The Fall of Pigglington or The Chronicles of the Great Dejecta - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Storming

 

So there he was, ensconced in his Bunker, deep in the bowls of the regional offices of one of the countries most august newspapers.  Although nowadays the Daily Terrifier had lost a little of its lustre having been taken over by a shady right wing cabal of disgraced bankers and minor hedge fund owners.  The fact that Piggy found himself at the heart of the capital city of one of Europes most culturally active countries made no impression on him now.  Not for him the pleasures of the Theatre, the cinema, partaking in the cultural life in the acknowledged hub of poetry and writing, with literary salons where ideas were discussed and debated blooming on every corner.  It felt to Piggy a very dreary place and devoid of the basic joys of life. To be sure, there were copious distractions available to amuse him, booze, women, lavish meals in Michelin restaurants, most of which were covered by the newspaper on expenses. However, he found himself in a very black mood most days. It had started well enough, his appointment to this prestigious post as Senior Correspondent and Assistant to the Head of the Foreign Desk (Western Europe), came as a shock to the more seasoned journalists on the paper.  But to Piggy, it felt a natural progression from part time columnist in the third most read student newspaper to a senior correspondent in a national daily.  Clearly the proprietor, a close and dear friend of his fathers, understood the burgeoning potential of the superstar in waiting.  He’d have to be a fool not to take the opportunity to employ someone who would one day rule the roost. He remembered his first meeting with the editor in chief, Steven Pitt McFadden, know as Spittle McFuck on account of his foaming mouthed diatribes. “Who the fuck are you!” he demanded of Piggy.  Piggy explained that he was the star reporter on the Oxford Shrill, Spittle eyed him warily and Piggy felt he needed to embellish his CV a little. “Er .. I am also a Classics Scholar, Captain of the University Rugby Team as well as a Commander in the Naval Reserve” he added continuing to watch Spittle for any signs of warmth “and of course your proprietor knows my father very well!” “Aw-right!” shouted Spittle “Now listen to me carefully, all our readers are either bigots who hate all foreigners, especially the dark skinned ones, or they are bigots who hate all foreigners especially the swarthy European ones.  I happen to fall into the latter category, especially the damn French. Fucking hoity toity arty farty beret wearing polar-necked snobs smoking Gauloises! Hate them!.  So I’m sending you to Paris, and you have one job only, to write anti-frog crap. You’ll find the most foreign things about Frenchy life you can and write it making it sound as ridiculous as possible.  If you can’t find anything, just make it up.”  This was music to Piggy’s ears, he knew exactly what to do, this would be the easiest job he’d ever done, and being the laziest man he knew, he could tell an easy job when he saw one.  So he set off to Paris with a spring in his step and joy in his heart.  He’d always had a penchant for french food, french wine and of course he just knew that the lovely ladies of La France would be falling over themselves to get a taste of stout English Piggy!

 

So how did it go from that to his current state, Piggy in a slough of despond when he should of course be in his element.  He remembered the first article he had published in the Terrifier.  He had struggled for a good few weeks considering what to write about, but rather than do any sort of research, he decided the best way would be to imbue himself in typical French Culture.  So he spent his time in expensive restaurants, brasseries and bars.  He even took in a few “Revue” in the Pigalle district to fully acclimatise, but alas to no avail.  He still had no real idea of what he would say.  Eventually he got word from Spittle to get his fucking finger out of his arse and get some fucking work done!.  So he was resigning himself to actually having to do some real research when one evening he overheard some British businessmen in a cafe moaning about how the French were always late for every meeting. He suddenly realised that he did not need to do any actual work at all, just write a diatribe.  He got very excited and that night knocked off a few thousand words of fairly incoherent rambling, invented a few quotes and backed it up with a few made up statistics. He called the article “Tardy French Retards Ruin Business for Prompt Brits” and subtitled it “An in-depth investigation into time keeping in French society”. The next day it appeared on page 15 halfway down, but the thrill Piggy felt when he saw his name in the by-line “From Our Paris Correspondent Terrence Pigglington” meant he simply had to have more.  Now he had found his metier, his method as he liked to call it, he was off and running. Shortly he had produced a steady stream of articles that were barely readable, research-lite, anti-french and tied to made up anecdotes and statistics.  He was particularly proud of “Is your waiter rude, or is he just French”, “What to do if your girlfriend won’t shave” and “French Lotharios, are they all just  Pepe le Pew pests!” The articles he wrote started appearing more regularly in the newspaper, but they were always on the inside pages.  He had phoned Spittle to demand he get a front page, a pay rise and Ferrari.  Spittle had laughed down the phone for about 3 minutes, threatened to strangle Piggy with his own oesophagus and told him to “do some fucking real work for once in your fucking privileged life or fuck the fuck off to fucking who cares!” Spittle had slammed the phone down having called Piggy “a fat fucking fuck faced fuck”. Piggy realised at that moment that he was never going to make his real impact on the world working here.  He continued to write of course, but now he was increasingly caught in a black mood which transferred itself to his writing.  “Film Noir, is French Society really so depressing?” “Frogs Legs or Frogs spawn, new Nouvelle Cuisine just a stain on a trendy Parisian table cloth?” and his most poignant article to date “Pourquoi sommes-nous ici - Why, why, why??????” 

 

It was clear.  If Piggy couldn’t get the recognition he deserved, then he would have to do something drastic.  Go Big or Go Home, as he had heard some business guru say on the telly once.  He started work on his greatest story yet.  A really scary tale about the disparate anglophobes in the French government paying prostitutes to sleep with Russian oligarchs in order to persuade them to sponsor islamic extremists to attack the heart of Britishness in Europe, i.e. the branch of Marks and Spenser in the Champs Elysees. Completely made up of course, but because it sounded so outrageous, he knew that the average Brit, or at least those that read the Terrifier, would believe it to be true.  But he could not help but add even more corroboration and invented a few juicy quotes from the Chef de Mission at the  British Embassy in Kazakhstan and a Royal Equerry to Prince Charles.  This was his fatal mistake, the article was printed all right, and appeared on page 2 (with a teaser headline on the front page as well).  When he read the teaser headline “Alarm as Red Frog Hooker plan targets deep blue royal favourite - see page 2”. At last thought Piggy, I am finally making some headway, up to page 2 and soon everyone will know me as the star reporter, Englands greatest living writer and the most revered  renaissance man in Europe”. As he dreamed on, the book tours, the ticker tape parades, the lovely bookish lovelies hanging on his every word, he realised his phone was ringing.  “Y’alo!” he said “Pigglington here, Englands Oscar Wilde at your service” “Your a fucking disgrace you piece of shit !” Spittles dulcet tones informed him “you’re the skid mark on your underpants that you can’t clean off, your the used condom that won’t flush, you are a waste of sperm and good oxygen,” he continued “you cretinous, feeble minded, sack of horse shit, you’d be a moron if you had half the brains you think you have and even then you’d be a useless fucking fuckwitted fuck! Your fired!” The phone went dead and Piggy stared at it for a few minutes.  What had just happened?  It turns out that whilst Spittle had no issue with anything Piggy made up as long as it furthered his agenda, the Terrifiers lawyers had been contacted by the Palace, who had objected to Prince Charles being dragged into an obviously untrue story, and by the Khazakstani Anbassador, threatening to invade Gibralter unless the story was removed.  The lawyers and Spittle had agreed to write an effusive apology in the paper, blame a rogue reporter and make an example of someone, so Piggy was rolled out as the Scapegoat. “But why me” wailed Piggy when he found out what had happened “I’m your best and most courageous reporter, the only one whose prepared to say it like it is!  So what if I was somewhat generous with the actualite and suggested some likely quotations rather than the real thing? Isn’t the spirit of what I say more aligned to the truth as people know it than the actual facts?”.  That may have been true the proprietor had explained to Piggy when he returned to London to confront him and demand he be reinstated, and if it were up to him and out of deference to Piggys father etc etc and so on…., but ultimately 3 things had driven the decision.  Firstly, Piggy had actually lied, secondly the accounts department had found out that Piggy had blown most of the entire papers yearly expenses budget on restaurants and brothels and, thirdly, no-one liked Piggy or his writing, which often had to be completely rewritten by sub editors not only to correct the grammar and spelling mistakes but to make it even vaguely coherent.  Finally, as a parting gesture, the Proprieter has suggested that, and with all due respect, whilst he understood that Piggy was, according to his CV, determined on a course to become the greatest human alive or whatever, perhaps in the meanwhile he should find some profession other than journalism as he was a very bad reporter, a terrible columnist, and a brainless lazy succubus on the face of a once decent newspaper. 

 

So with that recommendation ringing in his ears, Piggy immediately pestered his father to get him another position.  In due course, he found himself as the society editor of The Hound and Speculator, a ferociously pro-business illiberal journal renowned for it’s aggressive writing on behalf of the otherwise indefensible.  Such articles as “Hitler, firm but fair!” “Time to give Poorhouses another go?” and “Arming traffic wardens, a sad but necessary response to the foul mouthed political correctness brigade” were common place.  As society editor his main job was to commission and publish articles on society events preferably with a tongue in cheek hint at something nefarious.  To try and capture the upper middle class zeitgeist, something along the lines of “Sir Tuftons marriage to Lady Snivvledrivel gives new meaning to the term “Just in Time”.  Whilst the Bride positively glowed, the Groom looked like he was mainly Just Dashing”. Piggy soon found this work deeply unsatisfying, not only because it was so uninteresting but also because as an Editor, he never got any actual credits in the magazine.  He compensated for this a little by attending some of the events described himself, most of which involved people he knew or were related to people he knew from school and uni. There were a couple of distinct other benefits from the work.  Firstly, despite the lack of recognition, the actual job was incredibly easy, seemingly just involved him nodding to one sub editor, or shaking his head sadly at another sub editor, and hey presto the work was done.  Secondly, he got to make some very useful contacts, especially when the events he attended got a bit out of hand, and he would ensure that the details were kept out of the magazine on account of his friendship, knowing that at some point later he could call in a few favours.  Finally, the office was full of young women, from the right sort of family, all of whom were not too fussy (or at least not too vocal) when it came to a few office japes.    One particular girl, an assistant editor was the daughter of one of the magazines most reactionary contributors, very popular amongst the retired colonels and young think tankers who make up the bulk of the magazines subscribers.     His columns extreme viewpoints were often used on the Radio 4 Today program or the other more populist morning phone in shows as a counterpoint to an ordinary point of view.  “Tigers hunted to extinction for their paws  may seem like a generally bad idea to most people” Nick Robinson might say with that familiar ‘but we know better dont we’ smirk in his voice “but the well known columnist Peter Devere, thinks that Tigers are not the lovable creatures they like to pretend to be, and have bought this extinction on themselves.  Peter, some people consider this a controversial viewpoint?” “ Well Nick, you see when I was younger I was a ferocious young socialist as you know, but now I’ve seen the error of my ways and I’ve come to realise that everything needs to make a proper contribution, and ultimately the market knows best.  I mean, when was the last time you saw a tiger volunteering at a local food bank? ….”.  He was therefore considered one of the few remaining columnists associated with the Hound and Speculator that would keep its name as a serious publication.  He was revered throughout the editorial floor, and his daughter had been employed as deputy editorial assistant, to please the old man. 

 

Odette Devere prided herself on her eye for the main chance and a likely suitor, someone destined to be one of the great and the good.  She set her heart on Piggy, not for his looks or demeanour, of course, but more because he kept telling everyone in earshot that he was a man of destiny, and they could do a lot worse that hang on to his coat-tails.  Piggy couldn’t believe his luck.  Not only was someone after him, normally he would have to do the chasing, but she was sort of hot and more importantly related to someone who could help his career.  One thing lead to another and before long they found themselves entwined in the Stationary cupboard, the coffee room (after hours) and on one occasion on the Chief Editors sofa.  Inevitably, they were discovered, first by the cleaners one morning and then by some of the editorial staff, Odette wrapped in the editors winter coat, Piggy trousers round his ankles handing 5 pound notes to the cleaner.  Despite Piggy imploring the whole office to keep quiet, word got through to Peter Devere, who considered the Pigglingtons frightful arrivistes, and did not consider Piggy himself a worthy suitor for his daughter. Without having to be told, the editor knew exactly what was required.  Sitting rather gingerly on his sofa, he informed Piggy that alas his days at the Hound were now over, and he would be ever so grateful if Piggy could see his way to clearing his desk and vacating the premises as soon as feasibly possible.  Piggy tried a technique that had always worked in the past for him. “What girl” he lied “I never did them things, I wasn’t even there!” When he saw that this wasn’t working, he tried his all lads together approach “Anyway, that strumpet lead me on.  I mean who can blame her for being infatuated with prime Porker, but its not my fault she couldn’t resist me!  And who would you rather have around here, Englands bright future represented by me or the tired old past represented by the awful Devere?”  The editor considered this for a few seconds, nodded sagely and phoned security to forcibly eject Piggy from the office. 

 

So, this is how it is, Piggy pondered whilst sitting on the pavement outside the offices of the Hound and Speculator.  Twice fired, no career, the world conspiring against him.  How was he going to achieve his obvious destiny of greatness when he was so unreliable and way too lazy to do any real work!  Is the end for Pigglington, “Damnit, I can’t just be the greatest human alive amongst my friends and acquaintances, I can’t keep this greatness from the rest of the world!” He picked up the pound coin some well wisher had thrown in front of him, assuming  him to be someone living on the streets with learning difficulties, and went to the nearest cocktail bar to consider his future. Whilst drinking his third Manhattan he had a eureka moment.  He would become a politician, he was after all a renowned liar, chiseler and a cheat, and he knew schoolboy latin, what better qualifications could he have? After all, how difficult could it be, even his girly swot of a brother had been an MP now for a while.  He immediately phoned his father and demanded a seat somewhere safe and comfortable.  So began the final part of the story in the rise and fall of Piggy Pigglington, the Great Dejecta!