Pratt a Manger by David Nobbs

came to him from afar, borne on the wind from the Steppes of Russia. His blood ran cold.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’
    This got a loud laugh. Henry was utterly bewildered.
    ‘I was speaking to you, Mr Pratt,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘After all, you are, are you not, the only Pratt here?’
    By now there was near hysteria in the audience. When it died down, Dennis Danvers asked Henry his question.
    ‘What culinary product is used in the expression, “As keen as …”?’
    Henry froze. His mind went a complete blank. He could hear the audience laughing, miles away.
    ‘Toffee,’ he said.
    The audience erupted. Even Dennis Danvers couldn’t keep a straight face.
    ‘Henry Pratt, I make a prediction,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘The TV audience are going to be as keen as toffee to see you on this show. I’m certain that as you gain confidence you will be giving your answers as bold as pewter. I can offer it to the other side.’
    ‘Mustard,’ said Bradley Tompkins with eager, petty pride.
    ‘The scores at the end of that round are, Denise’s team eight, Simon’s team four,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘Never mind, there’s a chance here for Simon’s team to catch up. We have a completely new round. Each panellist has to give me the CV, the life story, of a fictional chef of his invention. You, the audience, will judge how inventive and amusing their efforts are. Your applause will be measured on the Chipometer. First, to start us off, Bradley Tompkins, what have you for us?’
    ‘I want to talk about the very shy Russian chef, Anonymous Borsch,’ said Bradley Tompkins.
    Henry’s heart sank to his socks. The bastard!
    Bradley Tompkins’s heart sank to his socks too. His quip had not brought the gales of laughter that he was anticipating. There had been bemusement, and one or two titters, but only one laugh. Henry recognised it as Lampo’s.
    ‘He was born in the small Russian town of Volgograd,’ persisted Bradley Tompkins.
    Oh good. He’d missed the Sodov gag.
    ‘That wasn’t his real name, of course. He was called Anonymous because he was so shy, and Borsch because he made a very famous example of that Russian beetroot soup.’ Bradley Tompkins’s voice began to falter. He was losing confidence. He was dying on his arse. He was beginning to believe that that bastard Pratt had set him up.
    ‘But of course it was very confusing to be called Anonymous Borsch,’ continued Bradley bravely, ‘because of the painter.’
    He paused.
    ‘What painter would that be, Bradley?’ asked Dennis Danvers.
    ‘Well, Hieronymus Bosch, of course.’
    ‘Of course!’ Dennis Danvers looked across at the studio audience and repeated, ‘Of course!!’ The audience laughed. ‘What happened to Anonymous Borsch, Bradley?’
    ‘He opened a restaurant. He called it the Anonymous Borsch. Do you know why?’
    ‘None of us know why, Bradley,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘We’re on the edge of our seats.’
    The audience laughed again, perhaps at the difficulty Dennis Danvers was having in not laughing. Mocking Bradley Tompkins was fine sport for a man who had never missed an easy target in his life.
    ‘He wished to be eponymous as well as anonymous,’ said Bradley Tompkins roguishly. This remark was greeted with total silence. Not even Lampo laughed.
    ‘And did Hieronymus ever go to the restaurant of the anonymous, eponymous Borsch?’ asked Dennis Danvers. By this time there was laughter at everything he said.
    ‘I don’t know,’ quipped Bradley Tompkins, his face the colour of borsch.
    ‘Well done, Bradley,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘Well up to the standard I’d have expected of you. Now let’s put it to the Chipometer.’
    The audience’s applause was muted.
    ‘Oh dear. One out of ten on the Chipometer. Bad luck,’ said Dennis Danvers.
    Henry knew that Dennis Danvers would come to him next, and he had nothing whatever to say. ‘Funnily enough, my chef is also called Anonymous Borsch’ would hardly be