Something rotten

'It is your complexity and philosophical soul-searching that we pay money to see — you are the quintessential tragic figure, questioning everything, dissecting all life's shames and betrayals. If all we wanted was action, we'd watch nothing but Chuck Norris movies. It is your journey to resolving your demons that makes the play the prevaricating tour de force that it is.'

'All four and a half hours of it?'

'Yes,' I said, wary of his feelings, 'all four and a half hours of it.'

He shook his head sadly.

'I wish I could agree with you but I need more answers, Horatio.'

'Thursday.'

'Yes, her too. More answers and a new facet to my character. Less talk, more action. So I have secured the services . . . of a conflict resolution consultant.'

This didn't sound good at all.

'Conflict resolution? Are you sure that's wise?'

'It might help me resolve matters with my uncle — and that twit Laertes.'

I thought for a moment. An all-action Hamlet might not be such a good idea, but since he had no play to return to it at least gave me a few days' breathing space. I decided not to intervene for the time being.

'When are you talking to him?'

He shrugged.

'Tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Conflict resolution advisers are pretty busy, you know.'

I breathed a sigh of relief. True to form, Hamlet was still dithering. But he had brightened up having come to a decision of sorts and continued in a more cheery tone:

'But that's enough about me. How goes it with you?'

I gave him a brief outline, beginning with Landen's re-eradication and ending with the importance of finding five good players to help Swindon win the Superhoop.

'Hmm,' he replied as soon as I had finished, 'I've got a plan for you. Want to hear it?'

'As long as it's not about where Biffo should play.'

He shook his head, looked around carefully and then lowered his voice.

'Pretend to be mad and talk a lot. Then — and this is the important bit — do nothing at all until you absolutely have to — and then make sure everyone dies.'

'Thanks,' I said at length, I'll remember that.'

'Plink!' said Alan, who had been padding grumpily around the garden.

'I think that bird is looking for trouble,' observed Hamlet.

Alan, who clearly didn't like Hamlet's attitude, decided to attack and made a lunge at Hamlet's shoe. It was a bad move. The Prince of Denmark leapt up, drew his sword and before I could stop him made a wild slash in Alan's direction. He was a skilled swordsman and did no more damage than to pluck the feathers off the top of Alan's head. The little dodo, who now had a bald patch, opened his eyes wide and looked around him with a mixture of horror and awe at the small feathers that were floating to the ground.

'Any more from you, my fine feathered friend,' announced Hamlet, replacing his sword, 'and you'll be in the curry!'

Pickwick, who had been watching from a safe corner near the compost heap, boldly strode out and stood defiantly between Alan and Hamlet. I'd never seen her acting brave before, but I suppose Alan was her son, even if he was a hooligan. Alan, either terrified or incensed, stood completely motionless, beak open.

'Telephone for you,' my mother called out. I walked into the house and picked up the receiver. It was Aubrey Jambe. He wanted me to speak to Alf Widdershaine to get him out of retirement, and also to know whether I had found any new players yet.

'I'm working on it,' I said, rummaging through the Yellow Pages under 'sports agents'. 'I'll call you back. Don't lose hope, Aubrey.'

He hurrumphed and rang off. I called Wilson Lonsdale & Partners, England's top sports agents, and was delighted to hear there were any number of world-class croquet players available; sadly the interest evaporated when I mentioned which team I represented.

'Swindon?' said one of Lonsdale's associates. 'I've just remembered — we don't have anyone on our books at all.'

'I thought you said you had?'

'It must have been a clerical error. Good day.'

The line went dead. I called several others and received a similar response from all of them. Goliath and Kaine were obviously covering all their bases.

Following that I called my old coach, Alf Widdershaine, and after a long chat managed to persuade him to go down to the stadium and do what he could. I called Jambe back to tell him the good news about Alf, although I thought it prudent to hide the lack of new players from him for the time being.

I thought about Landen's existence problem for a moment and then found the number of Julie Aseizer, the woman at Eradications Anonymous who had got her husband back. I called her and explained the situation.

'Oh yes!' she said helpfully. 'My Ralph flickered on and off like a faulty light bulb until his uneradication held!'

I thanked her and put the receiver down, then checked my finger for a wedding ring. It still wasn't there.

I glanced into the garden and saw Hamlet walking on the lawn, deep in thought — with Alan following him at a safe distance. As I watched, Hamlet turned to him and glared. The small dodo went all sheepish and laid his head on the ground in supplication. Clearly, Hamlet wasn't just a fictional Prince of Denmark, but also something of an alpha dodo.

I smiled to myself and wandered into the living room, where I found Friday building a castle out of bricks with Pickwick helping. Of course, 'helping' in this context means 'watching'. I glanced at the clock. Time for work. Just when I could do with some relaxing brick-building therapy. Mum agreed to look after Friday and I gave him a kiss goodbye.

'Be good.'

'Arse.'

'What did you say?'

'Pikestaff.'

'If those are rude Old English words, St Zvlkx is in a lot of trouble — and so are you, my little fellow. Mum, sure you're okay?'

'Of course. We'll take him to the zoo.'

'Good. No, wait — we?'

'Bismarck and I.'

'Mum!?'

'What? Can't a more or less widowed woman have a bit of male company from time to time?'

'Well,' I stammered, feeling unnaturally shocked for some reason, 'I suppose there's no reason why not.'

'Good. Be off with you. After we've gone to the zoo we might drop in at the tearooms. And then the theatre.'

She had started to go all dreamy so I left, shocked not only that mother might be even considering some sort of a fling with Bismarck, but that Joffy might have been right.

27 Weird Shit on the M4

'George Formby was born George Hoy Booth in Wigan in 1904. He followed his father into the music hall business, adopted the ukulele as his trademark and by the time the war broke out he was a star of variety, pantomime and film. During the first years of the war, he and his wife Beryl toured extensively for ENSA, entertaining the troops as well as making a series of highly successful movies. When invasion of England was inevitable, many influential dignitaries and celebrities were shipped out to Canada. Moving underground with the English resistance and various stalwart regiments of the Local Defence Volunteers, Formby manned the outlawed "Wireless St George" and broadcast songs, jokes and messages to secret receivers across the country. The Formbys used their numerous contacts in the North to smuggle Allied airmen to neutral Wales and form resistance cells that harried the Nazi invaders. In post-war republican England he was made nonexecutive President for life.'

JOHN WILLIAMS — The Extraordinary Career of George Formby

I avoided the news crews who were waiting for me at the SpecOps building and parked up at the rear. Major Drabb was waiting for me as I walked into the entrance lobby. He saluted smartly but I detected a slight reticence about him this morning. I handed him another scrap of paper.