Ben Elton - Inconceivable

I finished my Coco Pops in a marked manner, resisting the temptation to drink the chocolatey milk out of the bowl, and rose to leave.

“Well, thanks for explaining your idea to me, Ewan,” I said. “Unfortunately the BBC is not in the business of funding cynical tales about drugs and prostitution which purport to reflect everyday Britain merely so that the fashion junkies who make them can swank about at Cannes and then bugger off to work in the States the first chance they get.”

“Look, bollocks to the English bullshit,” Ewan Proclaimer replied. “Do you want the picture or not?”

“Ah dinnah,” I said in what I hoped was a Scottish accent, although it almost certainly wasn’t. Then I took up the bill and left the room feeling proudly self-assertive. I may not be able to write myself but I can at least protect the public from the self-indulgent witterings of those who can’t either.

By the time I got back to Television Centre I had worked myself into a right old self-righteous lather. The first thing I did was to get Daphne to take down a sarky fax telling Above The Line Films where they could shove it. I had no sooner finished doing this and was contemplating a calming game of Tomb Raider on my PC when Nigel called and summoned me to his office.

I trudged along the circular corridor convinced that this was it, that the long-awaited shafting was about to be administered. It seemed obvious that Nigel intended to get rid of me before the Prime Minister’s imminent visit (set for this Saturday) so that he could take all the credit himself. As I entered the hallowed office, however, it seemed that I was wrong. Nigel was positively beaming at me and actually asked if I wanted a coffee.

“Sam!” he said. “I just heard you did breakfast with Above The Line and met with Justin, Ewan and Petra.”

I was about to protest that I had only been following orders but he gave me no choice.

“Congratulations, mate! Excellent move. Ewan is a genius and a God-sent antidote to all the crap your department normally commissions.”

Alarm bells began to ring.

“Yes, that’s what he said,” I replied limply.

“He’s just the kind of raw, edgy talent we need for the new film initiative. It would be absolutely sensational if you could bring him and the whole Above The Line ethos into the Beeb. As it happens I’m having dinner with Justin and Petra at Mick and Jerry’s tonight so I’ll do everything I can to push it along. OK, mate? Well done.”

My coffee had just arrived but I was already rushing out of his office, scarcely bothering even to attempt an excuse. I ran as fast as I could back round the circle, bashing into internal mail trolleys and PAs with trays full of tea as I went. I arrived back in my office just in time to see the fax I had dictated to Daphne emerge from the machine having been transmitted as instructed. Fate deals me blow after blow.

Dear Penny

I’ve decided. Since the next medical step for me is a laparoscopy, which is intrusive and not to be entered into lightly (like my bellybutton), it is foolish for me to ignore other possibilities.

Tomorrow is a full moon, my traffic light says I’ll be ovulating and Sam will just have to like it or lump it.

Oh my God.

I got home today and Lucy told me that tomorrow night, at midnight, she wants me to take her to the top of Primrose Hill, which is a public park , and shag her under the full moon.

I’m still hoping that this is some kind of joke.

Dear Penny

Tonight is the night! Full moon! What’s more, the forecast is for a mild night with gentle breezes. Perfect. Perhaps the fates are finally going to be on my side.

Drusilla and I went to a fairy shop in Covent Garden at lunchtime and got some crystals. I don’t really believe in that sort of thing but I must say they really are rather beautiful and Drusilla assures me they’ll help. We sat together on a bench in Soho Square and energized them. This involved squeezing the crystals in the palms of our hands and, well, energizing them. Drusilla made a sort of low groaning noise but I just concentrated. I had a tofu pitta bread sarnie from Pret A Manger in the other hand so I imagine that I energized that too, which can’t hurt, can it?

I’ve also bought a nice thick picnic rug from Selfridge’s, because you want to be as comfortable as possible on these occasions. Also one of those inflatable pillows that people use in aeroplanes. This is to prop up my bum afterwards because I want to give Sam’s sperm as good a downhill launch as I possibly can. I have this vision of millions of them tumbling down some sort of water shoot (like the Summit Plummit at Disneyworld), hurtling off the end and then getting knocked unconscious in a fruitless effort to penetrate my cold unyielding eggs.

I also went to Kooka’i and bought an incredible new frock. It’s just a sheath, really, and I’m afraid my tum will bulge, but I’ll hold it in. The dress cost an entire week’s wages but Drusilla insists that this must be a sensual and erotic event, not just a sly bonk in a park. There’s to be wine and candles and I must reek of musk and primrose oil and ancient pagan scents. I really didn’t know where I was supposed to get ancient pagan scents in London on a Friday afternoon but Drusilla had it all sorted out. Rather conveniently, Boots do a set of soaps that cover the lot and she’d bought me a box as a present.

She also reminded me that I must remember to wear my silkiest pair of split-crotch panties and when I told her that I do not possess any pairs of split-crotch panties, silky or otherwise, she was quite surprised. Drusilla is definitely a dark horse, except I shouldn’t be surprised really; in the end being a witch is just about sex, isn’t it? Anyway, she insisted that we go immediately to a sex shop and buy some erotic underwear, but when we got in there I just couldn’t. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed, I was just laughing too much. I mean these places are ridiculous. They have these dildos the size of draught excluders! What on earth you’re supposed to do with them I just don’t know. Stand them in the hall for people to hang their hats on, perhaps? They also had these sets of Oriental Love Balls, which a girl is supposed to push up and then walk around with them in. I was just saying that I didn’t believe any woman ever walked around with Love Balls up her doo-dah when the assistant came over and said, “How are the Love Balls going, Drusilla?”

“Lovely,” replied Drusilla dreamily, giving her hips a little jiggle and smiling.

Do you know, I swear I heard a clanking sound. I am so parochial.

In the end we agreed that the most sensual thing of all would be to wear no knickers at all. I’ve always thought naughty underwear was curiously sexless. Except perhaps a sheer silk teddy, or French knickers, but I don’t think they’d be right for Primrose Hill and I doubt that you can get grass stains out of silk.

I played Celtic music and clannaed on my Walkman on the tube on the way home to get me into a mood of fertile pagan spirituality. I’m quite excited in a funny sort of way. It’s not often I shag alfresco these days. Quite frankly, it never has been a common occurrence with me. Insects and bare bums don’t mix.

I hope Sam cheers up about it, though. I regret to have to report that last night, when I told him what was expected of him, he was most unenthusiastic. In fact he got quite hostile. Obviously I can sort of understand his doubting the effectiveness of the plan. It’s a long shot, certainly, relying on the faint echoes and rhythms of the ancient world to jolly his sperm along. I’m highly sceptical myself, but I do wish he’d see that we must try everything. We’ve now been infertile for sixty-two months and all the doctors can think of doing about it is to pump me full of dye and video my uterus. Well, forgive me if I sound feminist, but with that in prospect I feel I have a right to expect Sam to explore every other avenue first.