anyone who could provide the correct answer to the question: Are you a greedy, moronic prick? – responded to this vision with whoops and whistles and crazed shrieks, and Marcus sank back in his chair, feeling – if that were possible – slightly more ill.
Half the nation, it seemed, now lived in a drugged dream, from Lottery night to Lottery night, convinced that they deserved to be millionaires.
‘How’re you, my lovelies?’ Mars-Lewis’s arms flung wide, bangles jangling. ‘All right, is it?’
Marcus growled. The numbers on the video recorder appeared to be turning satisfactorily. He could switch off the television, couldn’t he?
‘And before we go any further … no … stop that now, come on … just listen, lovelies, let me just tell you that tonight’s jackpot winners will share … are you ready now …? A grand total of … SEVEN AND A HALF MILLION POUNDS !’
The audience keeled over with what sounded to Marcus like narcotically enhanced rapture. He shook his head slowly. How the hell could bloody Lewis have let himself become associated with this nauseous exhibition of mob avarice?
Money, of course. Tonight’s fee was probably ten times what theman – Marcus was almost certain Lewis was a man – had earned in an entire summer season of bottom-of-the-bill cabaret on Bournemouth Pier. And about ten thousand times what Marcus had ever paid him for an article in The Vision.
‘Now, I must show you this, see …’ The creature looked furtive, producing a fold of paper. The syrupy Welsh Valleys accent became more pronounced as it acquired a confidential wheedle.
‘Came today, it did. Signed jointly by the Director General of the BBC and the Managing Director of Camelot, organizers of the Lottery. Just listen to this. Dear Ms Mars-Lewis … Ms! There’s progressive.’
The response to this, accompanied by the creature’s arched eyebrow, suggested that several hundred people had spontaneously soiled themselves.
‘Dear Ms Mars-Lewis. Moderately accepting though we are of your personal manner and general deportment …’ Lewis sniffed and smoothed his dress ‘… we are bound to express dismay at the attitude of your avian associate …’
Uncertain laughter, as the cretins pondered possible meanings of the word avian.
‘We feel the continued and unwarranted cynicism exhibited by the bird is not in the spirit or indeed the best interests of the National Lottery as we see it, and unless there is a radical change we intend to take a hard look at the terms of your contract.’
Lewis lowered the paper and looked glum.
‘Oh dear. Well, now, despite what you see, I’m not as young as I was … And I’m not a rich person.’
This was true enough; the creature apparently wintered in a rusting caravan in Tenby.
‘The DG now, he has a terrible long memory. And I have to think of my future, isn’t it? Which is why I’ve come to a decision. I’ve decided, I have, that from now on I shall have to work … alone.’ Lewis straightened up, nose mock-heroically in the air. ‘I shall be … a solo artiste.’
To which the audience produced a passable simulation of a tragic Greek chorus.
‘What else can I do?’ Lewis shrieked in torment. ‘What can I do ?’
The camera backed up to reveal a large, pink suitcase splatteredwith airline stickers. A muffled squawk seemed to emanate from within.
‘You can start by getting me out of this bloody scented boudoir, you old tart!’ screeched Kelvyn Kite.
‘Definitely not. Your services are no longer required. You can sign on in the morning.’
‘You’ll regret this, Lewis!’
Marcus sat up. What? ‘Hmmph.’ He shook his head and poured the last centimetre of Scotch into his glass.
‘Je ne regrette rien!’ Mars-Lewis defiantly throwing out his arms. ‘My loyalties are to Camelot and to the BBC!’
The audience booed. Marcus sank the whisky and switched off the set.
VI
LIVE TELEVISION .
The danger. The living in the moment. The being
Half the nation, it seemed, now lived in a drugged dream, from Lottery night to Lottery night, convinced that they deserved to be millionaires.
‘How’re you, my lovelies?’ Mars-Lewis’s arms flung wide, bangles jangling. ‘All right, is it?’
Marcus growled. The numbers on the video recorder appeared to be turning satisfactorily. He could switch off the television, couldn’t he?
‘And before we go any further … no … stop that now, come on … just listen, lovelies, let me just tell you that tonight’s jackpot winners will share … are you ready now …? A grand total of … SEVEN AND A HALF MILLION POUNDS !’
The audience keeled over with what sounded to Marcus like narcotically enhanced rapture. He shook his head slowly. How the hell could bloody Lewis have let himself become associated with this nauseous exhibition of mob avarice?
Money, of course. Tonight’s fee was probably ten times what theman – Marcus was almost certain Lewis was a man – had earned in an entire summer season of bottom-of-the-bill cabaret on Bournemouth Pier. And about ten thousand times what Marcus had ever paid him for an article in The Vision.
‘Now, I must show you this, see …’ The creature looked furtive, producing a fold of paper. The syrupy Welsh Valleys accent became more pronounced as it acquired a confidential wheedle.
‘Came today, it did. Signed jointly by the Director General of the BBC and the Managing Director of Camelot, organizers of the Lottery. Just listen to this. Dear Ms Mars-Lewis … Ms! There’s progressive.’
The response to this, accompanied by the creature’s arched eyebrow, suggested that several hundred people had spontaneously soiled themselves.
‘Dear Ms Mars-Lewis. Moderately accepting though we are of your personal manner and general deportment …’ Lewis sniffed and smoothed his dress ‘… we are bound to express dismay at the attitude of your avian associate …’
Uncertain laughter, as the cretins pondered possible meanings of the word avian.
‘We feel the continued and unwarranted cynicism exhibited by the bird is not in the spirit or indeed the best interests of the National Lottery as we see it, and unless there is a radical change we intend to take a hard look at the terms of your contract.’
Lewis lowered the paper and looked glum.
‘Oh dear. Well, now, despite what you see, I’m not as young as I was … And I’m not a rich person.’
This was true enough; the creature apparently wintered in a rusting caravan in Tenby.
‘The DG now, he has a terrible long memory. And I have to think of my future, isn’t it? Which is why I’ve come to a decision. I’ve decided, I have, that from now on I shall have to work … alone.’ Lewis straightened up, nose mock-heroically in the air. ‘I shall be … a solo artiste.’
To which the audience produced a passable simulation of a tragic Greek chorus.
‘What else can I do?’ Lewis shrieked in torment. ‘What can I do ?’
The camera backed up to reveal a large, pink suitcase splatteredwith airline stickers. A muffled squawk seemed to emanate from within.
‘You can start by getting me out of this bloody scented boudoir, you old tart!’ screeched Kelvyn Kite.
‘Definitely not. Your services are no longer required. You can sign on in the morning.’
‘You’ll regret this, Lewis!’
Marcus sat up. What? ‘Hmmph.’ He shook his head and poured the last centimetre of Scotch into his glass.
‘Je ne regrette rien!’ Mars-Lewis defiantly throwing out his arms. ‘My loyalties are to Camelot and to the BBC!’
The audience booed. Marcus sank the whisky and switched off the set.
VI
LIVE TELEVISION .
The danger. The living in the moment. The being
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