Terry Jones: Starship Titanic

The Gat's heart sank. His last line of defence shrivelled before his eyes and he knew he was condemned to eat at least one 'fish-paste' canape´ before the launch was over. The taste, he knew, would endure for months.

And a Blerontin month was equivalent to several lifetimes if you happened to come from Earth. Which, of course, nobody there did.

In fact nobody, in that entire throng of some fifty million Blerontinians who had turned up to see the launch of the Greatest Starship in the History of the Universe, had ever even heard of the Earth. And if you'd asked them they wouldn't have been able to understand you because translation blisters were not allowed to be worn on a 'fish-paste' event. It was another of those stupid little traditions that made the Gat furious.*

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* The Blerontins insist on serving so-called 'fish-paste' sandwiches during Festivals and Important Book Launches, despite the fact that all Blerontins find them disgusting. It is a tradition that dates back to a time when Blerontin was an impoverished planet living on the edge of starvation. Having run out of every other kind of food, the Blerontin team were reluctantly forced to offer up 'fish-paste' sandwiches as their entry for the Centennial Inter-Galactic Canape´s Championship. For some unaccountable reason, the 'fish-paste' appealed to the jaded palates of the judges, clinched the championship for Blerontin, and paved the way for Blerontinian domination of the entire Galactic Centre for aeons to come.

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And still Leovinus did not appear.

'Everyone here is holding their breath and keeping their fingers crossed,' whispered the Head Reporter of the Blerontin News Gathering Bureau into his invisible microphone. 'No one has yet even caught so much as a glimpse of the fabulous Starship, but everyone is certain that it will not only be the most technologically advanced but also the most beautiful Starship ever to have been created. It is, after all, the brain-child of Leovinus, to whose architectural genius we owe the great North - South bridge that now links our two polar caps, to whose musical inspiration we owe the Blerontin National Anthem "Our Canape´s Triumph Daily", and to whose unsurpassable mastery of ballistics and biomass energetics we owe our third sun that now shines above us with its own famous on-off-switch... But there's news just coming in that... what's that?

Ladies and gentleman and things, it appears that the great Leovinus has gone missing! Nobody has seen him all day. Surely they can't start the launch without him... but the crowd are beginning to demand some action... And uh-oh! What's that?'

A sour note had swept through the crowd, as a band of short individuals, dressed in ragged overalls and flat caps, suddenly forced their way into the spectators' area. They were shouting in a language no one could understand (because of the ban on translation blisters) and they were brandishing indecipherable placards.

'It looks as if the Yassaccan delegation has managed to gain entry!' An edge of alarm had entered the Head Reporter's voice. This was mainly because he had his entire commentary written down in advance - as he always did. The thought that an unforeseen turn of events might now force him to look at what was actually going on and then improvise was a nightmare that had dogged his sleep for all the years that he had been in the reporting business.

'Um!' said the Head Reporter. He felt his head going light. 'Er!' He fought for breath, as he felt his bowels starting to move. 'Oh! Ahm! What can I say?' He was praying that the words would come to him. In his recurring nightmare - the one that he always had after eating snork chitterlings - he was in this very situation - something unforeseen had occurred - his script was whisked away by some unseen hand - and the words just never came.

It has to be explained, in defence of the Head Reporter, that unforeseen circumstances seldom occurred during public events on Blerontin, owing to the fact that the authorities exerted a pretty tight control over these things.

'It coming yust out who!' exclaimed the Head Reporter. At that moment an unseen hand whisked away his script, and the Head Reporter felt a warm sensation all over his lower abdomen.

'I've done it! I mean! It's definitely Yassaccans! I can see them now!' That was practically two whole sentences! He could do it! 'They've purpley pinchburps! Oh damn!' It was one thing not to be able to think of anything - but how could he possibly come out with utter nonsense? That hadn't been in his nightmare. It was worse!

The truth is that this personal disaster for the Head Reporter was just one in a string of disasters that had dogged the building of the Starship. There had been rumours of corners cut: the cybernet pigeon cursors had been below-spec, the great engine had been mislaid, Leovinus himself had quarrelled with the Chairman of Star-Struct Inc., there had been arguments between Leovinus and his manager, Brobostigon, there had been quarrels between Brobostigon and Leovinus's accountant, Scraliontis, there had been arguments between Scraliontis and Leovinus and so on and so on.

The fact of the matter was that the construction of the Starship had brought financial ruin on almost everybody involved, including one entire planet. Yassacca had been, hitherto, a flourishing resort of industrious folk, with the most efficient and dependable construction industry in the Central Galaxy. Yassacca had enjoyed centuries of quiet prosperity and a high reputation. They never over-charged. They always delivered on time. They never cut corners. They were a race of proud craftsmen who had nothing to do with Inter-Galactic Canape´s Competitions, and thus were able to devote their wealth to the well-being of their own people.

That was until they undertook the construction of Leovinus's masterpiece - the crowning achievement of his career - the Starship that even now stands hidden from sight in its launching bay, awaiting the unveiling ceremony.

'Give us back our happy life-style!' shout the Yassaccan demonstrators unintelligibly to the Blerontinian onlookers.

'Planets not Starships!' roar their placards - to the baffled crowd.

'Get those bastards out of there,' growls Flortin Rimanquez, the Chief of Police and Rabbits.

'Where is Leovinus?' groans the Gat of Blerontis.

Could it be only the day before that Leovinus had held his press conference? He had felt so powerfully complacent as he stepped up onto the platform. His white beard had been specially groomed by Pheronis Pheronisis, the greatest hairdresser on Blerontin, and his eyebrows had been stuck back on with a new toupee tape that was guaranteed absolutely undetectable, In many ways this was the greatest moment in his life.

'What is it like to be not only the greatest architect the Galaxy has ever known but also the greatest sculptor, the greatest mathematical genius as well as a world-class gamisher and canape´s arranger?' Exactly the kind of question Leovinus enjoyed.

There had been times in his younger days, when he might have retorted: 'Go lick someone else's arse, hack! I'm only interested in Truth and Beauty!' But somehow, he found that the more wrinkles he counted on his forehead and the more problems he had with his continence and his seven-times table, the more he found a little flattery most welcome.

'I loved your Pandax Building with the interchangeable rooms and total reassembly potential!' shouted a young cub reporter with soft eyes and a delightful cleavage.

'Thank you.' Leovinus beamed in his most venerable and yet at the same time approachable manner.

'You look terrific!' shouted another.

Leovinus was just trying to decide which of the two cub reporters with delightful cleavages he should ask backstage for a little drink, or whether he should invite them both and then see how things worked out, when a male voice cut across: