$9m plus for the
“Chicken feed!” says Lee.
|Arnie Goy and The Sock Puppet at the Carlo Marx Bingo Club, Lune Press|
Carlo Marx Bingo Club, London.
Waiter: What'll it be, then?
Goy: A large single malt, neat and without ice, please.
Waiter: And for the broad? I mean... for the snake?
The Sock Puppet: I'll have a DocMarten's.
Waiter: Boot or shoe?
TSP: A shoe, please.
Waiter: Black or ox-blood?
Waiter: What size?
TSP: A 9½.
Waiter: Laced or slip-on?
Goy: For pity's sake!
TSP: Laced, please.
Waiter: Left or right foot?
Goy: Just bring the bloody pair!
Waiter: With or without Odor-Eaters?
Goy: Will you clear off? Right, now I'm ready to answer your questions.
TSP: OK, you offered Lee $9m for a book he hasn't even finished? You're on the weed again, aren't you?
Goy: Clean as a whistle, Squire! 'Struth is, Lee hasn't had much free time of late, but his idea is a total smasher. A real blinder. A Bobby Dazzler. A Jammy Riddler!
TSP: Oh, aye? Who else was bidding?
Goy: Little Brown Jug was in there, as were Random Plot. On the TV side, we had interest from FocksTales and heXTV.
TSP: heXTV, the witchy porn channel?
Goy: Well, there exists some scope for kissing, cuddles and a bum smack or two in the book.
TSP: You were turning Lee's latest tome into a piece of Satan Smut?
Goy: Begging your honour's pardon, there was nothing smutty about the deal. Largely tasteful, it was, and suitable for persons of severable dispositions.
TSP: Severable, eh? I'm not surprised the author turned you down. How could he live up to himself?
Goy: Worse things have happened in space!
TSP: Lee's not a fizzled out comet, man! Not one of your flipping cheese graters, either; he'd rather leave his work on the back seat of a trolleybus than have it turned into someone's slush fund. What would he do with that kind of money anyway? Buy himself a tractor?
Goy: He could do with a new tractor, yes; and a decent pair of reading glasses.
TSP: You leave him alone. He's quite happy as he is.
Goy: Exactly how many copies of his first novel has he sold exactly?
TSP: Exactly? There's no need to be starkers!
Goy: Come on, how many is it, after eighteen months on sale?
TSP: I'd have to check the website.
Goy: I'll save you the trouble. In eighteen months he has sold a grand total of one book.
TSP: An achievement in itself! But sales have been slow with your world economic crisis. People don't like shelving out, see, rather spare their cutter for cheap sex and booze.
Goy: He's a flipping dreamer.
TSP: The man's a hartist.
Goy: You mean he's wasting the hair he breathes. He should pull over and leave some other schmuck ago.
TSP: Who's stopping them?
Goy: There should be a law against it.
Waiter: Here's your order, gentle... z.
Goy: Did I say I wanted ice?
Waiter: That's not ice, sir; those are shards of broken glass.
TSP: Well these shoes are a lovely fit, both of them! Just smell that leather! Cheers, Big Ears!
Goy: Up yours, Pussy Foot!