Ben Elton - High society

BANTAM PRESS

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Published 2002 by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers

Copyright Ben Elton 2002

The right of Ben Elton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 0593 04939 X (cased)

0593 049403 (tpb)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk

13579 10 8642

Other books by Ben Elton

Stark

Gridlock

This Other Eden

Popcorn

Blast from the Past

Inconceivable

Dead Famous

St Hildas Church Hall, Soho

My names Tommy Hanson and Im an alcoholic.

The young man had risen from his place in the circle of grey plastic chairs and now, having thus announced himself, surveyed the ring of expectant faces. The atmosphere in the little church hall, which until then had been quietly respectful, was suddenly electric.

But of course you know that.

That famous smile. Those puppy-dog eyes. That jolly, wise, endearing Accrington accent, still only slightly Americanized.

Were all alcoholics, us. Thats why were here. AA - Arseholes Anonymous as I like to call it.

Why state the fookin obvious? But we have to go through the motions, dont we? Do it right. Thats the rules, int it? Make your confession, pray for serenity, chip in for the biccies and wash up your teacup.

There wasnt a woman in the circle who wouldnt have washed Tommys teacup for him and more besides - some of the men, too, but everyone tried to concentrate. This was after all supposed to be anonymous.

So, like I say, my names Tommy Hanson and Im an alcoholic. Plus Im also a cokehead, but thats me narcotics meeting. Eh, Ive got a full day avent I? All day talking about being a stupid, screwed-up, self-indulgent twat. Ill be knackered by teatime. Ill need a drink and a nice line or two of charlie.

Dont get me wrong. I love my meetings, I do. Live for em. We all do, us arseholes. Testifying, emoting, talking about ourselves. Thats all weve got left, int it?

So Im going to tell you about that night - the famous night of the Brit Awards - because I dont think it would be possible for a person to be any more drunk than I ended up that night. Well, youve seen it all in the papers, anyway, so Im not telling you anything you dont know, except that this is what really happened, not what them bastards put in the stories they wrote. As it happens, Id fallen off the wagon that day, see, so I was a disaster waiting to happen, werent I? You know the score, all you repeat offenders. Thats the problem with laying off the beer for a while. You lose your tolerance, so when you do give it a shake, youre monged on three halves of shandy. Id been dry for a whole month, which had been a huge effort for me cos I love me pint, I do, but Elton John had said that if he ever saw me with another drink in me and hed whack me with his tiara. So I was making a special effort. Well, he is rock royalty, so you have to do it, dont you?

God, though, I were sick of being sober and there was just no way I was going to keep it up. You know the rules, you have to want to get clean, dont you, and I didnt. Well, come on. It was the Brits! What is the point of being sober at the fookin Brit Awards? Believe me, Ive won a toilet full of them things in my time and that is one crap night if youre straight. One crap boring night. But if youre buzzing, if youre pissed up and mad for it, if youre Champagne Charlie on a spree, then its brilliant. And when I say charlie I think you know what I mean. Because I wasnt off the charlie, dont forget. No wayOne wagon at a time, I say, so I was wired even before I started drinking, strung out tighter than a ducks arse. But I wanted to be drunk, see. Some nights you want to do drugs, but some nights you want to get lathered, and the Brits is a booze night for sure, or at least thats how you want to kick off. If youre pissed up at the Brits the nights your oyster. You can fight all the other pop-star lads. You can chuck ice and bread rolls at the pathetic politicians who are sat there pretending to be hip and leering at all the birds. You can pull a couple of the dancers and you can make a speech so dazzlingly shite that it actually sounds ironic and a bit John Lennon-ish. Basically, you can do what you fookin well like. You can have it as large as you fancy. But you cant if youre sober. Like, if youre kidding yourself youre on the wagon.

So as I live and breathe, God save me from ever being sober at the Brits. Which is why, as of this moment, seeing as how Ive definitely gone straight and Im here talking to you lot at this meeting, I have sworn I will never go to another one. Mind you, I said the same thing last year, didnt I?

The Paget household, Dalston

Peter Paget stared at his wife. She stared back at him. In all their years of marriage never had they felt such a bond. Never had they been so alive together, locked in union as a single force. They knew that the decision they had just made would change their lives for ever. Their lives and their daughters lives. It would certainly bring down untold anger and contempt upon Peters head. It would cost him the party whip and almost inevitably his job come the next election. The path that he had chosen led directly to professional ruin.

You have to do it, Pete. Im proud of you. Really, really proud. The girls will be, too, when we tell them.

Oh sure. Hey, girls, your dads going to make himself unemployed and unemployable on a point of hopeless principle.

They wont see things that way and you know it.

No, I suppose not. Theyre good girls. Smartarse little cows, of course, but good deep down.

Smartarse is in the genes, Peter. Your side, of course. Its why most of the party hates you so much.

This was true. Peter was too clever to succeed within the party, or at least too clever but without the essential ability to disguise the fact. Clever is fine in politics as long as you know how to act stupid. Peter never had. He believed passionately in his political ideals and argued them with a strength and intelligence that were bound to alienate less gifted and less principled colleagues in the lacklustre world of parliamentary politics. He had entered parliament as a twenty-six-year-old bright spark, a spark that had grown steadily duller over the years until he had become what he was now: a forty-something didnt quite. Despite his skills and his firm belief in the principles for which he stood (or perhaps because of them), he had failed to circumnavigate the Labour Party machine. The greasy pole had proved too slippery and his irritatingly well-cut trousers had remained firmly glued to the back benches.

Angela crossed the room and sat beside Peter on the couch. She put her arm around him and he rested his head on her shoulder. To be honest, she said, I think theyll withdraw the whip simply for what youve done already. I heard theres a book in the tearoom on how many days youve got left in the party.