I AWOKE IN THE gutter outside a cake shop. With her money, Bounteous Brenda hadn’t exactly been forthcoming. But with her body, well, she had been absolutely fifthcoming. Let’s just say that was a night I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. The way my upper thighs and buttocks felt, I couldn’t envisage doing anything in a hurry for a long time. A fifty pence piece bounced off my nose. I looked up to see a little old lady disappearing round the corner. Those cakes looked nice. But all I could afford was a macaroon. I don’t like macaroons. A twenty pence piece hit me on the leg. This was amazing. All I was doing was lying in a gutter and people were throwing money at me. If I stayed here long enough, I’d have enough to buy a whole raspberry pavlova. The secret of life became clear to me. John Lennon nearly got it right but the truth is, ‘All You Need Is Money.’ I decided to stay there all day.
The police kept moving me on, but I simply squatted down in some other part of the High Street. By noon I had £5.50. This was fantastic. I calculated that by midnight I would have £16.50! I kissed every coin that came my way and carefully secreted it on my person which sounds disgusting, but which was, in fact, as we’re talking about secretions, almost orgasmic.
To my surprise, a television film crew came along.
“We’re making a documentary about down-and-outs,” said their producer, a floppy-haired fop named Piers. “Would you mind if we filmed you?”
Well, fame was one thing. But money was another.
“Step into my office.” I gesticulated to a disused alleyway.
Sitting behind a huge, upturned cardboard box, I welcomed Piers into my domain.
My initial demand of half a million plus expenses was negotiated down to £57.50 including expenses, but I thought it had gone well.
“In advance,” I demanded.
“On completion of filming,” said Piers.
“Oh, alright, then,” I barked, skilfully closing the deal. At least it was money. Glorious money. With all that cash I could buy out the entire front window of the cake shop. And by God, was I hungry.
I was surprised how quickly it went. It seems that they only wanted a shot of a pound coin falling into my lap to use as a filler. Piers made sure he took the coin back, the bastard.
Well, at least I was up to £65.00 richer. Sixty-five! All that feverishly-gland-moistening-saliva-inducing MONEY!
I rushed around to the cake shop. It was shut. Like a bouncy castle without any children I was deflated. I slowly flopped over the edge of the kerb and had a starving, fitful sleep, with a nightmare of bouncing up and down in a huge lemon meringue pie with Bounteous Brenda.
Eric Preet’s Week of Sins continues tomorrow!