Our Nigel is in deep. Too deep. It gets less impressive as it goes on.

Meanwhile, an apology: I missed the last two paragraphs of Ads Part 37 in the previous post. They were lurking on a short overrun page under the rest of the text in the original document. Carla, Bill, and Felicity are now partners in the agency. Now added.

Alan, the private detective who was so unobtrusive that Al had to remind himself he was one, came into Al’s office early in the morning with an expression on his face that was entirely uninformative. Silently he handed Al a news clipping. It was a pretty big usage of paper, and Alan said he needed to talk to Al after he read it.

Most of it was pictures. In the corner was a large picture of Nigel, evidently while helping brewers sleep well. The headline said, “Huge Cosmetics Heist Arrests.” There was another picture of rows of boxes of perfumes, colognes, etc., and in the background a glimpse of a warehouse roof. The article was no triumph of recklessly informative zeal:

“Mr. Nigel Bottomley, of London, was today charged with the alleged theft of several million dollars’ worth of designer cosmetics and threatening behavior. Police said that Mr. Bottomley was discovered selling the stolen goods in Bondi, and that a search of his home had located several dozen boxes of various goods identified as those stolen from a distributor last year. Subsequent investigations located the warehouse (pictured) with the stolen goods, and Mr. Bottomley was then formally charged. Mr. Bottomley then allegedly threatened the arresting officers, saying that his contacts would “get them”.

Mr. Bottomley’s lawyer denied that his client had threatened police, and said that Mr. Bottomley had a perfectly legitimate business reason for being in possession of the cosmetics, and was unaware that they were stolen, and disputed that any of his merchandise was part of the stolen items. Police further noted that Mr. Bottomley was currently listed as a missing person, and said that they intended to question him regarding that matter. Mr. Bottomley, when asked, yelled to a reporter that he’d never been missing in the first place, and that he hadn’t reported himself as missing.

A friend of Mr. Bottomley’s, identifying himself only as Bruce, when informed of his arrest, said “I believe Nigel’s a decent person at heart? He’d only have all those perfumes if he really needed them? You know?”

A final picture showed Piranha Woman being restrained by police. With her malocclusion flashing in the sunlight.

“OK, Alan, I have no idea what to make of it. What’s the story? Obviously there’s more to it than that.”

“Thank God I know I don’t need to explain that to you. The cosmetics are the least of the matter. You’ll remember we were talking about money laundering, and that all those contacts Fazzina and Nigel made were likely to be set ups for a major scam? The police found a list of contacts in the States in Nigel’s place. I was wondering if you’d like to come down to the station and have a look.”

“Try and stop me.”

They arrived at a modern if maudlin building in Surrey Hills, and were directed to a somewhat sparse interview room. In walked Stan, their friendly local policeman, dressed as a very obviously very senior policeman. That threw Al, because the guy had been so informal in all the months he’d known him that it simply hadn’t occurred to him to ask what rank Stan was. It so happened that Stan, as an area commander, had been aware of a few irritants in his area, and in his spare time, with Alan’s assistance, had been doing a bit of creative digging of his own.

He must have looked surprised, because Stan grinned and said,

“Yeah, I dress up occasionally. Have a go at this little phone book of names here.” 

There were no surprises, until he got to Harvey White and a long line of American names that Al knew by reputation. Of course, this didn’t actually pin anything at all on White: “So someone’s got my name and number; so what? I’m in the phone book,” about covered it. Al tried to imagine the combination of Nigel and Harvey, and understandably winced. The other two noticed the expression come and go.

Alan said that they were about to interview Nigel, and that they thought it might be useful if Al was present, because he knew the US contacts, and could explain who they were. Al was sited with Alan behind a one way mirror as the police began their interview. He noted that the recording of the interview was being done meticulously, and that few TV shows ever really captured the vibes. This was a real formal process. The police on duty obviously felt the presence of Stan, too, so the interview was done strictly by regulation.

That probably saved time, because Nigel certainly didn’t feel any need for brevity. Nothing was said that didn’t convey his sense of his own importance. Even his accent had gruesomely modified itself into the pseudo-theatrical voice used by people who normally speak like clogged drains. Positively fruity was this voice.[1] The only thing that did seem to unsettle him was Stan, in full regalia, saying nothing. Al, unlike Nigel, noticed that the Aussie cops were looking irritated, but doggedly sticking to the task, however nauseating. The material would have to be sorted out later. What Nigel really needed was an editor; each question was answered as below, the abuse has been left out. Most of it dealt with Nigel’s opinion of the police and their personal appearance. The interviewing officer kept his questions utilitarian.

Q. When did you come into possession of the cosmetics?

A. I don’t have to answer that. I am a legitimate businessman, and I know my rights. I think you’re trying to get at my clients. I won’t say anything that  you can use against them.

Interviewing officer: (While Stan tried staring Nigel into the carpet) Mr. Bottomley, you have been formally charged with possession of stolen merchandise. It’s important that we establish whether you legally own that merchandise. If you can prove that you own the cosmetics, we can’t charge you.

A. I think you’re trying to set me up. You’re….what’s it called…..verballing me.

Q. (from Stan) Who’s Tony Fazzina?

A. A friend I used to work with.

Q. Who’s Harvey White?

A.  A business associate of Mr. Fazzina’s.

The “who’s so and so” went on for a while. Stan then asked,

Q. Mr. Bottomley, some of these are very important people. So my next question is, who are you, to them?

A. (Confidently) I’m the person they want to do their business for them in Australia. I’m the one who arranges things for them. They’re my colleagues. Like I said, I’m a legitimate salesman. 

Q. Do you have a wholesaler’s license?

A. A what?

Q. Do you have a retailer’s license?

A. Nah. I’m an importer.

Q. Do you have an importer’s license?

A. Not on me, no.

Q. Do you have a bill of sale or a receipt or any other kind of documentation for your purchase of the cosmetics?

A. It’s in my papers. If you’d bothered to check, you’d have found it by now. Typical incompetence……

Q. From whom were the cosmetics purchased?

A. From a distributor in the UK. He’s an old friend. He shipped them over here.

Q. From the UK?

A. Yes…….no, from the States.

Six hours of this established that Nigel was as unconvincing a liar as anyone there had ever seen. His touching belief in the idea of importing goods was fatal enough. Any import generates a paper trail leading back to Adam’s birth certificate. Stan finally pulled the plug on him.

Q. Mr. Bottomley; you are aware, I take it, that every statement you have made to this date, if true, can be verified by bills of lading, commercial sources, such as inventories, and the like, and that we can access this information easily?

A. I’m sure you can.

Q. You still maintain that you came into possession of these goods legally?

A. Silence. (Al thought Nigel was trying to look aloof, but he just looked like he had indigestion).

Stan: (finally speaking for the first time) I’ll give you until tomorrow to decide if you want to tell us anything a bit more specific, Mr. Bottomley. You’ll be seeing your lawyer in the morning, and I suggest you give him a full briefing on what you’ve said in this interview. 

It was an intimidating train of thought, if Nigel got around to thinking about it, in Al’s opinion. Stan had turned Nigel around very systematically, without saying a word or doing anything except drink his glasses of water. Nigel obviously found that degree of silence intimidating. The abuse had long ago dried up, and the confidence had all but evaporated. Nigel now looked like a version of Al’s original bottomless opinion of him. Alan said, conversationally, “There’s a bloke who can keep a secret.” The police grinned.

Al had been thinking about the list. Those people were a selection of “players” in the States, not big time of themselves, but collectively they made quite a combination, in a lot of businesses. They were the sort of sleazy, bit part, people that always showed up when the money was getting spread about. They were often book entries, accounting entities, not real people, in the sense of going to work and doing a job. They had better things to do. They more or less fitted the Harvey White mould of anonymity. Generally speaking it didn’t pay to ask who they were, because no answers were ever going to be trustworthy and anything can be denied if you have no solid information. Nigel, viewed as a facilitator for them, made far more sense than Nigel doing anything in his own right being worth millions. However, this was clumsy stuff at best. Those people didn’t go in for stolen goods and such other mundane things. If they ever got arrested for anything it was all white collar and nothing serious. Nigel being that stupid was in character, though.

Al told Stan what he could about the people on the list, and apologized because it wasn’t much, beyond his awareness of their presence and some of the things that they were supposedly involved in. He could, and did, go into as much detail about White as he could. He wound up telling them the entire jagged, inconclusive, story of the Stone Gold White saga, and the various interactions that were going on in the States.  Featherman wasn’t on the list, and was added, largely because of his association with Nigel, which struck Al later as like mentioning a dog because it was associated with a tail. He said it might be better if they asked Saul or David about them.

Nigel caved in at his lawyer’s insistence the following day. He didn’t just fold, he ironed himself as well. There was an epic of his doings over the last year or so, and the list was about three times longer when he finished. It seemed that Featherman had put him on to the person who gave him the cosmetics to sell. Featherman himself was now somewhere in Europe, according to his secretary. About all Nigel had going for him was that he really didn’t know they were stolen. That fact made him look a few unhealthy shades more ridiculous to the police, however, and his own importance had quietly shot itself in the process. 

Perhaps fortunately, depending on your point of view, the first stanzas of Nigel’s denouement came while Bruce and Piranha Woman were present. It may have been Nigel’s deep boozer’s need to be visible, or just stupidity, but it was a revelation to Al, seated accidentally outside the interview room out of sight. He caught his first glimpse of Bruce, a short, fashionable 50-ish, dressed in something from a rather neurotic remake of Hair, looking concerned…..maybe. Piranha Woman, in contrast, looked very macho. They talked the legs off the furniture. Nigel was silent. Stan, again in full uniform, had just entered to get Nigel to make a statement one way or the other, and was clearly unprepared for the scene. Al didn’t think anyone could ever be prepared for Bruce in person. The conversation became quite sweet.

Bruce: Oh, you must be the policeman? Nice to meet you? Haven’t we met? I was at the 1987 Masked Spinsters’ Ball? Dressed as a lamington?

Piranha Woman: Oh Nige, Oh Nige…….(Violins might have helped at this point, but most violins are a bit picky about what sort of melodrama they accompany).

Nigel: (Far too Dickensian, even for Dickens, accent at full blast) Look, copper, I got sumthink ter say. I done it. It was ver bloke wot Featherman introduced me to, vat bloke Gary, who give me ver stuff and ver trucks. Me lawyer said he don’t want no part of it if I don’t tell yer. I wanted ter be someone, yer know wot I mean? I had ter be one uv ver big boys. I…….(breaks off in coughing fit, about as glamorous as he sounded).  

Stan was evidently finding the departure from “legitimate businessman” to Cockney idiot a bit hard to take. Bravely he turned to Bruce as his officers walked in. They stared disbelievingly at Stan as he said,

Stan: Oh, you’re Bruce? No, I don’t think we’ve met? I must dash? We have Nigel here to attend to?

Nigel was taken into the interview room in which Al gathered that everything but the St. Valentines Day Massacre was something to do with Nigel. Even when telling the truth he was unconvincing. Alan, sitting with him, said that with some witnesses the problem was largely shutting them up, and keeping to the point. Outside, he heard Bruce and Piranha Woman leaving, Bruce saying,

“There, there, dear? What a well-spoken policeman? Our Nigel will do the right thing?”

A policewoman on the reception desk was heard laughing like a hyena as the door closed. Inside, Nigel was finally drained of his anecdotes and sent back to his cell. Al heard Nigel telling one of the cops that “Me piles are hurting something awful,” which seemed a pretty strange choice of audience for the subject. It was also Al’s last glimpse of Nigel, an apt postscript to a very forgettable person.

Stan entered looking bemused. Alan looked sympathetic.

“How much of that did you believe?”  he asked, grinning.

“I think the bit about the Cities of the Plain was perhaps a little overdone. Other than that, he’s been a great help in telling us what parts of his story he couldn’t possibly know anything about.”

“What I don’t understand is why he insisted on incriminating himself, so badly, and so often.”

---

[1] Those interested in the ramifications of that description are advised that a look at the Dried Fruit Act will be enlightening. It always is.

Advertising fundamentals with a happy outcome. About time, you’d think, particularly if you work in the sector.

“You never allow a bad shot, ever, of your product. You never allow your client to be seen in public looking or sounding anything less than great when on the job. This is career suicide…. All your endorsements will go straight down the tube if that gets out,” said Al, to the champion athlete Henrietta Thorpe and her young but rather rustic looking agent/publicist, a guy called Jack Weiss.

They’d been looking at a commercial which the agency had had made for Lotta Crust Bread. The athlete, in full gear, of course, had been extolling the virtues of the product, sounding like a two year old child reading from a primer….. “It-is-a-won-derful-source-of-fi-bre-and-protein…” Woeful. Al had discovered that she’d been doing elocution courses and a public speaking course and was therefore saturated with information on how to speak normally. This was rather sad, because the selling point was her speaking as herself.

Al, who’d seen this before, was unimpressed to an unusual degree. He was also unimpressed that Mastermind Productions, who’d done some other good ads, were responsible for the result. He smelt a lifetime supply of stenches. They knew a lot better than this. He looked slightly more sympathetically at his guests. He’d asked them in, to warn them about this terrible self mutilation. They were sitting there like a couple of school kids. He had Carla take them in hand while Felicity fumed prettily about how her copy, admittedly sponsor-dictated, had turned into the horror it now was. Al smiled briefly and rang Jane Wright, CEO at Mastermind.

“Jane, I just saw the Lotta Crust thing. You have to be kidding. It gets redone, and we aren’t going to pay for it until it is……”

“Al, I haven’t seen it. I just got back from Perth. What’s wrong with it?”

Al explained, getting a wry few laughs out of Jane in the process. She also had a listen over the phone and was perhaps more horrified than Al had been. Some people in media do take their firm’s work personally, and that was one of the reasons Al had made a point of contacting her. Jane, having understood, was almost unable to speak.

“That …whatever it was….is horrendous. No wonder you’re upset. Give me half an hour.”

Carla had meanwhile settled the two victims into the reception area and started filling them up with some food. As they ate, she steered the conversation around to their debacle in a way that it was bearable to speak about it. Weiss was almost in shock. Al had penetrated with his comments, and he was terrifyingly aware that he might have done Henrietta some real damage. Henrietta, for her part, was a typical athlete, needing support from those she could trust who knew how to manage her business. She also liked Jack personally, more than she wanted to admit. She was therefore trying to calm him. Carla noted that the elocution lessons had produced a surreal usage that was somewhere between extreme self-consciousness and genuine concern. Each word was a lottery.

“O Jack…yer do try so hard……Ay don’t hold it a-gainst you…..Yer always been a good friend….”

“I should have said something……”

“How were you to know? Oi fing you did ay good job in your part. Ay also think Oi shoulda been payin’ more attention.”

It was an interesting tableau; the quite pretty athlete, very trim, and her large but utterly shocked friend, it could have made an ad for something in its own right, in Carla’s opinion. At this point, Joe, who’d been staring at a loaf of Lotta Crust for far too long while arranging the shots for the print ad, walked in holding the thing and asked Carla if there were any pigeons she felt deeply about that that she wanted to feed it to and kill them. This generated some desperately needed laughter from Henrietta and Jack. Felicity, Al and Bill, who’d by now separately decided that they wanted to personally remove certain anatomical necessities from whoever had produced the ad, were in the mood for a change of temperament, heard the laughter, and went to see what was happening.

Joe, Al and Bill instantly found themselves in unknowing agreement with Carla. Henrietta and Jack, together, were quite a visual presence. Just putting good looking people together isn’t a guarantee of a worthwhile image. There has to be some chemistry that translates to the viewer. They really did look like a mutually supportive couple.

Despite the tendency of the media to incessantly manufacture couples hating each other, betraying each other and generally making life a misery, it should be understood that the public don’t want to think about things like that when they’re shopping. Family images are supposed to be reassuring, and promoting, ironically, the domestic ethos. The most successful TV shows create an environment like that, largely for that reason. Sitcoms are usually domestically oriented. The perpetual “dysfunctional” family usually isn’t, on that level.

So the family image does matter. Advertising people register images like that the way fish swim. Joe had instantly grabbed the image of Henrietta and Jack, but wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Bill, who was a quick study and had absorbed every word from Joe and Al, translated the couple into almost any conceivable setting. Felicity was thinking that as a scene the copy wrote itself.  Al, clicking faster than them, was mapping out a few other gigs for them. The three of them almost burst into applause when Carla said,

“Don’t they look right together, like that? Why didn’t we do the ad with the two of them?”

Carla’s “secret” agenda was actually to reassure Henrietta and Jack, although professionally she meant what she said, and meant it as a person whose views were respected. Al, realizing that the couple were a few light years behind in the logic, and noting how pleased Henrietta looked and how surprised Jack seemed, followed up immediately.

“Carla, you’re a genius. If we paid you in kisses we’d go broke. Bill, get Michael from Lotta Crust over here. Felicity, that setting, with product, how long?”

“Already written, just needs to get on the computer. Thirty seconds, right?”

“Yeah. Joe, the set? “

“Right there. We’ll just throw in some domestic stuff.”

They sprinted to work, literally. Jane rang back with some irritating but not entirely unexpected news. The producer, or ex-producer, as Jane pointedly said, had a friend who had a model as a client. The director was also fired, for being an invertebrate. The lousy ad was to sabotage Henrietta and get the sponsor primed for an alternative presenter, meaning the model-friend. Jane was furious. She apologized sincerely and profusely, and was very relieved when Al outlined the new idea. Jane had the production crew moving before Al got off the phone. 

The new ad won several awards, which Al attributed to getting the right people on set. It was a straight domestic piece, husband Jack expressing concern over Henrietta’s constant training and need to eat properly, because they were hoping for a baby. Henrietta, whose diction had been returned to the forgivable by Carla, explained that she could always rely on a good meal with Lotta Crust. Sales were impressive.

Al took the couple under his wing and kept a friendly eye on things while Jack learned the ropes. Henrietta and Jack went on to become one of the most sought-after couples in advertising and TV history, even having a long running sitcom of their own. They also married, with Carla as bridesmaid and the others in attendance as honored guests.

A little talk after the ad-event:

“Carla, as of today you’re an equity partner with a split of the profits in your contract. Joe and I have agreed, and we insist[1]. No arguments. You too, Bill and Felicity. That was excellent work; I’ve never seen anyone take up an idea off their own bats so fast. You’ve earned it. Thank God I didn’t waste my time sticking around in the States.” 

When asked later about his role in Henrietta and Jack’s success, Al said Nature did most of the work, he just handled the phones. He meant it.

---

[1] Joe’s parents, hearing about this arrangement, were overjoyed. Joe said it was like he’d told them he’d won a Nobel Prize. According to Ian, the only managers worth paying are the ones that appreciate the work their staff does.   

The ugly side of the Australian media manosphere gets a long-overdue comeuppance. The tiresome “celebrity” Donaldson makes a fool of himself and pays for it.

“You like Australia, Mr. Chin?” asked Donaldson, smiling obscenely.

“For the last five generations, yes…..Yes, I do,” said Chin, thoughtfully.

Al heard a not very muted groan from most of those present. The words “Fat fool” wafted serenely past in the following silence.

“You sell Spring Rolls?” asked Donaldson, to whom all comment was apparently praise.

“Not personally. I can get them, though. Would you like a few tons?” asked Chin, now smiling.

That got a laugh, entirely appreciative, from everyone, including Donaldson’s own table. A peal of laughter was also to be heard from Belinda, who was actually holding her sides. Before Donaldson could react, she giggled,

“I think you’ve just made a lot of new clients, particularly me, Mr. Chin. David, we really should move on before the food arrives, if you would?”

Donaldson was sure he’d missed something; at least he looked like he thought he had. Carefully he said nothing much else apart from inviting the remaining CEOs to speak. He returned to his table, demanding in a stage-belch to know why everyone had been laughing at him. Al was rather sorry he couldn’t hear the replies. However, it was a very good dinner, and he had better things to do.

Mingling Time arrived, in which everyone scuttled into the bar and settled in. Joe and Carla had arranged themselves together in a corner where they were inseparable. Sally and Aaron were chatting happily to Al and Dorothy, and Belinda had parked herself and companion between them and Mr. Chin and his very attractive wife. Belinda recognized most of the people Al knew from the States, and was very knowledgeable about some of the markets there. Mr. Chin was openly intrigued, and clearly wanted to know more. Conversation was getting productive, and thoroughly enjoyable, when an altercation broke out. 

Al looked up horrified to see that Sally was one of the parties. The other was Donaldson, a lot drunker, with a couple of equally lively stooges.

“What d’yer call that getup, girlie? A slut frock?”

He was very loud now, and drowned out the whole bar. Carla rocketed out of the corner, followed by Aaron, Joe and Al. Sally sneered enough even to get through the dense inert material comprising Donaldson’s brain.

“No, I don’t think you’d fit in one of these. Big fat tart like you needs a few tarps.” 

General, truly irritated, agreement was heard from the audience. Repartee wasn’t Donaldson’s strong suit. Self appreciation was, however, and the insult did eventually register. His two paid friends looked menacing, until Al and Joe, who were a little faster than Aaron, arrived. Carla, who’d beaten them by several metres, didn’t wait for an opening.

“Who do you think you are, you bloody fat faggot maggot, abusing anyone about how they look? You look like your butt’s pregnant….”

Joe had caught up with Carla by now, and had been looking at Donaldson like anyone with any sense of hygiene would. Donaldson gave both of them a threatening look, like so many big guys do, with no thought of any reaction. Joe, whose total fighting experience had ended in high school, reacted like any male with a woman usually does; fury. Men tend to dwell on physical situations with other men when a woman is present. Unless they do something about them. Even the mildest man will react. 

Several things happened while Joe was undergoing this metamorphosis. Dorothy, who was a little further away, saw Donaldson, now red faced like a clown, raise his fist. Al, closer, saw Donaldson reel back. Aaron felt the two lapdogs stagger as Donaldson sailed back into them, at high speed. Carla saw the large, fat, severely broken, nose. Joe, who was about 50 kg lighter than Donaldson, followed up his head butt with a roar of very creative and very loud abuse. Most of this tirade dealt with the strong possibility of Donaldson returning involuntarily to his grandmother’s womb by whence he came, in the immediate future. (He rarely if ever swore even when alone). The two gremlins promptly dealt themselves out of the confrontation. Into this scene wandered in due course Belinda Greenberg. Donaldson, who had wisely stayed on the floor, looked up at her. She smiled.

“You know, Donaldson, you don’t deserve to be described as anything that ever came out of an animal. I’d heard a lot about you, and I didn’t really quite believe it until now. I think we’ve all seen enough of you. Get out, and take your traveling pigsty with you.”

That happened, and while they were talking afterwards, Aaron said to Belinda,

“That was a bit easy.”

“People like that are pretty predictable.”

Matters were made much more enjoyable when Al discovered that Belinda was Saul’s brother’s goddaughter. It was exactly the sort of thing Saul had been known to do to people he wanted to destroy; set them up and let them do it themselves. The papers and TV news had a lot of fun with the story. Sally’s dress got more publicity than a full scale campaign could have dared to attempt, and the dresses became a sort of female icon, something to wear to annoy men you don’t like. Al called it fate, and got Sally to model her own designs for this line to capitalize on the publicity. Sales were extraordinary.

Donaldson had been clever enough to invite his three biggest clients to the dinner, who now said publicly that they refused to be associated with him. Interestingly, all of them were retailers, and they all sold Sally’s stuff. The idiot didn’t even know whose lines they were running. Al got one of them, Belinda got the other two. Belinda did also become a client of Mr. Chin’s, using his contacts in China to promote her clients.

Dorothy won her bet.

The agency attends a meeting of the sector. a dinner, no less. It gets “awkward”.

Carla and Joe had been warily getting to a more trustworthy stage of their relationship, in between very hectic work schedules. There’d also been a delay while Carla removed a few impediments in the form of casual boyfriends, the occasional and largely useless variety. They now went out reasonably regularly, sometimes with Dorothy and Al, who were also trying to have a relationship while being staggeringly busy. Unlike Dorothy and Al, they hadn’t yet got physical, largely because Joe was extremely shy, and Carla, who wasn’t, was a bit worried he might embarrass himself and seize up on her. She’d never seen a guy so totally lacking in self confidence. She decided that meant lacking in conceit, too, which was a nice change.

Joe, not an actual wallflower, wasn’t just shy. A truly frightened male, who was at this stage looking at Carla like any guy who sees the woman he really loves, was in and out of denial. She eclipsed anyone else, easily. Comparisons were just funny. He was rather amused to note that for such an attractive woman, what really appealed to him most was her company. Never dull, never mean, never trivial. She also wasn’t a gold digger; he’d seen her be positively rude to some very well known walking bank statements. Interestingly, she also actually intimidated some very self-assured individuals, and did it almost offhand.

Tonight they were off to a sort of informal dinner with some industry people. Dorothy and Al arrived at Carla’s place like a pair of shoes. They looked like a perfect fit for each other. Both Carla and Joe separately wondered how they matched up as a couple. They were thinking “we” a lot more often these days, and each felt they were a bit of a liability to the other. Carla, whose lack of vanity was bordering on the unjustifiable, was from a very straightforward background, and was a little awed by Joe’s family despite their desperately restrained efforts. They loved her too, and were trying not to be off-putting about showing it. Joe was so sick of tedious little socialites he was barely able to stay in a room with them if he accidentally happened to be there, was worried that Carla might find his family’s somewhat inevitable social circle too boring. He did. She didn’t seem to blame them for such people, but the most tolerant person has a limit.

Dorothy and Al were having a bet with each other about how long it would take Carla and Joe to get over this particular non-existent hurdle. Dorothy thought Carla would see how utterly irrelevant other people were to them, and break down the obstacle course. She therefore thought things would happen pretty quickly, given Carla’s known dislike of unnecessary problems. Al thought Joe was truly hooked, and being Joe, would have to disentangle himself from the self doubts and emotional driftwood before things could get moving. He’d given them six months, Dorothy had said three. That was two months ago.

They arrived at the dinner punctually, which made them first in. This was supposed to be an inter-agency affair with a few clients invited. Al had been more than a little surprised to be invited, being a very new player, but evidently one of their own clients had had something to say about it, so there they were. Sure enough, in walked Sally, looking terrifying, as usual, with one of her own designs. Carla was wearing another. Sally was by now the toast of the trade, and had badly wanted some reliable people at the dinner with her. She was getting more than a little tired of being fawned upon, and wanted some real company.

Sally’s designs for evening wear were bordering on the revolutionary. If there was anything that had never been done before, she’d do it, or at least try it. Both she and Carla were like fireworks displays, radiant, using among other innovations holographic cameos, and a sort of animation in the fabric which made the eagles on Sally’s gold dress fly seamlessly. Carla’s basically green dress had waves crashing on a beach around the neckline. There were several patents involved. Dorothy hadn’t thought she could wear things like that, but was now rather wishing she had. The designs weren’t really ostentatious, or particularly “daring” in terms of revealing anything, but they were very elegant.

Sally had brought with her a male of some sort, a designer friend called Aaron, evidently not a boyfriend, but tolerable, despite being an obvious rag trade itinerant. The four of them soon gathered he was no tourist in the business, and listened approvingly as he described his vain attempts to stop Sally from making that particular dress.

“He said it would destroy civilization and ruin the morals of generations to come,” explained Sally, grinning like an enthusiastic leopard.

“To which she replied that it was about time, and wanted to know why she hadn’t thought of it before,”  said Aaron, with a degree of mock despair that approached a PhD.

They descended into details, Al admitting to himself that he’d never really seen any sort of dress design that had so much thought in it. He’d realized soon enough that Sally was a good businesswoman, but this level of artistic guts and talent had come as a shock, even so. While they talked, the herd arrived, a reasonably bearable collection of execs, obvious escorts, obvious models, obvious modular people, and a few actual heavy hitters, notably the manager of the biggest agency in the country, Belinda Greenberg, who was 50-something and looked like a teenager. It was the first time Al had seen her in person, and it was clear that everyone who’d ever met her had probably underestimated her for that reason. She’d eaten alive several agencies and made them into one very efficient and very throat-cutting business.

He wasn’t sure, but it looked as though the other CEOs were considering tetanus shots before approaching her. She stood alone, with some sort of human attachment who was clearly an employee. She gave a few nods to some of the big names, and stared through the crowd like a killer whale glancing at the sardines. Following her gaze, which had turned stony, Al saw the too-famous Dave Donaldson, who Bill had told Al to avoid. Donaldson was one of those semi-anthropoid events called “flamboyant”, which translates as “insufferable” most of the time. Loud, overweight, and overbearing, and those were his good qualities. He also had a mouth no sewer would have tolerated. Dorothy, glancing at the noise, wasn’t impressed.

“It’s odd, but one look at him, and all I can think is “flasher”. Not good for the digestion.”

Sally looked and commented, “He looks like what he really needs is a plumber.”

“Or a really enthusiastic taxidermist,” agreed Carla.

Joe had noticed that Donaldson had brought a supply of sycophants. That sort usually do. They were already merry to the point of liver failure. They even laughed like sheep. So much noise was coming from their inevitably joined tables that Belinda, who was expected to welcome everyone, decided to do something about it. She went to the microphone and asked,

“David, would you come up here and help me get all this started?”

“Ooh yer in trouble now Dave!……Yeah……” and other sparkling wit followed Donaldson to the stage.

It had shut them up, though, noted Al, who’d been shepherded up to be introduced as a CEO of a new agency with a couple of others. Belinda gave Donaldson the benefit of a stare that could kill cattle, said nothing to him, and said,

“Welcome to the dinner, everyone. We thought it might be a bit less of a media event if we could get together somewhere else but an award night. Friends and guests, rather than clients and agents. I hope you all have a ball. Now I’d like David to introduce you to some of our new competitors in the industry….”

Al did a quick double take. The exact reason for this Gathering Of The Mutually Oppressive was now in question. Belinda didn’t look or act like a neighborhood greeting committee. It had been her idea, though, to have this dinner, and the her ideas tended to be very practical. Dorothy and Sally instantly reacted to the word “competitors”, becoming instinctively alert. Al thought, Demonstration of power, with a bit of possible client-poaching? Carla and Joe both looked very curious, and Aaron looked amused. Things moved on rapidly. Donaldson, having found himself being asked to introduce the newcomers, obviously didn’t know who they were. Belinda smiled indulgently.

“Um….I think we better just get them to tell us a bit about themselves….” With a far too apparent effort, he sobered up. “You, sir, would you like to come and tell us…..your….firm’s name, and what you’ve been doing….”

That meant Al, whose main concern was trying to tell which way Donaldson was likely to fall. He breezed through, getting what might have been an approving blink from Belinda, and grins from his own table. The next party was someone called Chin Tang Ming, an Australian Chinese who’d managed to bridge the gap between Australian and Chinese marketing and was making a not very small fortune in the process. Chen was a lot smaller than Donaldson, and the red neck in Donaldson decided to stick itself out. Donaldson was what Australians call an “Ocker”, which is an abbreviated version of “embarrassingly insular, boorish, ignorant, incredibly ugly, useless, total loss which unfortunately happens to be Australian” in its practical applications.

Bruce takes to the airwaves to find Nigel. It’s gruesome. Really. Actually.

Voiceover: If someone buys 60 toilet rolls at once, is he just an optimist? For the answer to this and many other questions you’d rather were never asked, listen to someone else. For abuse, screaming and unformatted crud, listen to 2AAAAARRRGH FM. All we do is annoy people.

Al:  50 words, 25 seconds. You happy with that?

George Hearn, owner of FM station: Yeah, I don’t think our attention span is able to handle much more.

Felicity: Had you considered the Neanderthal approach, “Listen to 2AAAAARRRGH FM while you milk your car,” something more upmarket?

George (thoughtfully) I don’t think we want to introduce our audience to any verbs……have a listen….

Sound of English rap group The Sexless Sycophantic Doormats… sound of breaking glass. DJ breaks in.

DJ  That’s what a really crappy CD being thrown through a window sounds like in Spring.  Stick around for the other seasons. Now, we have a caller. That’s interesting, because we despise talkback people and usually chop them up and sell them to people who hate goldfish…..What’s the problem, mate, missing arse, face unfortunately situated on head, nostrils need mowing…?

Voice: I’m Bruce? All of the above, in a way? I’m trying to find Our Nigel? I rang you because he likes to listen to people yelling? He’s English? He went out for a sandwich and we never saw him again? Ooh I’m worried? Weren’t you ever worried? You should be, I saw your photo in the paper? Who does your hair, Arnotts? 

DJ:  Yeah…. it’s the Ginger Nut In Denial Look…. Takes hours…. He’s a Pom, and you’re trying to find him? Doesn’t sound very likely. What does he look like, and why? Have you seen any suspicious sandwiches?

Bruce (warmly, like a railway station late train announcement in love) He’s getting pattern baldness, and he’s skinny except for his beer gut? He has this big nose and it’s always red…..or green? You could try vaccination for the hair?

DJ What, you think it might be contagious? See, this is why I’m on air, I need the help. Where else would I find a coroner that understanding? Have you considered standing for Parliament, or sentencing, or something? Why do you want to find this guy? Sounds incredibly ugly.

Bruce (wistfully) Oh he is? But he’s ours?  It’s like waking up one morning and finding that your poodle’s bottom is missing? You know it should be there…? That’s what I like about English people, you know they should be there, but they’re not? They always look like they’re somewhere else, or trying to be? So when they’re there, it’s as if they aren’t? That is, if they were there originally? Actually I think superglue is overrated as a hair shape restorer?

DJ Yeah, particularly if you don’t like hanging around. So what you’re saying is that you’d like him back so that you can be sure that when he’s there he’s……going to be somewhere else?

Bruce At least by intent? Most people aren’t really there when you’re talking to them, you know?

DJ Yes….yes, I do know, Bruce. I really do….   

Bruce That’s what Our Nigel adds to our little shop….that feeling of deep personal evasion of everything? After all we are a hair clinic?  Not a mausoleum? I wonder why? The dead don’t pay as well?

DJ (twitching cheek by now rather alarming to sound crew) Hair clinic, eh? Where are you, exactly?

Bruce (kindly, like a public inquiry) Now, dearest, we’re not here to do business? That comes later?   Nigel’s… girl… friend wants to say something?

Piranha Woman (rushed, truly gut level Cockney accent) ‘Ullo, Nige? Please come ‘ome…. (subtly) Oi’ve got the rubber bands and all……

Bruce (patiently) Say it properly, dear? We are on air?

Piranha Woman (self consciously, over enunciating as if in mid-enema) Nigel? Wherever you are? We miss you? I’ve got the cream and the……luggage ties? Our… establishment?… isn’t what it was without you? I’m so worried you’ve found someone else?

George, speechless, stares as Al’s head sinks to his desk very slowly, trying not to laugh. Felicity, who hasn’t been informed of the Nigel-Bruce Phenomenon, hears the sound of Joe and Carla screeching. Bill doubles up, holding desperately on to the door handle. Al and Bill make eye contact, and both started laughing and crying silently, wincing with the sheer impact.

DJ Bruce, have you considered a career in television?  You’re listening to 2AAAAARRRGH FM, you poor bastards.

George’s problem was that they got thousands of calls from then on, about everything from missing people to missing careers. Al suggested they just screen the callers to make sure they got only the freaks.

This is a major hire for the agency, and she’s as mad as they are.

“Spring Rolls; a reason for Melbourne,” said Carla, gazing skyward reverently, snaring a handful.  Al looked, and was, bewildered.

“Melbourne?” he asked.

“Gesundheit,” said Joe.

“The Spring Roll was invented in Melbourne. Probably in Little Bourke Street, where the dragons play,” explained Carla.

“Later that same century Ming Dynasty won the Melbourne Cup,” supplied Joe thoughtfully.

“Thus indicating that the Ancient Chinese and Ancient Melbournians are one and the same, just a bit shaky with street directories,” explained Bill. 

“Think Boston,” said Felicity.

“Think Toronto in winter with beaches,” added Carla. 

This was still a bit new to Al. It is impossible to live in Australia without being aware of the rivalry of the two big cities, but the reality seemed a bit……incomprehensible. All present were Sydneysiders, and that didn’t help. Tentatively he sounded them out.

“What about the other cities? Brisbane?” Carefully he pronounced it Bris-bn, the Australian way.

“Brisbane, where intellectual life is so limited the bananas have to bend themselves,” said Joe dramatically. He receded into his seat, weeping. 

Carla: “Cane Toad city; place of white shoes, blue rinse and grey hair, and décor to match.”

Bill: “Where we have cockroaches, they have developers.”

“Adelaide?”

Felicity: “Place of holy crow gnawing people with two weeks of art per year and the topsoil comes and visits.”

Joe: “As good a reason for the Nullabor as any.”

“Perth?”

Bill: “Sand fondling among consenting adults and developers, miners and related businesses. Next door is a block away.”

“Darwin?”

Carla: “Only city built entirely out of beer cans. Main industry; feeding tourists to crocodiles and crocodiles to tourists. It is believed that this problem will ultimately solve itself.”

The red wine, which was a good Shiraz, had already suffered more than a nudge at this point. Al persevered, aware that he now knew a lot less than he had before he’d asked.

“Hobart?”

Joe: “Believed to be the only city on Earth where you can have a really thorough incestuous relationship with yourself, although some apples dispute this claim in recent court cases.”

“Canberra?” The American accent won that one.

Bill: “A place where you can go round in circles for years and get paid six figures for doing so.”

Joe: “Where it’s safer to be seen than heard.”

Carla: ”A viable alternative to senility and insularity.”

Felicity: “Where the suits buy the people.”

“Sydney?”

Bill: “The nicest place to get a disease or a TV gig.”

Carla: “Where somewhere else is as close as you want it to be.”

Joe: “Where you can ignore people helpfully and be appreciated for it.”

Felicity: “Where even ad-people can be mistaken for human beings.”

“So that’s why I wasn’t put in quarantine. Anyway, Felicity, when can you start?”

“Now?” 

The Chutney Man arrives. The Ads crowd are carrying on their conversation.

“That silly Isaac Newton.” 

Joe and Carla had donned raincoats. At this point into the foyer outside walked a much-too-deliberately youthful man of about 60, roaring into a cell phone.

“I don’t give a damn. Get it done, today!”

“I preferred it when they were real raving maniacs,” said Al to Bill, who was looking slightly revolted.

Another person, a younger version of too-youthful, appeared from the lift, lugging a briefcase. Both were wearing dark suits, ties, and a look of Businessman Mannequin Of The Month. This was definitely The Man With The Chutney. The miracle was that his tailor was probably still alive somewhere in Asia. The two entered to be greeted by The Symphony Of The Ugg Boot. Joe and Carla hared out, grinning behind their backs.

“Mr. Hickey, I presume?”  asked too-youthful. “This is my partner and my son, Kevin.”

The accent was Transatlantic By Way Of The Cahill Expressway[1], as Bill later described it. As awkward moments went, it was well up there with Al’s Senior Prom and the day Bill met his wife. The menagerie entered Al’s office. The guy’s name was Whitforth, which didn’t help at all, in Al and Bill’s current states of mind. An added blow was that Kevin was now doing all the talking.

“Well, we want to appeal to the younger market, so we’re trying to make our product ……..funkier……” he said, looking straight at Al, who managed a degree of passivity which could have got him arrested if it had been under oath.

“We want to use real street jive to rap to the kids,” added too-youthful, who did have a first name but Al by now didn’t want to remember it.

“To get through to the homeys, you see,” said Kevin, looking earnestly at Bill, who appeared from his expression to have recently swallowed something unlamented. “It has to be really upbeat. Something that says: This Is A Chutney You Can Dance To, something like that. I’ve taken the liberty of doing a bit of a mock up, with a sound track and a story board, and a few ideas for the copy……. This is a copy of the label……” Kevin smiled as only a true idiot can smile, the visible proof of an unfortunate ancestry trying to discharge its Karmic debts all at once. Something of a murderous yellowish orange color wafted into view. Bill thought he saw a vision of a bargain shop in saffron. Al was under the impression that every curry on Earth was out for revenge. In the haze he saw a CD with The Whitforth Chutney Rap on the label and piles of graphics. Bill schlepped the conversation through the business details, Al wasn’t sure how. Eventually it ended. 

From great depths he managed to say, “We’ll look into it all immediately……forthwith, Mr. Whitforth, today, in fact.”

As Bill had what appeared to be a serious coughing fit in the background, he ushered out the two wooden objects, listening to Kevin saying enthusiastically, “It’s just that we want something with some street cred, you know, super cool…old school….real gangsta chutney…….”

“I wouldn’t want to think of it any other way,” said Al, sincerely, as they vanished into the lift.

Bill muttered as they went back into the office, “Well, he sounded normal on the phone.”

“They always do. In this game, the more normal they seem, the more likely they are to be deviates.”

“So we’re OK?”

“Nah.”

Joe and Carla trooped in an hour or so later with bags of stuff from the Rocks Market. After due appreciation they were given a history of Chutney as a social engineering tool, and were asked to listen to the rap. A thundering thudding sound proclaimed that someone had turned the bass up. A drum program rattled. Then the rap began, a multitracked, Australian-accented mass yell. Kevin had obviously re-recorded his vocals.

Yo! We gotta have Chutney chutney chutney chutney

Down where the homeys look so cool

Gotta have Whitforth  Chutney chutney chutney chutney

It blurred into cliché, like most mediocre media. There was about ten minutes of it, but they could only listen to two.

“I know places you’d get shot for that,” said Al.

“Should we send invitations?” asked Carla.

“One listen to that, and you wouldn’t need to. They’d swim here.”

“Interesting, though. You can actually hear the stupidity,”  commented Joe.

“You are saying, Professor Arthurson, that stupidity can now be quantified digitally?” asked Bill, interested.

“Indeed I am, Doctor Mackenzie. We may even be able to synthesize it and sell it as a drug.”

“And stamp out taste forever?” asked Carla, wide eyed, hands clasped. The nunnery was so close….

“You’d never need to have another disease.”

“You think that’s rough. Have a look at the label.” Al produced it using a bulldog clip as a pair of tongs.

“Ah! Cast away from mine eyes such brazen foulness, ye callous beast!” said Joe, dazzled.

“To think people bother to have vasectomies,” said Bill.

Al’s phone rang. It was the elder Whitforth. Al listened, winced, and said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Whitforth. Well, if you’re not going to go ahead…….OK, I hope it all clears up for you, goodbye.”

They looked at him.

“It appears that we won’t be proceeding with the campaign. Apparently Kevin saw a crowd of gang-bangers in the street and went to try to sell chutney to them…from his Mercedes….. Mr. Whitforth was calling from the Water Board. Kevin has now been removed from the storm drain, and both he and it are expected to make a full recovery. However, the Mercedes has been chutnified to the point that Mr. Whitforth is leaving the industry. It seems that they had a few hundred samples in the boot, which were smeared liberally over all concerned, before the vehicle was set alight, greatly improving the smell and texture of Regent Street.”

“So it was that the sellers of fearsome condiments were laid low by their ghastly passions,” said Carla.

“And that a dear little storm drain achieved salvation,” added Joe.

“And an innocent Mercedes was smitten by Fate and chutney,” said Bill.

“And we came into possession of a rap to rule the world,” whispered Al, leering.

---

[1] That overpass that looks like someone’s given Circular Quay a set of braces.