Ben Elton - Dead Famous

After this astonishing display, which could only endear Woggle further to his adoring public, the other nominations seemed rather dull by comparison.

David voted for Woggle and also Layla, because he thought Layla was an irritating and pretentious pseud.

Kelly voted for Woggle and also Layla, because she thought that Layla looked down on her.

Jazz voted for Woggle and also Sally, because he found Sally’s pious attitude to being a lesbian irritating.

Hamish voted for Woggle and also David, because he thought he’d have a better chance with the women with David out of the way.

Layla voted for Woggle and also David, because she thought David was an irritating and pretentious pseud.

Garry voted for Woggle and also Layla, because he thought she was a snob.

Moon voted for Woggle and also Garry, because she thought he was a fookin’ sexist twat.

Sally voted for Woggle and also Moon, because of what Moon had said about the mentally ill.

Dervla voted for David and for Layla, because she was sick of their bickering. Dervla would have voted for Woggle. She certainly wanted Woggle out of the house – she was no more immune to him than anybody else was. But unlike the rest of the housemates, Dervla knew how popular Woggle was with the public. The mirror had told her.

It was a constant theme of the messages.

Woggle stood at number one, Kelly at number two and Dervla was stubbornly placed third.

“Be nice to Woggle. People love him,” the message-writer had said on the morning after Dervla had confronted Woggle over the hair on the soap. Since that time, Dervla had been careful to follow the advice.

When the nominations were announced on live television Woggle was acting very strangely. He was sitting in his usual corner but he had covered himself in a blanket and was swaying softly beneath it. He was humming to himself, almost keening. The other nine housemates sat on the couches.

“This is Chloe,” the announcement said. Chloe was the “face” of House Arrest , the girl who worked the studio chats. “The two housemates nominated for eviction this week are… in alphabetical order… Layla and Woggle.”

Everybody tried not to show it, but the relief was palpable. Only four more days and Woggle would be gone. Even Layla was not unduly worried. Although hurt that she had been the other nominee, she knew that she would live to fight another day, because, like most of the others, she simply could not imagine the public not voting Woggle out. Surely they must find him as revolting as the housemates did.

Dervla, of course, knew better.

“The public did find Woggle revolting,” Bob Fogarty said, fishing a semi-melted square of chocolate out of his foaming plastic cup, “but they just loved him for it, and by the time episode eleven was over, he’d become a national hero. It was so deceitful and unfair, I felt ashamed. I complained to that bitch Geraldine, but she said it came with the job and that cunts like me had forfeited our right to have principles.”

Once more Trisha had gone to the editing bunker in an effort to try to bridge the gap between what the public had seen and what had actually happened. It seemed just possible to her that the clue to solving the murder might lie in understanding how this trick was worked.

After all, everybody had seen the murder.

Fogarty sucked noisily on his chocolate. Trisha watched his mouth with growing distaste.

“That cow knew very well that she had been wickedly skewing public sympathy away from the main group and towards Woggle right from the start.”

“So when the attack on him came, shown in the context Geraldine had made you create, it looked absolutely damning?”

“It certainly did, and the nation went potty, as I’m sure you know. I told Geraldine that we were giving Woggle too much of the running. I mean, quite apart from the fact that we were seriously demonizing nine relatively innocent people, we were also turning the show into a one-trick pony, which in my humble opinion was not good telly at all in the long term. Geraldine knew that, of course, but the footage was just irresistible. It made the other boys look like absolute bastards . Awful. Like something out of “ Lord of the Flies ”

The housemates had been called into the confession box to make their nominations in alphabetical order, therefore Woggle had gone in last.

“What’s he doing in there?” Jazz said, after a minute or two had passed.

“I hope he’s died and rotted,” David replied.

“He wouldn’t have to die to rot, he’s rotting already,” said Gazzer.

“We’ll be doing him a favour,” Jazz concluded. “Saving him from himself.”

To Jazz, the worst thing on earth would be to be filthy. He lived to preen.

When Woggle finally emerged from the little room, the boys were lying in wait.

“Afternoon, fellow humanoids,” said Woggle, wandering out into the garden. “Happy summer solstice.”

Without a word, they jumped him. Hamish and Jazz held him down while Garry and David pulled off his ancient combat trousers.

“What’s going on?” he shouted, but the boys were too intent on their mission to reply.

Woggle’s skinny legs kicked about, glaring white in the bright sunlight. He was wearing filthy old Y-fronts with a hole in them where one of his balls had worn the cloth away. As he struggled with his attackers both balls fell through this hole. It didn’t look funny, it looked sad and pathetic.

“No, no! What’re you doing!” Woggle yelled, but still the boys ignored him. They had drunk the last of the house cider and were feeling righteous. This had to be done. Woggle had it coming to him. You could not just give people fleas and then expect them to do nothing about it.

“Get them pants off him, they’ll be infested too!” Jazz shouted.

“I ain’t touching them,” Garry replied.

“Nor me,” said Hamish.

“Fuck this,” said Jazz and, letting go of Woggle for a moment, he ran to the chicken coup and grabbed the gloves they used to clean out the birds. When he returned, Woggle had managed to twist himself round so that when Jazz pulled his underpants off him his bony white arse was on view to the cameras.

Next they pulled off his shirt, ripping the buttons as they did so, and finally they wrenched Woggle’s filthy string vest up over his head. Now Woggle was naked. A struggling, shrieking, pale, bony little creature with a great mop of dreadlocks and his beard flying and flapping in the summer sun.

“This is assault! I am being defiled! Get off me!” he shouted.

“I’m being assaulted and defiled by your fleas!” Hamish cried, speaking for them all. “My fucking armpits are bleeding.”

There was a barbecue at the back of the house and the boys had already cranked it up in preparation for the attack. Jazz threw Woggle’s clothes and his sandals onto the fire. There was a strange fizzing sound. “Fuck me!” he cried. “I can hear the fleas popping!”

“Not popping, screaming!” Woggle shouted.

“Let’s shave his head!” shouted David. “He’s bound to have lice.”

“No,” said Jazz firmly. “You can’t mess with a man’s barnet, even Woggle’s.”

“Fascists!” shouted Woggle, but his voice degenerated to a cough as Garry and Hamish began dousing him in flea powder. For a few moments they were all engulfed in a great cloud, and when they had finished Woggle was a luminous ghostly white from head to toe. Even his hair and beard were white as snow.

They left Woggle prostrate and naked in the middle of the lawn. As he turned briefly towards one of the garden cameras, flesh-coloured lines began to streak his death-white face as the tears sprang from his eyes.