cyclorama of Mediterranean sky.
‘Bollocks, dearie,’ said Chaz, the photographer. He leaned into the shot to adjust the offending bikini.
‘Mind your bleedin’ hands, octopus,’ Brie said, slapping him away.
She was right. The striped cups squeezed her breasts, the straps bit her shoulders. Angry pink skin plumped around straining edges.
Leech sat in the shadows, champing the ends of a Biro. He wore his hat, brim down, to keep the studio lights out of his eyes. Since his take-over the Daily Comet had transformed from dying broadsheet into thriving tabloid. Its image was younger, more daring, more vital; yet offering a return to traditional values. Leech’s first great campaign ran under the banner of ‘I’m Behind Britain’.
Chaz, irritated with Brie, was nervous with the new boss hanging around. Everything else about the paper had changed, he must think the Beach Beauties were for the chop too.
The Comet Beach Beauties had been a national institution since the twenties. From knee-length costumes through to cutaway bikinis, these heroines of garage and barracks had married into titles, rocked governments and becomes hostesses on The Golden Shot. Brie, this year’s model, had been on television with Benny Hill and was cast in a film where Christopher Lee would suck her blood.
Brie squirmed under the lights and writhed in her top as if it were a hair shirt. Chaz’s bald spot was a sorely embarrassed red.
At first rival papers made jokes about the ‘with-it’ Comet. The several fortunes Derek Leech had made in pop music and the rag trade did not qualify him as a latterday Lord Beaverbrook. Within a year of the Comet’s relaunch, the competition switched from sneering at his tactics to imitating them.
‘I’ll do myself a permanent damage,’ Brie whined, tugging at the constricting cups. Her pleasant face twisted in discomfort.
Chaz ignored her, muttering into his battery of camera equipment.
‘This all right, Mr Leech?’ he asked.
Leech walked onto the set and looked the girl over. Her head barely came up to his chest.
‘It’s agony, luv,’ she said.
‘Take it off,’ he told her.
She undid the clasp and shrugged. Her breasts breathed.
‘Take her like this,’ Leech told the photographer.
‘You can’t put tits in the Comet ,’ he protested. ‘They’ll never stand for it.’
‘Let me worry about that.’
Chaz snapped off shots. Brie, suddenly giggly, posed naturally for the first time. She laughed and shaded her eyes, looking into the shadows at him. Leech knew exactly which exposure they would run: thumbnail in mouth, innocent and knowing, sexy but clean.
‘Knock out,’ Brie said.
FLEET STREET, 1977
Elizabeth II looked exactly as she did on a pound note, except for the safety-pin through her nose. ‘God Save the Queen’ was assembled from newsprint like a ransom note.
‘It’s a strong image,’ Leech said, placing the record sleeve on the table. ‘You have to admire that.’
Moore, the Comet’ s notional editor gurgled outrage. He had come with the paper and still loitered nervously.
In the year-end ‘Derek Leech Talks Straight’ column, he was denouncing the Sex Pistols.
The Comet, swathed in the Union Jack throughout Jubilee year would brook no shilly-shallying. Comet ‘Knock-Outs’ had posed as British heroines, climaxing on Jubilee Day with Brie Simon, at twenty-five the grande dame of naked breasts, kitted up as Britannia Herself.
1977 would be remembered not for celebration bonfires and patriotic bunting but for gobbing and pogoing. Real Records, buried in the heart of the Derek Leech media portfolio, had ridden the razor-blade along with the rest of the industry.
‘Shocking,’ Moore said, tapping the poster. ‘Some people have no standards.’
‘Indeed,’ Leech agreed. ‘Reproduce it with the column. Give the Queen vampire fangs. It’ll be stronger.’
Moore knew better than to object. He scuttled off.
Derek Leech Enterprises had manufactured
‘Bollocks, dearie,’ said Chaz, the photographer. He leaned into the shot to adjust the offending bikini.
‘Mind your bleedin’ hands, octopus,’ Brie said, slapping him away.
She was right. The striped cups squeezed her breasts, the straps bit her shoulders. Angry pink skin plumped around straining edges.
Leech sat in the shadows, champing the ends of a Biro. He wore his hat, brim down, to keep the studio lights out of his eyes. Since his take-over the Daily Comet had transformed from dying broadsheet into thriving tabloid. Its image was younger, more daring, more vital; yet offering a return to traditional values. Leech’s first great campaign ran under the banner of ‘I’m Behind Britain’.
Chaz, irritated with Brie, was nervous with the new boss hanging around. Everything else about the paper had changed, he must think the Beach Beauties were for the chop too.
The Comet Beach Beauties had been a national institution since the twenties. From knee-length costumes through to cutaway bikinis, these heroines of garage and barracks had married into titles, rocked governments and becomes hostesses on The Golden Shot. Brie, this year’s model, had been on television with Benny Hill and was cast in a film where Christopher Lee would suck her blood.
Brie squirmed under the lights and writhed in her top as if it were a hair shirt. Chaz’s bald spot was a sorely embarrassed red.
At first rival papers made jokes about the ‘with-it’ Comet. The several fortunes Derek Leech had made in pop music and the rag trade did not qualify him as a latterday Lord Beaverbrook. Within a year of the Comet’s relaunch, the competition switched from sneering at his tactics to imitating them.
‘I’ll do myself a permanent damage,’ Brie whined, tugging at the constricting cups. Her pleasant face twisted in discomfort.
Chaz ignored her, muttering into his battery of camera equipment.
‘This all right, Mr Leech?’ he asked.
Leech walked onto the set and looked the girl over. Her head barely came up to his chest.
‘It’s agony, luv,’ she said.
‘Take it off,’ he told her.
She undid the clasp and shrugged. Her breasts breathed.
‘Take her like this,’ Leech told the photographer.
‘You can’t put tits in the Comet ,’ he protested. ‘They’ll never stand for it.’
‘Let me worry about that.’
Chaz snapped off shots. Brie, suddenly giggly, posed naturally for the first time. She laughed and shaded her eyes, looking into the shadows at him. Leech knew exactly which exposure they would run: thumbnail in mouth, innocent and knowing, sexy but clean.
‘Knock out,’ Brie said.
FLEET STREET, 1977
Elizabeth II looked exactly as she did on a pound note, except for the safety-pin through her nose. ‘God Save the Queen’ was assembled from newsprint like a ransom note.
‘It’s a strong image,’ Leech said, placing the record sleeve on the table. ‘You have to admire that.’
Moore, the Comet’ s notional editor gurgled outrage. He had come with the paper and still loitered nervously.
In the year-end ‘Derek Leech Talks Straight’ column, he was denouncing the Sex Pistols.
The Comet, swathed in the Union Jack throughout Jubilee year would brook no shilly-shallying. Comet ‘Knock-Outs’ had posed as British heroines, climaxing on Jubilee Day with Brie Simon, at twenty-five the grande dame of naked breasts, kitted up as Britannia Herself.
1977 would be remembered not for celebration bonfires and patriotic bunting but for gobbing and pogoing. Real Records, buried in the heart of the Derek Leech media portfolio, had ridden the razor-blade along with the rest of the industry.
‘Shocking,’ Moore said, tapping the poster. ‘Some people have no standards.’
‘Indeed,’ Leech agreed. ‘Reproduce it with the column. Give the Queen vampire fangs. It’ll be stronger.’
Moore knew better than to object. He scuttled off.
Derek Leech Enterprises had manufactured
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