story?’
    â€˜Not a lot. Well, there may be something in a comment I overheard at a party last night.’ Bill told him about the story he’d eavesdropped. It combined a whiff of financial scandal and infidelity and starred a leading City figure, a property developer and an actress from
Eastenders
; classic Diary material.
    â€˜Good man,’ congratulated Si when he’d finished. ‘That sounds a runner. Maybe even a lead.’
    â€˜D’you think so?’ Bill perked up. Despite being relatively new to journalism, and the increasing sexual confusion which tormented him, he was convinced of his destiny: to get on and up. In a year or two he aimed to edit a rival diary or maybe do news… After all, diaries were no place