But not so popular as buggery.
Buggery wins hands down.
And bottom-cheeks apart.
Small Dave hadn’t been buggered once. His reputation had entered the prison before him and any aspiring buggerers kept a respectful distance from the vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard who had cut Parkie short on prime-time TV.
Not that Small Dave had been given a lot of opportunity to get himself buggered. He hadn’t. They had banged Dave up in the high-security wing of the new Virgin Serving the Community Secure Accommodation Unit, which stood upon what had recently been an area of outstanding natural beauty, right next door to the Brentford nick.
Small Dave was a Rule 42 merchant. Solitary confinement and a close mesh on the window.
So Dave kept himself pretty much to himself. And busied himself with a pastime of his own.
Small Dave was tunnelling out.
Now, the major problem with tunnelling out is this: What do you do with all the earth?
Small Dave asked Norman about this during one of their little afternoon get-togethers, Norman inhabiting as he did the cell next door to Dave, and having already removed several of the bricks from the dividing wall by means of a chisel he’d fashioned from soap.
“The secret,” said Norman, “is to dig not one hole but two. And put all the earth you’ve dug from the first hole into the second one.”
Small Dave made the face of thought. “But what about all the earth you’ve dug from the second hole?” he asked.
“That’s where the science comes in,” explained Norman. “If you dig your second hole twice the size of your first hole, there’ll be enough room in it for all the earth.”
Small Dave made with the approving nods. “And is that how you’re meaning to escape?” he asked.
“Actually, no. I thought I’d just blow my way out with the help of this stick of dynamite that Zorro the paper boy smuggled in.”
Small Dave whistled. “That’s a really big stick of dynamite,” he said. “How exactly did Zorro manage to smuggle that in?”
Norman leaned over and downwards and whispered.
“Bugger that!” said Dave.
“Bugger me!” said Soap to himself. “I’m never going to find Geraldo amongst all this mob.”
And quite a fair old mob it was by now. They were still plodding in through the park gates and bottle-necking up amongst the concession stalls and T-shirt stands and beer wagons and overpriced Portaloos and all the rest that had been flown in beneath a fleet of helicopters. But the Brentford sun was shining bravely and it did have all the makings of a beautiful day.
The world’s media were there in force. Camera teams and up-front girlie presenters in boob tubes and belly button piercings. Eager to grab the old soundbites from the kids for the evening news.
Because the Beatles could still make the news. They were British Institutions, each of them. And they were safe and cosy establishment figures. Part of society’s furniture.
They’d been bought off with their medals from the Queen (John had apologized for giving his back and Prince Charles had bunged him a replacement in the Royal Mail). And they gave the public what the public thought it wanted. Which is slightly different from giving the public what it actually needs. Which is a boot up the arse sometimes.
Yes, the Beatles were dead fab and the devil take the man who says they’re not.
A girlie presenter in a boob tube with belly button piercing stuck out her mic towards a not-so-fattish chap in a black T-shirt and shorts. “And do you dig the Beatles?” was her question.
“Not really,” said the chap in a squeaky voice. “I think they’re pretty crass. Although we’ve just come here straight from their last gig at Wembley Stadium.”
“But their last gig at Wembley Stadium was twenty-five years ago. You wouldn’t even have been born.”
“Ah, no, of course not,” said the chap. “What I meant to say was that we’ve just come here after watching it on video. But it’s really the Gandhis we’ve come to see.”
“You dig the Gandhis, then?”
“And then some. And this concert’s going to be special.”
“Special? In what way special?”
“Just make sure your cameras are pointing at the stage after the Beatles finish their set,” said Geraldo (for who else could it be but he?). “You’ll see something you’ll never forget. Trust me. I know what I’m saying.”
“Trust me, I know what I’m saying,” said The Voice.
“Well, you should,” said Wingarde. “You’re God.”
“Precisely,” said The Voice. “So perhaps you’d like to hurry up with what you’re doing. God does not like conducting conversations with people who are sitting on the toilet.”
“I’m almost done,” said Wingarde, making the face of strain. “So what is it you want me to do this time?”
“Something important that must be done today.”
“But I’m meeting the Beatles today and I’m making history again. This concert could never have happened if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Are you forgetting me?” asked The Voice.
“No, sir.” Wingarde finished his bottom business, rose from the bog seat, turned around and peered down at his doings.
“Why do men always do that?” asked The Voice. “It’s disgusting.”
Wingarde shrugged and wiped his bum. Doing that horrible thing some people do, of folding and refolding the paper.
“Word has reached me,” said The Voice, “that something is going to occur today. Something that could jeopardize my plans. And we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we, Wingarde?”
“Certainly not, sir,” said Wingarde, flushing the toilet and pulling up his pants.
“So you’re going to deal with it for me.”
“Oh, must I?” Wingarde complained. “I have to meet the Beatles. Do you think Lennon will remember me?”
“I shouldn’t think so, no. But I want you to go to the allotments and dig up—”
“Allotments?” went Wingarde. “Dig up?” went Wingarde.
“Your AK47,” said The Voice.
“My what? My what?”
“Wingarde. You and I have been reshaping history. Reshaping history so that we can reshape the future. This time the future will go the way that I want it to go and nothing and no one will stand in my way. Do I make myself clear, Wingarde? Do I?”
“Yes, sir, yes.” Wingarde clutched at his head. “But couldn’t you get someone else to do whatever it is? Get True Father to do it. He wouldn’t mind if you told him.”
“I do not wish Dr Tril … er … I mean, True Father … I do not wish True Father to hear my voice. You will do it, Wingarde. You will do it because I’m telling you to do it. You will do it, or else!”
Wingarde mumbled and grumbled and fretted.
“And I’ll tell you what else you’ll do.”
“What’s that?” mumble-grumbled and fretted the lad.
“Wash your hands before you leave this bathroom. Ghastly little bugger.”
(The song of Christeen, twin sister of Jesus Christ, written out of the New Testament because her brother was given editorial control.)
My mother Mary’s pretty big with the Catholics,
And my brother’s still pulling them in.