Excerpt 2
from Bernard Jones and the Temple of Mammon
Sunday 21st January: Beach boys
Peaceful solitary breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon while
reading the Telegraph. Take quiet satisfaction from the huge MoD
training order won by Qinetiq, which has added 20p to the shares
in last few days. Still, if a bunch of ex-MoD staff cannot
chivvy work out of their old mates, the sales team should be
shot. My reverie is broken by animated squeals from the
conservatory. Eunice is watching TV and pointing animatedly at
screen. It’s apparently a new reality programme, where
contestant race to scavenge the contents of shipping containers
washed up on a beach in Devon. Eunice, mouth crammed with toast,
is unable to explain her excitement until we get another view of
the beach and two men prying a BMW motorcycle from its packaging
and pushing it up the shingle.
My God! It’s Harry Staines and Martin Gale. The share club’s two
greatest eccentrics have taken the philosophy of alternative
investments to a new level. Asked by the interviewer about the
legality of their salvage operation, Harry says that he is only
there to help protect a pristine marine environment. “This
crankcase is full of oil which could damage crabs and other
creatures,” he says, adding. “I’ve given up my Sunday to help
prevent another Torrey Canyon disaster.” He and Martin then push
the bike into the back of a transit van and drive off.
Tuesday 23rd January: Battleaxe bullying
10.45am. Am happily watching the FTSE move up and down, when
Eunice marches into the den, catching me with a mini-roll in
hand. “Don’t forget the doctor’s appointment today,” she says,
removing the offending item from my grasp.
“What appointment?”
“About your blood test.”
“What blood test? I haven’t had one.”
“No, but you will.”
Half an hour later we’re sitting in the office of the dreaded Dr
Ross, the Ann Widdecombe look-alike with the interfering
fingers.
“How’s the prostate today, Mr Jones?” she asks brightly.
“In tip-top condition and not in need of any manual fine
tuning,” I answer.
“Bernard,” Eunice interjects. “You’re still getting up twice or
three times a night.”
This is duly noted. “And how are you doing on improving your
diet?” Dr Ross asks as she starts scribbling. “Are you getting
five portions of fruit and vegetables a day? And cutting out the
sugars?”
As I answer yes, I notice Eunice rummaging in her bag. Along the
desk she lays out seven foil jam and lemon tart containers, four
Bounty wrappers, a Kellogg Nutri-Grain packet, a Cadbury’s mini
roll wrapper and a receipt for a bumper Christmas box of eccles
cakes. As the quack looks up, Eunice gestures to the packaging.
“This is evidence I retrieved from the bin, just from the last
three weeks. It’s a sustained and secretive habit of high fat,
high sugar rubbish. I’m sorry to say that my husband is in
denial.
So, my blood is duly and painfully extracted and I’m warned by
the white-coated battleaxe that should the results again show
high cholesterol, a ‘diet regime’ will have to be implemented.
Close of play.
Up £16.50. Tanfield still going great guns! Realise that I’ve
only a few days to get Eunice an anniversary present. After 40
years penile servitude, I think I’ve earned a nice gift myself.
Seem to remember the great train robbers got a shorter sentence
and got let out half way.
Wednesday 24th January: Mezzanine finance
Saw Peter Edgington in town. Asked him about the BP
shares he bought in October 2005, and whether he still had them.
He then claimed that he had never repurchased them after his
usual Sell-in-May-and-Go-Away exercise in 2006, which he
executed for 680p for a profit of 40p a share. Is his judgement
really this uncanny? I do find it hard to believe. Then he tells
me that the BP proceeds is being ploughed into an extension for
his French holiday home. He just happens to have the architect’s
plans with him, showing a whole new floor at the back of the
house, between ground and first floor levels, from which guests
will be able to see the
Saint-Émilion
wine harvest. Do I care? Yes, I’m greener than Jonathan
Porritt’s allotment.
Elevenses:
My last mini-rolls have been swiped from the Hornby drawer.
Fuming. Eunice out, so no-one to have row with. Fridge
booby-trapped with celeriac, jerusalem artichokes and red chard.
Cupboards devoid of all biscuits and cakes, bar a dusty packet
of glace cherries. Relief turns out to be short-lived, as these
have been petrified into vermilion marbles. Best before Jan
1997, says the packet, so I suck ‘em like gobstoppers.
Thursday 25th January: Mineral stakes
Am just off to get Eunice an anniversary present. I asked her
what she would like and she said. “Well, it IS our ruby wedding
anniversary.”
“No, I think forty is cubic zirconium,” I responded, earning
myself a withering glance.
Friday 26th January: Diversification attempt
A single inch of snow once again maims Britain’s motorway
network. Crawl round to Isleworth for lunch with Dot at the
local Baker’s Oven. Following the new strategy I am attempting
to charm her into letting me sell the bulk of her BAe Systems
shares, even letting her choose this gastronomica geriatrica to
eat at. Feel I must make progress before world trade bodies
start their own fraud investigations into Al Yamamah kickbacks,
which could kibosh the shares. Discussion gets off to a poor
start.
“So, Mum, I really think you should let me sell some of those
shares and spread them across lots of other companies.”
“Why’s that?” She says, her face moustached with flecks of
Gregg’s highly-profitable sausage roll.
“Like I’ve said, there is a risk that if you have all your
financial eggs in one basket, they could get broken.”
“Is it a chicken company then, Bernard? You said it made
Spitfires.”
“No I DIDN’T. I said it made jet fighters. Plus warships,
missiles, bullets and shells.”
“Eggshells?”
“NO! For God’s sake, Mum! Forget eggs, for a minute, would you?”
“Well you brought them up.”
“I didn’t. It was a metaphor…”
“You never liked them even when you were a toddler as I recall.
Boiled was alright, but you could never managed scrambled
because it reminded you of sick.”
“Please, for pity’s sake…” At this point my forehead was
resting on the table.
“Alright, Bernard alright,” she smiled, patting my shoulder.
“I’ll let you have your way.”
Slowly I raise my head, not daring to believe it. Dot calls a
member of staff over. “Could you do a poached egg for my son?
He’s been fussy ever since he was little, but what can you do?”
At this point I throw a complete tantrum and spill coffee on my
trousers.
Tuesday 30th January: Basque terror hits Lemon
Curdistan
Wedding anniversary. Up at 5.30am to let the cat in,
and stayed up to avoid any danger of early hippopotamus ambush.
Instead, put on bath robe, logged on to the Internet and looked
at the Taipei stock market report. Must have fallen asleep, no
mean feat on a typist’s chair, because the next thing I knew a
crushing weight had descended on my lap. I awoke with Eunice
astride me, in black basque and fishnet stockings, the kind of
Kevlar and lace ensemble you would get if Ann Summers had won
the contract to build the Millennium Dome.
“We’ve never actually inaugurated the den have we?” she purred,
as the chair creaked ominously.
“Can’t…breathe,” I gasped, groping beneath the seat for the
height release lever. The sudden drop provided a half second of
weightless relief before the chair tipped, spilling me backwards
on to the carpet of Lemon Curdistan and throwing Eunice against
the desk. A cut head, a feminine snivel and the inevitable
migraine successfully poisoned the erotic potential for the rest
of the day.
Elevenses:
While on the carpet had noticed an aged jaffa cake under the
desk by the skirting board. Sneaked back later to have it. As
hard as a monk’s divan and half the flavour.
Later. Muted dinner at the local trattoria. Eunice was delighted
with her pearl earrings (should have been for the price), and
quite forgave me the earlier tumble. I received a Marks &
Spencer tie, and an overly-illustrated book Sixty nine ways
to spice up your marriage by Dr Myron Messiah and Dr Myra
Kaplan-Messiah. Got indigestion before I’d finished the dust
jacket.
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