Beckett stared at the box.

 “You’re really supposed to wear these?” he asked incredulously.
 “Beckett, stop being so shy and put them on,” said Ros, “it’s for a good cause, you know.”
 Beckett frowned.
 “I don’t see you wearing any,” he said.
 “I’ll put them on later,” said Ros.

 Beckett took the plastic bollocks out of the box and stared at them.

 “Why do they have to be blue?!” he demanded.
 “Well, it’s a gimmick, isn’t it?” Ed explained, “Like Red Nose Day.”
 “But who’s bright idea was it to invent Blue Bollocks Day?” cried Beckett, “I mean - do they really expect people to wear them?!”
 “I’ve seen lots of people wearing them at the Bureau,” said Ed.
 “Even Alex,” added Ros.
 “Alex was not wearing balls,” said Beckett.
 “She was too,” said Ros.

 Beckett was still not convinced.

 “Well.... we’ll see,” he said. He dropped the plastic balls to the floor and switched on the TV. “Let’s see what Children’s BBC are doing to celebrate this, then.”
 “They’ve got their own version for children,” said Ros, “The slightly less rude version, Blue Balls day.”

+       +       +

 Kirsten grinned and proudly displayed her balls.

 “We’ve been doing our bit for Blue Balls day!” she cackled, “even Otis is wearing his bollocks!”
 A puppet aardvark, complete with plastic blue tackle, came into view.
 “Look what I’ve got!” he cried, “....Mine are bigger than yours!!!!”
 

 Beckett glanced at Ros.
 “This is sick, twisted and disturbed,” he said.
 “But funny, though!” Ros smiled.

 
 “.... and later, we’ve got a very blue edition of Blue Peter....” Kirsten told them.
 “And a special edition of ‘Live and Kicking-You-In-The-Balls’,” added Otis.

 
 “I don’t think we should be watching this,” said Beckett.
 “Come on, mate,” said Ed, “it’s a charity thing!”
 “And not a very good one,” said Beckett......

*       *       *       *       *

The team just couldn’t get excited about Blue Bollocks day. It just didn’t seem worth it. Sure, they’d supported the cause by buying a pair of blue plastic balls each and Jan had even had an industrial-sized pair fitted to the wall of the Bureau canteen, but even she couldn’t help thinking the whole thing was a little over-rated. Red Nose Day and Children In Need were long-established shows which had done a lot of good work, while blue balls just didn’t seem anything in comparison.

 Ed, Ros, Beckett and Alex were settled around the TV that evening, waiting for festivities to begin. They had agreed to watch the entire thing, more fool them, and were already regretting it, even though the show hadn’t yet started.

 Blue Bollocks Day, also known as ‘Not-So Comic Relief,’ was to become an annual event, which not only raised money for certain causes but also managed to take the piss out of the very shows on which it was based. Everyone rather hoped it would prove to be such a flop that there would never be another. Ros especially disliked their advertising campaign, which used pictures of Furbies with ‘catchy’ slogans such as,

 ‘If you see someone without their bollocks, give ‘em a good kneeing!’

 “So, did I miss much earlier?” Alex asked half-heartedly.
 “No,” sighed Ros.
 “The kids stuff wasn’t up to much,” said Beckett, “in fact, it was in very bad taste.”
 “Nick, that’s the whole point of the event,” Ros reminded him.
 “The very blue Blue Peter was pretty good,” said Ed.
 “Only because they got Richard Bacon back for a special appearance,” said Beckett.
 “They did?” frowned Alex.
 “Yes,” said Beckett.
 “Why?”
 “To give him a good kneeing, apparently,” said Ros.
 “Why?!”
 “He wasn’t wearing his balls.”

 Alex decided not to ask any more questions about such things and turned back to the Radio Times instead. She scanned the ‘Comparison’ section, pointing out the differences between that and Red Nose Day. There were, it seemed, not very many.

 “Hey, we don’t have to stay up and watch the whole thing, do we?” she asked.
 “Yes we do,” said Ed.
 “But I’m tired!” Alex complained, “I wanted to get at least some sleep tonight.”
 “Well, we’re all up for it,” said Ros. She sighed and stood up, “I think I’m going to have a coffee before it starts.”
 “I’ll come and help you make one,” said Beckett, “it’ll get me out of watching this pre-bollocks hype, at least!”

*       *       *

 Ten minutes passed quickly.
 Everyone rather wished the time had gone a little more slowly.
 No one was particularly keen on watching the rude charity event at all....

*       *       *

“Come on, it’s starting!” Ed called out.

 Ros smiled at Beckett and put down her mug.

 “I think we’ve been summoned,” she said.
 “Why do we have to watch Blue Bollocks day, anyway?!” sighed Beckett.
 “Because it’s a charity thing,” said Ros. She pressed her forehead against his and laughed. “If you’re a good boy, I might even put on a pair of those balls later.”
 “You wouldn’t...?!”
 “Only if you’re good.”
 Beckett grinned and stood up.
 “I’ll be on my very best behaviour,” he promised.

 *       *       *

 The TV seemed to explode into action as the show began and all at once music and voices blared out while a furry BBC2 logo wearing a pair of balls appeared on the screen.

 “... It’s Friday night, it’s nine o’clock, it’s BBC 2......” The announcer began, “It’s time for the first ever, annual mickey-take, the rudest charity event in the world, Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Blue Bollocks Day - ‘Not-so Comic Relief’!!!!”

 
 “I don’t think it’s going to catch on, you know,” said Ros.
 “Oh, I don’t know,” said Beckett, “it could get a cult following or something.”

 A group of blue-plastically endowed dancers bounced onto the stage and launched into a complicated routine.

 “So, other than an overdose of blue tackle, what else can we expect from tonight?” asked Alex.
 “I’m not sure,” said Ros. She reached for the Radio Times and flicked to the pull-out special about the event. She’d barely read a sentence when she began to giggle. “I swear this whole event is a piss-take,” she said, “listen to this.....”

“Blue Bollocks day. So what exactly is it? An obscure porno movie, maybe? An episode of Bottom, perhaps? You could be forgiven for thinking it’s either one of those but you’d also be wrong. It is, in fact, the latest televisual charity event. There are many differences separating it from it’s predecessors; Blue Bollocks day is, for example, the first Telethon to be held on a minority channel. Unlike previous shows, this is to be screened on BBC 2, from nine p.m. until five a.m. the following morning. It is also aimed clearly for an adult audience, although the slightly less-rude ‘Blue Balls Day’ version of events can be seen on BBC1 earlier on in the day.

 Blue Bollocks Day, also known as ‘Not-So Comic Relief’, is the brainchild of Graham Norton and the team behind The Friday Night Armistice, who are co-presenting the majority of the night’s event. Other celebrities adding their talent to proceedings include popular GLN news readers Henry Davenport and Sally Smedley; reporter Damien Day; children’s favourites Otis and Kirsten, and the ever-popular Steven Houghton.”
 

 Alex was almost sick on the spot.

 “Oh what?!” she cried, “please tell me you’re not serious!”
 “I don’t know which part’s worse,” said Beckett, “the fact that Steve’s in it or the fact they think he’s popular!”
 “I don’t want to watch it if he’s in it!” said Alex, “in fact, I don’t even want to watch it, with or without him!”
 “Oh, come on, it’s for charity,” said Ros, “we all agreed we’d watch it.”
 “That was before I knew Steven Houghton was in it,” said Alex.
 “So what’s first in the line-up?” asked Ed.
 “I’m almost too scared to look!” said Ros. She turned the page and scanned the information. “Apparently, the Friday Night Armistice team are going to introduce the night, then we’re going to be told some of the highlights to watch out for.”
 “Who’s presenting that bit?” asked Ed.
 “Uh...” Ros frowned. She looked at the name but had no idea how to say it. “Uh, it’s....”

 ‘Evening highlights - Armando Iannucci.’

 “Come on, Ros,” frowned Ed, “spit it out.”
 “Uh,” Ros said again, “Armadillo Inny-minny-icky.”
 “Huh?!” cried Alex.
 “Arni-marni Ian-unni-noony,” Ros tried again.
 Beckett took the magazine from Ros’ lap and looked for himself.
 “Oh!” he said, “you mean that bloke off the Midday Armistice.”
 “Friday NIGHT armistice,” Ros corrected, “and, yes - he is, but I already told you that!”
 “So what’s his name?” asked Alex.
 “Armie-nani Icky-sticky.....” Ros began. She paused and sighed crossly. “I give up. I’m calling him Armadillo and he can like it or lump it.”

+       +       +
 
The dancers cleared as a bunch of rude-shaped balloons were released into the air. The Friday Night Armistice team ran onto the stage to wild applause, each wearing their own pair of shiny blue bollocks with pride.

 “Hello and welcome to the first ever Blue Bollocks day!” Armando Iannucci announced, “the rudest, dirtiest and all-round most offensive charity event the world has ever seen! We’re here to host the first hour of this eight-hour television spectacular. I’m Armando Iannucci....”
 
The camera shot fell on one of the other presenters.
 
“....I’m Peter Baynham,” he said.
 “...and I’m David Schneider,” the third presenter announced. He adjusted his balls and turned to the studio audience. “Are you ready for fun?!”
 “Yes!” cried the audience.
 “And are you going to get easily offended...?!”
 “No!”
 “What do we do if we see someone without their bollocks...?!”
 “Give ‘em a good kneeing!” cried the audience.
 “That’s right!”
 
 Armando came back on the screen.

 “We’ve got a packed show lined up for you, including music from our official song and from Otis the Aardvark; a well-endowed special of Rex The Runt and a whole group of cheap celebrities, so desperate for air-time that they’ll do anything to get a few minutes on television!”
 
“But don’t forget,” Peter interrupted, “that there is a serious side to tonight. Blue Bollocks Day is being held to raise money for a group of often over-looked causes; overlooked yet distressing. Throughout tonight, we’ll be looking at these in detail and speaking to those affected by them.”

 “Our phone lines will be open from now until midday tomorrow,” said David, “so to make your pledge, please call 0800 B-L-U-E - B-A-L-L-S.”

 “Or you can take your donation into any bank or building society and tell the cashier to stick it in their pants,” said Armando.

 “Or, if you’re on-line, you could also make your pledge on our website,” said Peter, “at www.give_em_a_good_kneeing.com”

 “You can also find out more about tonight’s show from that site,” said Armando, “including how to enter any of our competitions and how to join in with our sponsored puke coming later on in the programme.”

+       +       +

 “Are we really watching this?!!” groaned Beckett.
 “I am hoping this is just a bad dream,” said Ros.
 “We could always turn it off,” Alex said hopefully.
 “After you’ve been good enough to wear your balls all day? No - we couldn’t possibly do that,” teased Ros.
 “We’ve got to watch every moment of it,” said Ed, more to annoy Alex than anything.
 “Thanks a lot,” snapped Alex, “ now, shut up and put your balls back on.”
 “But I don’t wanna wear them,” Ed complained.

 Uncomfortable silence fell as the team watched the impending highlights of the show.
 

+       +       +
 
 The screen showed the Friday Night Armistice team once again as the audience applauded them and waited for the next part of the show.

 “As we said earlier,” Armando began, “tonight’s event has a very serious point behind it, supporting the causes that most charity events sweep under the carpet, like impotence for example.”
 “It can be a..... distressing, embarrassing problem,” agreed Peter, “and one which men find hard to talk about.”
 “So what better time to bring it to the attention of the public than on Blue Bollocks day?!” David said brightly.
 “Next we have our first serious report of the evening,” said Armando, “highlighting the distress caused by this condition.”
 

 And there on the screen came Spike from Unfinished Business.

 He sat alone in a deserted cafe, a half-finished mug of weak coffee in front of him. His fingers played nervously with the salt pot in front of him as he looked up at the camera. His eyes were sad, his expression gloomy. If there was anything likely to cause impotence, it was the sight of Spike.
 
 “I couldn’t get it up,” he said sadly, “I couldn’t do it. My life was just one long, grey mess of.... frustration.” He paused for a moment, giving the background music an opportunity to start up. ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ played as he tilted his head to one side and gave a deep sigh of desperation. “I still had the urge, but every time I tried to.... to whip out my big horn, it just wouldn’t blow. Nothing worked. Not willpower, not counseling, not even black-market Viagra.”

Suddenly Spike leaped up from his table to reveal the blue balls he was wearing, while wild flashing lights filled the cafe. The music changed to Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick and the tone of the item lifted dramatically.

 “But then I was cured!” he cried, “now I can get it up at the drop of a hat, as long as it’s a very attractive hat, that is..... My life has changed so much now. My concentration has improved, my temper is well under control.... and my libido is well out of control! Just ask Amy!”

 The shot changed to some gloomy looking men and Spike continued as a voice-over.

 “Others aren’t so lucky, though. There are many, many men who still find themselves totally incapable of hitting anyone with their rhythm stick, or with their blue balls for that matter. Your donation can help to pay for their treatment. Five pounds can pay for a tablet of Viagra. Fifty pounds can pay for a course of counseling. And two hundred pounds can pay for a really good prostitute.”

 The camera ran along a line of depressed, impotent men, each one looking pleadingly at the viewers.
 
 “Please help us,” said one.
 “My marriage is suffering,” said another.
 “I want my life back,” a third cried dramatically.
Then the camera settled at the man at the end of the line.

+       +       +
 
“That’s Channing!!!!” cried Ros.
 Beckett roared with laughter.
 “Channing’s impotent?!!” he cried, “Oh, I should have known!”
 Ros frowned.
 “Beckett, that’s not nice,” she said.
 “But it’s Channing!” hooted Beckett.
 “It’s not nice to make fun of him,” said Ros, “he’s got a very serious problem. How would you feel if it was you?!”
 “But it’s not me!” said Beckett, “It’s Channing!!!”
 “It’s still not nice of you to make fun of him,” scowled Ros.

+       +       +

 Channing looked downcast as he began to tell his story.
“I was capable once,” he said, “very capable. But then I was.... dumped by someone I loved very much. By a beautiful woman with.... with long, black, flowing hair..... incredible intelligence..... a gorgeous smile.....”

+       +       +

 Ros began to sink down lower and lower in her seat, blushing the colour of a tomato.
 “Oh... my... God....” she mumbled.
 “Hey, Ros! He’s talking about you!” Ed pointed out helpfully.
 “Oh, shut up, Ed,” hissed Ros.

+       +       +

 “....I thought everything was great between us,” Channing continued, “but.... but obviously not. I haven’t been able to..... perform since that day. I’ve tried so hard to get over my problem.... Viagra, counseling, herbal remedies.... I’ve even tried wearing tight leather pants to.... get me in the mood.... but nothing works. Please - please help me, and others like me, to get our dignity back.”

+       +       +

 The picture faded and the donation phone number appeared in its place.

 “Oh, I don’t believe this,” Ros mumbled, “how could he?! I’m going to be a laughing stock!”
 “Come on, Ros,” said Ed, “things aren’t that bad.”
 Beckett put his arm around Ros’ shoulders and squeezed her gently.
 “Ros, no one else is even going to know he was talking about you, are they?”
 “They might,” Ros said sadly.
 “Hardly anyone’s even going to be watching this,” said Beckett as the phone began to ring.
 
Ros sighed as she stood up to answer it.

 “I hope you’re right,” she said, lifting the receiver, “hello?”
 “Miss Henderson?” said Jan’s voice.
 “Hi, Jan,” sighed Ros.
 “Did you know you’d given Channing impotence?” Jan asked pleasantly.
 Ros gave a loud cry of anger and slammed the receiver back down.
 “Nick, that was Jan,” she cried, “She saw it!”
 “What?”
 “Channing!” Ros slumped back onto the sofa and folded her arms crossly. “Impotence will be the least of Channing’s problems next time I get my hands on him,” she snapped.
 Ed sniggered.
 “I should think that if you got your hands on him he wouldn’t have impotence any more.....”

+       +       +

 “And now on with this evening’s show,” Armando began, “and it’s time for some music. Like all good charity shows, Blue Bollocks Day asked a great line-up of celebrities to record a fund-raising single and raise lots of money for our causes. Unfortunately, none of them would do it, so instead we have Steven Houghton to sing us the official song; ‘Balls!’.”

 
The team watched in horror as the celebrity stepped onto the stage to rapturous applause, until the audience remembered who Steven Houghton actually was and all started booing him instead.
 “No,” cried Ros, “please, don’t let him sing! Somebody stop him!”
 “Who let that bastard on the show anyway?!” cried Alex.
 “What’s the matter?” frowned Ed, “I quite like him, actually....”
 

 Steve stood in the middle of the stage wearing nothing but blue plastic balls and a Hawaiian print shirt as the music struck up. He was also wearing a daft wig, first worn by him on his appearance on Celebrity Stars in Their Eyes many years earlier. He’d liked it so much that he’d kept it and still whipped it out for special occasions.... and what could be more special that a celebration of plastic blue tackle, after all?!!
 The music struck up and a smoke machine started to work overtime, as though it too wanted to get rid of Steve the only way it knew how - by masking him completely. It didn’t work, though, and Steve remained utterly visible as he launched into song.....

 To the tune of ‘Gold’, he butchered already ghastly words.......

“Thank you for watching this show,
 The balls look bad, yes, I know,
 My own hang rather too low....
 This is Blue Bollocks Day,
 It’s rude but please don’t turn away,
 Just support our cause for today,
 Oh yes, our colour’s blue, yes, our colour’s blue!

 Nothing left to make me feel small,
 My blue balls let me stand up so tall.....

 Balls!
 Always believe in your balls,
 Pick up your phone now and call,
 ‘Cos I’m so wonderfu-ul,
 Always believing.....
 ....In my Balls!
 On me your eyes will return,
 Look at me, all young and firm,
 I am so wonderful,
 Always believing.....

 After the night is through,
 Whatever then will I do?
 My career on TV is through...
 It’s only twelve years ago
 I sang on Stars in Their Eyes.
 Wowed you with my chunky thighs,
 And now I’m asking you, yes I’m asking you,

 Do what you know is right,
 Call and pledge your money tonight.....

Balls!
 Always believe in your balls,
 Pick up your phone now and call,
  I’m still so wonderfu-ul,
 Always believing.....
 ....In my Balls!
 On me your eyes will return,
 Under my blue balls I’m firm,
 I am so wonderful,
 Always believing.....”

 The instrumental part struck up and Steve bounced happily along the stage until the elastic on his blue tackle dug in somewhere it really shouldn’t and he doubled up in pain to deliver the end of the song.

 “I may never work on TV again,
 And these plastic balls leave you in pain....”

+       +       +

 “OH MY GOD, THAT WAS HORRIBLE!!!!!!” cried Ros.
 Alex looked strangely pale.
“I feel sick,” she complained.
 “And I thought he was bad on Stars in their eyes!” said Beckett.
 “Nick, I’m going to have nightmares about this,” sobbed Ros.
 Beckett held his crying Ros to him and rocked her gently.
 “Shhh, Ros, it’s all over now,” he whispered.
 Ed frowned.
 “What are you talking about?” he asked, “I thought he sang really well.”
 “Ed, are you going deaf or something?!” cried Ros, “he was terrible!”
 “I... I’m really not feeling well, you know,” Alex said weakly.
 “Oh, that wig!” cried Ros, “and that ugly mug of his!”
 “Good looking bloke, that one,” frowned Ed, “what’s the matter with all of you?”

+       +       +
 Armando appeared on the screen, looking as pale as Alex.

 “And now is the perfect time for that sponsored puke we mentioned earlier,” he said, if you haven’t yet registered, it’s still not too late. You can do it on-line and get your friends to sponsor you for each time you retch and for every piece of carrot you find in the sick.”
 “Especially if you haven’t eaten any carrot,” added Peter.
 “And let’s face it, there’s not a single person out there with a settled stomach after that performance, is there?” A disgusting opening sequence to the sponsored puke began and the audience in the studios were handed a sick-bucket each. “Right, let’s see what you’re all made of,” said Armando.
 
 The sound was incredible.
 The retching.
 The splattering.
 The cries of, “look! I’ve found a carrot!”
 

 “Oh, no,” gasped Alex. She could take no more and raced out the room. The others were on the verge of joining her but just about managed to keep themselves under control.
 “How can they show this stuff?!” cried Ed.
 “This must break some kind of decency law, surely,” said Beckett.

 Ros cringed as the sponsored puke came to a close and an action replay of the most impressive entry came on the screen.

 “We should never have decided to watch this,” she said.
 “Too late now,” sighed Beckett.
 “At least things can’t get much worse than this,” she said, “I hope.” The phone began to ring just then and Ros jumped to her feet. “I’d better get that,” she said, lifting the receiver, “hello?”
 “Ros?” said her mother’s voice.
 “Mum? What’s up?”
 “Well, not Channing by the sound of it....”
 Ros screamed and slammed the receiver back down.
 “I hate Channing!” she cried.
 “Well done, Ros!” smiled Beckett, “I knew it would only be a matter of time before you saw things my way....”
 “Oh, shut up, Beckett,” snapped Ros.
 
*       *       *

 It was ten o’clock and the Friday Night Armistice team were handing over the reins.
 
 “Who’s presenting the next hour?” wondered Ed.
 “I don’t know,” said Beckett, “but it’s not the midday armistice people.”
 “Friday night armistice,” sighed Ros.
 “Whatever.”

+       +       +
 
Graham Norton bounded onto the stage. It was his turn to present the show now and the audience gave him a round of applause.
 
 “Hello, ladies and gentlemen!” he cried, “are you all wearing your balls?!”
 “Yes....” chanted the audience.
 “Ooh, I haven’t been this excited since someone showed me a new use for the mini-cam,” said Graham, “....are you all enjoying the show?”
 “Yes.....”
 “What about that poor boy on earlier?! Channing Hardy. He was a bit of a sad case, wasn’t he?! I bet someone out there is feeling very guilty tonight...! You know who you are, Ros Henderson......”

 
Graham continued to amuse his audience for a while until the time came for the obligatory reminding-people-what-they’re-here-for slot and a serious plea was made..... by Kochanski.....

 
“Hello,” Kochanski began, “My name’s Kristine Kochanski. I’m here to tell you about one of causes this humorous event is bringing awareness to. Being marooned in a spaceship, three million years into the future is a lot more common than you may think, and for those affected it can be traumatic and stressful at the best of times. Believe me - I know. It is a cause which most charities fail to acknowledge and therefore do not support, but Blue Bollocks Day is changing all that. Thanks to the money you donate, we can set up centers up and down the country to rehabilitate the unfortunate victims of Red Dwarf Syndrome and to reintegrate these worthless space-bums back into society. It’s easy for you to mock, sitting at home on your nice, comfy sofas with all your home comforts around you but just remember - not everyone is as lucky as you. Please, give generously.”

        +       +       +

 Kochanski’s plea ended a moment later, but a moment too late for Ed who had grown bored and left the room in search of Alex.
 
 Beckett glanced at the screen where a special Blue Balls version of Rex The Runt was beginning.

 “This section’s not really up to much so far,” he said.
 “Neither was the last one,” said Ros.
  “I hate Rex the Runt,” moaned Beckett.
 “Maybe we should call Ed,” said Ros, “he loves it. He recorded them all at Christmas.”
 “Nah,” sighed Beckett, “he won’t be that bothered.”

A few minutes passed before slow footsteps came into the room. Ros glanced around and saw Alex there in the doorway.
 
 “Feeling better?” asked Ros.
 “Until Steve comes back on, yes,” said Alex. Just as she was about to sit down, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she sighed and reached across to lift the receiver, “hello? Oh.... yes, she is.... sorry? OK, I’ll ask her.” She held the phone to her chest and turned to Ros. “It’s Jan again,” she said, “she wants to know if you can have the same effect on Wagner as you did on Channing’s bol......”
 “ARGHHHHH!” cried Ros.
 Alex bit her lip and returned the receiver to her ear.
 “Uh.... she says no,” she told Jan, “goodbye.”
 
 Ed re-entered just as Rex the Runt was finishing.
“Rex the Runt?!!” he cried, “oh, why didn’t anyone tell me?!!!”
 “Slipped our minds,” sighed Beckett.
 Ed sat down and crossed his arms.
 “I like Rex the Runt,” he mumbled.
 “We know,” chanted the others.
 Ed sighed.
 “I recorded all the others,” he moped.
 “We know....”
 Ed scowled.
 “I had a complete collection ‘til tonight.”
 “Ed, shut up!” cried Ros.

 Ed did just that. He narrowed his eyes, stuck out his bottom lip and moped in silence. One minute passed. Two. Three. And then he started to hum. He began so quietly it was almost imperceptible at first. Then he began to hum a little louder. It was the theme tune from Rex the Runt.

 “Ed, stop humming,” said Alex.
 So Ed stopped.
 And started to sing it instead.
 “Rex the Runt....” he began quietly, “Rex the Runt...... a do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do dog.......” He paused when his quiet rendition didn’t seem to get any response, then launched into another round; a little more loudly this time. “Rex the Runt..... Rex the RUNT..... a do-do-do-do-do-do-squiggly DOG.....” He grinned. “Hey! I remembered another word! Did you hear that?”
 “Yes,” chanted the others.

 Ed hesitated for a minute or two.

 “Rex the RUNT....”
 “Ed, shut UP!!!!” cried Alex.
 “I’m only singing!”
 “Well, don’t!”
 “You just don’t appreciate catchy music!” Ed told the others.
 “That’s the problem,” said Beckett, “WE do. You, on the other hand....”
 “Oh, please can we stop arguing about Rex the Runt and watch the damn TV?!” begged Ros.
 “OK,” muttered Ed.

 They turned back to the screen and watched for a while. As it got to half past ten, you could practically feel the tension in the studio.....

+       +       +

 “It’s time!” Graham said excitedly, “it’s time for our first total! Let’s see how much money we’ve raised so far tonight.....”
 
 He turned to a huge overhead screen with a big flourish and waited for the total to appear. Zero after zero appeared until it got to the final two digits and the first total was revealed to be fifty pounds. The studio audience leaped into wild applause until they realized how low the total actually was and burst into laughter instead.

 Graham laughed nervously.
 A total lower than his own IQ had not been part of the plan.

 “Ahh.... things have started off a little on the slow side....” he began, “....but - what’s this?!” A man was hastily pushed onto the stage with a big cheque. “It’s the nice man from Sainsbury’s!”

 The man walked across to him, perspiring visibly and trembling from head to toe.
 “Hello,” he said, “Over the last few weeks Sainsbury’s have been selling blue balls in aid of this event. I’m pleased to tell you that we’ve raised in this way five hundred pounds for Blue Bollocks Day!”
 Graham Norton started off the applause and the audience soon caught on.
 “Well, isn’t that good?!” he said, “that’ll help our total....”

+       +       +
 
 They continued to watch for a while until, at five to eleven, a corny title sequence began to introduce the first ‘Cheap Celebrities’.
 “They should have had Steve on this bit,” said Alex.
 “You never know,” said Ros, “they still might.”
 
+        +       +

 Onto the screen came two obnoxious, well-hated celebrities.

 “Hello! I’m Ant....”
 “And I’m Dec......”
 “And we’re here today to tell you to reach into your pocket and give.”
 “Give as much as you can.”
 “We have.”
 “Come on, it’s only once every year.”
 “We all have to dig deep sometime.”
 “So please give generously....”
 “...And help keep people, like us, that you really hate, off your TV screens for good.”
 “.... Hang on, I don’t think I like that bit....”

 +       +       +
 

 “Oh, I hate them!” shuddered Alex.
 “Who doesn’t?!” said Beckett.
Ros glanced at the clock.
 “What have we got now?” she asked.
 “It’s presenter changeover time,” said Beckett.
 “I wonder who we’ve got this time,” said Ros.
 “Please - NOT Steven Houghton, NOT Steven Houghton, NOT Steven Houghton....” Alex prayed.

+       +       +

 “And now,” a voice-over began, “please welcome your hosts for the third hour of bad taste..... all the way from Globelink News, it’s Sally Smedley and Henry Davenport!”
 
 The camera shot fell upon Sally, smiling a smile absolutely brimming with cheese.
 “Hel-lo , everybody!” she said, “welcome to our part of this little show. It’s so nice to be here and to take part, and all in the name of charity.....”
 “Good grief, woman,” Henry interrupted, “we’re not on the news now! You don’t have to talk like that!”
 “I don’t know what you mean, Henry,” Sally smiled.
 “Start swearing,” said Henry.
 Sally’s smile froze on her face while her forehead and eyes showed an instance of intense panic.
 “I’m sorry?”
 “Bollocks!” Henry cried happily.
 “Henry!” Sally cried in outrage.
 “Bollocks, balls and more bollocks!” cried Henry.
 “Will you please stop that?!” cried Sally.
 “Bol-locks......” Henry sang to the tune of Born Free.
 “WHEN you’ve QUITE finished....” cried Sally.

 Ros grinned and looked at Beckett.
 “I think I like this section better than the last one....” she said and giggled as the next ‘serious cause’ was introduced. “This show is just getting more and more bizarre.”
 “I think you were right about it being a piss-take,” said Beckett.
 

+       +       +
 
The screen was filled with images of football players.
 Footballers taking penalties.
 Footballers missing penalties.

 “Hello,” said a familiar voice, “I’m Gareth Southgate and I’d like to talk to you about one of the most serious causes Blue Bollocks Day is being held to support. England as a whole are a pretty good team. OK, so we don’t win that much but we come pretty damn close..... unless, of course, it ends in penalties...... We all remember that night in July 1996 when I made a mistake I’ve never managed to live down. I missed a penalty in the Euro ’96 semi-final against Germany. I went around for weeks afterwards, wearing a paper bag over my head and doing pizza commercials. It was the only way I could keep my dignity, or what I had left of it. You blue ballers can help us Footballers by digging deep and donating all your cash to this worthy cause.  Your money not only gives us the resources to teach the squad how to take penalties, but also enables us to look into the serious possibility of a ‘miss-penalty disease’, which affects most football players at sometime in their lives. If we could raise enough money to find a cure for this dreadful and shameful disease then we could triple our chance of winning the next world cup. A few quid for national glory - now, does that sound like a fair exchange to you?!”

“No,” said Beckett.
 “What the hell was all that disease stuff about?!” cried Ed, “I’ve never heard anything so stupid in all my life!”
 “What’s on next?” asked Alex.
 “Anything at all would be better than that last item,” said Beckett.
 

 
“Welcome back,” smiled Sally Smedley, “and thank you for that, Mr. Southgate, making a fool of yourself, and all in the name of charity.”
 “Bollocks!” cried Henry, swigging from a hip flask.
 “Quite,” said Sally.
 “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Henry slurred as the whiskey began to take effect, “Sally is going for a little ride...”
 “I beg your pardon?!” cried Sally.
 Henry smiled pleasantly at the camera.
 “Would you all like to see Sally swinging from the rafters?!” he asked.
 “Yes!” cried the audience.
 “Henry, you wouldn’t dare,” spat Sally.
 “Oh, wouldn’t I?!” smirked Henry as Sally was grabbed from behind by a couple of burly guards.
 “ARGHHH!” screamed Sally.
 Henry turned back to the camera.
 “What’s happening now,” he began, “is that Sally is going to be sedated, stripped and shaved from head to toe,” he smiled pleasantly, “....all in the name of charity, of course....”

+       +       +
 Time went by (and the book got edited....)

 Ros sighed in disappointment as she glanced at the clock.
 “The hour’s almost over!” she complained, “that’s a shame - I was enjoying them presenting.”
 “Do we know who’s on next?” Beckett asked.
 “Well, apart from this naked Sally, no we don’t,” said Ros.

 They watched in horrified silence as Sally was subjected to a few obscene proceedures, then was dragged off the stage as the Friday Night Armistice team returned.
 “Oh look!” cried Beckett, “it’s the Midday Armistice!”
 “Beckett, how many times do I have to tell you it’s Friday Night?!” cried Ros.
 “Actually, it’s Saturday morning now....” Beckett teased.
 “You’re hopeless,” said Ros.
 “Thank you,” said Beckett.
 
+       +       +

 “We’re back!” announced Armando, “and we’re ready for more disgusting fund raisers!”
 “Speaking of which,” David began, “I think it’s about time for another total....”

 The huge screens above them sprung grandly into action to reveal a grand total of five hundred and fifty pounds.....

 “Ahh,” said Armando, “it’s not really much better than how it was earlier. In fact, it’s no better to how it was earlier....”
 

 
“I feel so sorry for them, I’m almost considering making a pledge!” said Ros.
 “You’re not, are you?” cried Beckett.
 “Well, no.....” admitted Ros.
 “Rex the Runt...” sang Ed.
 Ros scowled.
 “You are really beginning to get on my nerves,” she said.

*       *       *

“Oh, no,” said Beckett, “it’s another of those ‘serious’ bits!”
 “Why do they have to have those, anyway?” mumbled Ed, “everyone goes out to make a cup of tea while they’re on.”
 

+       +       +

 The serious message began with a screen of white.
 The shot pulled out to reveal what the whiteness was:
 
 

\          \        .. ...::|-::..  ..     /           /
   \       _\  -:::- :: - :|:::::: - :: - /:::-_    /
      \-:::: - \:::  - :::::: | :::::: - :/:: - :::: /-
    -::::/\----::::/\--:::::/\:::::--/\::::----/\::::::-
 

 “ARGHHH!” screamed the audience in the background, while the voice of Damien Day began to narrate the film.

 “The Millennium Dome,” he began, “what was once seen as the ultimate creation to celebrate the achievements of a thousand years fast became a pain, an eye-sore and a public joke. More than that, it became pure torture to those with the misfortune to be exposed to it for an extended period of time. This report is the first major inquiry into the effects of the Dome on the public - welcome to Damien Day’s report on suffering caused by the existence of the Millennium Dome, which this ballsy event hopes to eliminate. Later, there’ll be interviews with distressed people who could not escape the Dome while on a Bugs tour, which some viewers may find distressing, but first let’s look at the success of the Dome since it’s opening. On it’s opening night, it’s estimated that five thousand people visited it. By the next day, when word had managed to get around that there was actually nothing inside it, this number had fallen to twelve. That’s even lower than Channing Hardy’s sperm-count since he was dumped by Ros Henderson with no real.....”

 
“AARGGHHHHHH!” screamed Ros.
 

“....reason,” Damien concluded. The camera shot changed to one of a person seen only in silhouette. “This woman, known only as Miranda 2001, has suffered terribly as a result of being exposed to the Dome,” said Damien, “she was once a carefree person, who had decided to take a few people around the London Docklands.”
 
Miranda 2001 began to speak.
 
“There was this programme once called Bugs,” she said, “I was a really big fan of it and I used to go looking for the filming locations up in London. Then one day I decided to do a Bugs Tour to show other fans all the buildings I’d found.... but the suddenly there was this.... new structure.....”

 “The Dome ruined what would otherwise have been a perfect day for Miranda and her friends,” Damien continued, “at every turn, there it was. It seemed to be following them. Haunting them. They couldn’t escape it. These people were the first victims of Dome Syndrome, a condition which many doctors still refuse to acknowledge the existence of but which has caused recurring nightmares and endless torment for those who suffer from it.”

 “Things only really started to happen to me after the second tour,” Miranda 2001 said quietly, “I mean, the Dome had become a standing joke, but after the second exposure... well, that’s when the sleepless nights began. I’d never slept well so I didn’t really think much of it at first but then whatever sleep I did have was filled with these.... nightmares. It felt like...” She trailed off and dabbed at her eye with a tissue.
 “Go on,” Damien said gently.
 “It felt like the Dome was coming to get me,” Miranda 2001 sobbed, “that it was alive and I couldn’t get away from it.....”

 “As you can see, the Dome has caused a lot of people a dreadful amount of suffering,” said Damien, “it should never have been built in the first place. Now all we can do is to destroy it before anyone else can become affected and to try to find help for those who already are. Your money can help us pay for the bulldozers to knock it down, or to arrange counsellors to help poor victims like Miranda 2001.” He gave the camera his very best ‘charity’ expression and said, “please help.”

+       +       +
 
“Well,” Ros sighed, “I don’t know about anyone else. But I’m certainly going to have nightmares about Domes tonight!”

 Beckett’s mouth fell open as he stared at the screen.
 “Ros,” he began urgently, “am I hallucinating or is Mr. Blobby really wearing some sexy underwear?!!”
 Ros glanced back at the TV.
 “Oh my God,” she cried, “if it is a hallucination then we must both be under the same delusion.....”

+       +       +
 
Mr. Blobby tap-danced onto the screen wearing black stockings and suspenders. He winked coquettishly at the camera and flashed a bit of leg as he flirtily indicated a banner baring the slogan, ‘Hello, Big Boy - Blobby’s Gonna Kiss It Better’.

 A bar of text ran across the bottom of the screen:
 “IF YOU LIKE WHAT YOU’RE WATCHING -  DONATE!!!!!”
 

 As much as Beckett really hated to admit it, Mr. Blobby did look pretty damn sexy.
 “Well - it’s the best thing they’ve come up with so far,” said Beckett.
 “He’s not wearing any bollocks,” frowned Ed.
 “Oh, someone’ll probably come and give him a good kneeing in a minute,” Ros said matter-of-factly.
 Beckett swallowed hard.
 “I’d like to give him a good kneeing,” he said, “and a bit more....”
 Ros frowned.
 “Beckett!” she cried, “are you getting horny over Mr. Blobby?!”
 “No,” lied Beckett.
 Ros began to frown even harder.
 “I just felt something stir in your trousers.....” she told him crossly.
 Beckett blushed and cleared his throat.
 “I was thinking of you,” he protested.
 “Hey, maybe Channing should watch this, eh, Ros?!,” sniggered Ed.

 Ros wasn’t in the mood for a slanging match and ignored him, turning her attention instead to the next batch of cheesy, cheap TV celebrities, desperate for a few seconds of airtime.

+       +       +
 “Hi there - I’m Mel...”
 “And I’m Sue....”
 “And we want you to give us all your money......”
 “.... give the CHARITY the money....”
 “All your money.”
 “As much as you can afford.”
 “No - all of it.”
 “What?”
 “They’ll feel better for it!”
 “Well, I suppose they could....”
 “So.... that’s about it, then - give us all your money and we’ll give you a load of old balls.”
 “Or something.”
 “Something.”

+       +       +

 The Friday Night Armistice presenters returned to the screen a moment later.
 

 “Well,” began Armando, “I think we should have another total, don’t you?!”
 The screens began to change and ‘Six Hundred Pounds’ was the new figure.
 “We got some more this time,” said Peter.
 “But not enough,” said Armando.
 “I think that Mr. Blobby bit got them calling in....” said David.
 “Let’s see if this will get them calling in even more,” said Armando. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and carefully unfolded it.
 “What have you got there?” asked Peter.
 “Our secret weapon,” said Armando, “an Internet interview with Steven Houghton!”
 
 The studio audience gasped in fear.

 “No, surely not,” cried David.
 “I’m afraid so,” said Armando, “I am going to start reading this interview and I am not going to stop until the total reaches one million pounds.” He pointed to a clock. “Let’s see how long it takes you.....” he cleared his throat and began to read; “Steven Houghton  - Talking dirty(ish) What do you find sexy? Steve says... ‘As far as women go, sexy is more of an aura. Beyond the initial look of someone, they need a sexy vibe. They don't have to be gorgeous, they just need to have something about them.....’”

 Half of the audience began an impromptu sponsored puke, while the pledge phone lines went into meltdown.

 “Ooh, they’re not coping too well....” said Peter.
 “Next question,” said Armando, “What's sexy about you then?  Steven says: ‘I really don't know, it's for other people to say, not me.’”
 “...Did I hear a twenty-five thousand pound bid from the audience?” said David, “I think I did....”
 “Good old Steve gets worse,” said Armando, “ What's your most appealing body part?  Steven: ‘I've had a lot of comments about my thighs - that they're big - but I don't think they're sexy. I can honestly say I don't know. I can tell you what your nicest body part is, ...’”
 As the clock approached forty seconds, a hooter went off and Armando stopped reading.
 “It looks like our mate Steven has done it!” said Peter, “We’ve raised over a million pounds in forty seconds!”
 “The audience are looking a bit off-colour though,” said David.
 “Don’t forget, ladies and gentlemen,” Armando began, “you just keep calling and pledging.... otherwise the Steve interview does an encore....”

 The Friday Night Armistice team ended their second slot a while later and the voice-over returned.
 “And now to bring a smile to all your charitable faces, it’s time for those children’s favourites Kirsten O’Brien and Otis the Aardvark!”

 The camera zoomed in on Kirsten’s impossibly large mouth as she gave a wild whoop of joy and waved her arms around like a mad woman.
 Not that she wasn’t one.

 “Hello!” she cried, “welcome to my hour!”
 “Kirsten! Kirsten!” cried Otis as he ‘walked’ across to her.
 “What is it, Otis?” asked Kirsten.
 “When are we going to meet that nice Mr. Channing?” asked Otis.
 Kirsten gave the audience a blast of her hideous laugh.
 “Oh, Otis, you are silly!” she said, “Channing was on earlier.”
 “He’s not a happy man,” squeaked Otis.
 “No, he’s not,” agreed Kirsten.
“Mr. Channing was very funny,” said Otis, “he can’t get it up!”
 “Can you get yours up?” asked Kirsten.
 “Of course I can,” said Otis.
 “Well go on then,” said Kirsten.
 Otis hung his head shyly.
 “I don’t want to....” he said.
 

 Kirsten and Otis disappeared from the screen soon after and another ‘serious’ cause came on.

+       +       +

 A glass shattered on the screen as the dreadful warblings of Celine Dion filled the room. Then  an image of Kryten appeared.
 “They say in space no one can hear you scream,” he said, “well - that doesn’t apply to Celine Dion. Believe me - we can still hear her three million years in the future!”
 Cat joined the image.
“She sucks, man!” he cried, “she’s killing my ears!”
 “This woman has caused more damage to the hearing of the general public than any other person in the history of the world,” said Kryten, “and unless we do something about it soon then people will be suffering for generations to come.”
 “Hasn’t  that woman got any style?!” cried Cat, “her hair looks like it’s been used to wipe dishes with!”
 “Hospitals were filled with attempted suicide victims in the weeks following the release of ‘My Heart Will Go On’,” Kryten continued, “the most nauseating song I’ve ever had the misfortune to endure. Well, unless you count Mr. Lister’s rendition of the Postman Pat theme tune....”
 “I hated that slushy Celine song so much I almost left a crease in my suit ,” Cat said in disgust.
 “Now, I don’t believe in capital punishment,” Kryten said solemnly, “oh, not at all. But I believe it is the only way to get rid of this vocal menace for good. Please, Madams and Sirs, dig deep and give to Blue Bollocks Day to help them bring back the death penalty in order to kill Celine Dion.”
 “It’s the only way,” said Cat.
 “Otherwise we may all end up driven completely round the bend,” said Kryten. He gave the camera a sincere but mechanical smile. “give us your money and we’ll end the warbling for good. You have our word.”
 

+       +       +
 

 Alex reached for the phone.

 “What are you doing?” frowned Ed.
 “Well, that last plea was too much to refuse,” said Alex, “I’m going to make a pledge!”

+       +       +

 Then just when they thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse - they did.

 “Miss Kirsten!!!” cried Otis.
 “What is it, Otis?” asked Kirsten.
 “You know who I like best in the world? Apart from Channing, I mean.”
 “Who?”
 “That lovely man we had on earlier,” said Otis, “Steve!”
 “Oh!” Said Kirsten, “Steven Hoot-en.”
 
 A cross Steve poked his head onto the stage.

 “It’s Houghton,” he corrected.
 Kirsten laughed and flapped her arms around.
 “Oh, you know me and names,” she said.
 “Steve! Steve!” cried Otis, but he was too late as Steve had already gone again. Otis looked down in disappointment but then brightened up again suddenly. “Ooh! I’ve got an idea!”
 “What?”
 “Since Steve is so wonderful....”
 “Yes....?”
 “And I’m so wonderful...”
 “Uh.... yeah.....”
 “Why don’t I do a Steve?!”

 Kirsten frowned.
 “’Do-a-Steve’?!!” she exclaimed.

 Otis grinned puppetly at the camera and progressed to the middle of the stage where he was promptly furnished with a microphone and a Steve wig. Music struck up and the audience went wild..... until they realized Otis was about to sing Wind Beneath My Wings. His snout bounced up and down to the music as he launched into the first verse and soon he became totally absorbed in his music, so absorbed in fact that he remained blissfully unaware of the jeering and hissing from the audience.

 
 “I don’t believe it,” mumbled Beckett, “we’ve finally found someone who’s a worse singer than Steve!”
 “Hey,” frowned Ed, “I don’t know why you’ve got it in for that guy! He’s got talent.”
 “What, Otis?!!!”
 “No! Steven!”
 

 “Did you ever kno-o-o-o-w,” Otis began as he entered the chorus, “that you’re my he-e-e-e-e-ro?!”
 “Oh, Otis, you are a silly aardvark,” cackled Kirsten.
  “And everything I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I  would like to be-e-e-e-e.....”

 Suddenly an alarm went off and the screen went blank. There was a blissful moment of silence, and a few seconds later Kirsten reappeared.

 “Heh heh, sorry ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “I know you were enjoying that but it seems some people weren’t and you’ve been withdrawing your pledges....”
 For a puppet, Otis managed to look pretty hurt.
 “How much was the total before?” he asked.
 “One million pounds.”
 “And how many pounds is it now?”
 “One.”

+       +       +
 
 “I guess that ended Otis’ promising new singing career then,” said Ed.
 “If it hadn’t ended by itself, I would have ended it by ripping his snout off,” said Beckett.
 “And I would have helped,” added Ros.

 They continued to watch the event, with the total rising again after Otis’ musical interlude had ended, until it was time for Otis and Kirsten to go and for Graham Norton to take their place.

+       +       +

 “Hel-lo,” he cried, “I’m back again.... and how can I possibly follow that last item?!!”
 “Get Channing on!” chanted the audience.
 Graham laughed.
 “He’s very popular, isn’t he?!” he began, fishing a sheet of paper out of his pocket, “let me read you some of the calls we’ve been getting about him tonight;...... OK, this is one from Hilda in Scotland, and she says, ‘I’d give his balls a good going over.’  Wouldn’t we all, Hilda?! And Victoria called from Portsmouth. Apparently, she’d like to ‘give Channing a helping hand.’ I think we all know where you’d like to put your hands, eh, Vicky?!”
 

 “This is sick!” cried Ros, “I’m not listening to this.”
 She made to stand up but Beckett grabbed her arm and held her back.
 “Oh, come on, Ros, he’ll leave it alone in a minute,” he said.
 Ros sighed but reluctantly sat down. It was two o’clock now and she was in no mood to argue.

 “....And if anyone else has any messages of support for Channing, and also any advice about his problem then please do call,” Graham continued, “you know our number by now - 0800 BLUE BALLS. Or you could send them to us by E-mail, and I’ve just heard news that a special Channing support web-page has been set up on our official site....” The audience applauded, obviously approving greatly of the idea. “If there’s enough demand, we may even show that great impotence film again later. In the meanwhile, here’s what we’ve got coming up in the next hour: first of all, we have a sponsored Noel-a-thon, featuring no less than two hundred Noel Edmonds lookalikes. We’ve got another serious message, and also we have another cheap celebrity telling you to part with your money, but first - some glowing radioactive hedgehogs wearing balls!”

+       +       +

 The team watched in horror as the glowing hedgehogs marched across the stage.

 “Well - this is certainly interesting,” said Beckett.
 “About as interesting as the contents of Channing’s trou.....” Ed began.
 “Ed!” cried Ros.
 
 The hedgehog section seemed to go on forever.

 “It’s not been a very good night, has it?” sighed Beckett.
 Ros glanced at the screen as the Noel-a-thon began.
 “...And I think it’s about to get worse still,” she said.

+       +       +

 Two hundred Noels stood on the stage in the studio. They were pretty convincing, as far as Noels go.
 “So what do you think of this then?!!” Graham exclaimed, “have you ever seen this many Noels in one place?!”
 “No....” chanted the audience.
 “And exciting news, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve actually broken the record for the most Noels in one place at any one time!”
 “Woooo!” cheered the audience.
 “...And not only that, but we’ve also broken the record for the most simultaneous viewers-jumping-out-of-windows-to-attempt-suicide-during-the-course-of-one-programme!”
 “Oooooh!”
 “And it looks like our Channing web page is about to break a record of its own,” said Graham, “it’s scored five thousand hits since it opened ten minutes ago!”
 “Yeah!”
 “... and we’ll be reading our some more of your messages for Channing in about twenty minutes, but right now, we’ve got to put on a serious film to change the subject quickly because Noel Edmonds is threatening to sue....”
 

 Thankfully all the Noels vanished just then and Postman Pat came on in his place.

 “Hello,” he smiled, “my name’s Pat. I’ve been a postman in Greendale for many years now and I’m beginning to get a bit worried. You see, we’re only small, movable figures and when it rains, sometimes the animators leave us outside. And we get wet. And we catch colds.”

 The shot changed to Wallace and Grommit.

 “We get the same treatment,” said Wallace, “it’s not fair, is it, Grommit?! Just because we’re not real people, humans think they can push us about.”

 A hand came down and moved Wallace’s position slightly, then a second hand appeared, bringing Morph onto the screen.

 “Blah blah blah blah bl-blah blah blah...” he said as subtitles appeared to translate his plastercine ramblings.
 “I’ve been trodden on, lost, squashed and abused by Tony Hart,” they said, “I can’t take much more of this.”

 “Equal rights for fictional characters!” announced Charlie Mouse as all the mice from the mouse organ ran across the screen.
 They were followed by the Clangers, muttering things like ‘Doo- Doo Doo-do do-doo Doo..........”  with a subtitled translation running along below.

 “All we’ve had to eat for years is bloody soup! I HATE soup!”
 “Why can’t we have something decent to eat?!”
 “And what’s the deal with that bloody blue string pudding?!!”

 “So please help us,” Postman Pat concluded, “help us small, fictional characters to help ourselves. Your donation counts.”

+       +       +

 Ros and Beckett exchanged a glance.

 “Well - I’m sure small fictional characters everywhere will be grateful for that plea,” said Beckett.
 “I think I must be hallucinating through exhaustion,” Ros decided. The phone rang and she glanced at it suspiciously.  “You get it this time - it’s only going to be someone else telling me about Channing.”
 Beckett sighed but got up and answered the call.
 “Hello?”
 “Beckett?!”
 “Jan?!! Are you alright?!”
 “Oh, Beckett, I’m so sorry for disturbing you but.... I didn’t know what else to do....”
 “Jan, it’s OK. Now, calm down and tell me what’s the matter.”
 Beckett heard Jan gasping for breath on the line and became quite concerned until she explained,
 “I saw all those Noels on the screen and I was quite overwhelmed!”
 Beckett frowned.
 “Is that it?!”
 “Don’t you realize what a shock it was for me?!” sobbed Jan, “oh, my heart is pounding.....”
 “Jan - I don’t get what I’m supposed to do about this,” said Beckett.
 “Comfort me, be there for me!”
 “Why?!”
 “Because I’ve just had a very nasty experience!”
 “Well so did the rest of the country!”
 “I was so shocked I passed out,” said Jan, “what if it happens again?!!”
 Beckett sighed.
 “Take two aspirins and see your local Noel exterminator in the morning,” said Beckett, “good night, Jan.”

*       *       *

 They watched the TV as another cheap celebrity appeared to deliver their plea.

+       +       +

 “Hello. My name’s Steven Houghton. You probably know that already, though, from one of my many television roles like in London’s Burning or Bugs.... or..... or Celebrity Stars In Their Eyes. Which I won, by the way. And I’ve got really great hair. So why don’t you donate some money? And if you don’t then maybe I’ll sing again.”

+       +       +

 The phone lines went crazy with donations at that threat until Steve reappeared to say he’d meant to say that he’d sing if people did donate, and the total plummeted again as people retracted their pledges.

 
 Graham Norton returned.

 “We’ve only got fifteen minutes left of this hour,” he said, “and I did promise you some more Channing messages..... so here they are! These are some from our website:” he held out a sheet of paper, “Tracey from South Wales has sent him a list of Twelve Different Ways To Get It Up, thank you very much Tracey. We’ll pass that on to him. Isabel from Brighton has offered to wear a long, black wig for him if he thinks it would help, and Madonna has offered to put on a benefit concert for him. How about that ladies and gentlemen?!!” He paused and grinned while the audience went wild. “I should think Ros Henderson is feeling pretty low right about now....”
 

 Ros folded her arms.
 “I’m calling the ITC and making a complaint about this,” she snapped.
 

 “And now we’re going to hear from some of the lovely ladies who have phoned in,” Graham continued, “first we have Christa on the line. Is that right? Christa, love, are you there?!”
 “Yes, I’m here,” Christa’s voice came loud and clear.
 “And you’ve got a message for Channing, have you?”
 “Well, yes and no,” said Christa, “more a complaint about Ros Henderson, actually....”

 Ros leapt to her feet.
 “The bitch!” she screamed.
 Beckett held her back.
 “Ros, calm down.”
 

 “A complaint?” said Graham, Well, this could be interesting. Go ahead.”
 “Well, I once went out with one of her ex’s,” said Christa, “and he never did anything with me, so I’m wondering if she rendered him incapable, too......”
 

 Beckett jumped up.
 “The bitch!” he cried.
 “Who needs to calm down now?!” snapped Ros.
 

 “Well, thank you for that call, Christa,” said Graham, “it would be interesting to hear from some of Ros’ ex-lovers and see if she really is the cause of impotence....”
 

 Beckett and Ros yelled at the TV screen to no avail for a while and both sulked until the hour was over.
 “I think bloody Norton fancies Channing,” Beckett mumbled.
 “Who’s on next?” asked Ed.
 “I haven’t got a clue,” said Beckett.
 “Oh, looks like it’s Damien,” said Ros.

 Sure enough, Damien Day came onto the screen as Graham left the stage. The audience seemed to like Damien and gave him a loud cheer and a big round of applause.
 “Oh, thank you, thank you,” he beamed, thank you very much! You’re too kind!”
 

 “Well, he’s right about that,” said Ros.
 “I hate Damien,” mumbled Alex, “remember what he was like about the ‘Three’ kidnappings?!”
 “As though I could forget,” said Beckett.
 “He did a pretty good serious message earlier, though,” said Ros, “something about the Millennium Dome....”
 
 

 Ten minutes into Damien’s hour, he introduced some special guests.

 “Ladies and gentlemen, not only do we have a very talented man here to perform a selection of illusions, he is also one of Ros Henderson’s ex-lovers, so we’re truly honoured! Please welcome Jonathan Creek and his....glamourous? assistant, Maddy Magellan!”
 
 Jonathan Creek walked nervously onto the stage. He was more used to being behind the scenes of magic than performing the tricks himself, but - well, this was for charity - so how could he refuse?! Maddy followed him, looking less than pleased at being coerced into wearing some balls and taking part in the event. They were greeted by Damien, who sensed a story.

 “So, Jonathan - you used to go out with Ros Henderson?” he asked.

 Jonathan leaned nervously toward the microphone.

 “I did.”
 “And you’ve heard what happened to poor Channing Hardy?”
 “Yes,” said Jonathan, “and it happened to me, too.”

 The audience gasped and muttered their condolences for Jonathan.

 “So you can’t perform any more?” asked Damien.
 “Not since the day I found out she was three-timing me,” said Jonathan.

 The audience could barely express their anger at the cruel being who is Ros Henderson, and mumbled busily  about how ‘brave’ Jonathan was.

 “And you’ve tried to overcome this problem how?” asked Damien.
 “Every way I could, but nothing works,” Jonathan said sadly.
 Maddy looked at him in disgust.
 “You mean you’re impotent?!” she cried.
 Jonathan looked hurt.
 “It’s not funny,” he said.

 Damien turned to the camera.

 “The legacy of Ros Henderson’s extraordinary effect on men goes on,” he said, “so while I go away to contemplate how lucky I am to have never gone out with her, I’ll leave you with Jonathan and Maddy, performing their selection of special Blue tricks!”

+       +       +

 Ros was practically in tears.

 “How can they do this to me?!!” she cried, “how could Jonathan do this?!”
 “Just ignore them, Ros,” Beckett told her gently, “by tomorrow, no one will even remember they’ve been talking about you.”
 “But this isn’t fair!” Ros cried.
 When the phone rang, Ed was the closest to it so he answered the call.
 “Hello?..... yes, she is..... she’s not really in the best mood, no.......... can I take a message? OK.... OK, I will. Bye, Jan.”
 Ros eyed Ed suspiciously as he hung up.
 “What did she want?”
 Ed tried hard to stifle a snigger as he replied,
 “She wants to know if the rumours are true or whether it’s all a load of bol.....”
 “Ed!”

+       +       +

 “And for our next and final trick,” Jonathan said as his magic show progressed, “sawing a Houghton in half.”

 The audience whooped with joy as Steve was dragged onto the stage, kicking and screaming.

 “I don’t wanna go in the box,” he wailed as a couple of men gripped him firmly and pushed him into the magician’s chest.
 “Well, you’re going to,” said Maddy, “it’s all in the name of charity, you know.”
 She sat on his face while he was strapped down and the trick began.

 One saw went in.
 A second followed.

 For one glorious moment, the studio audience thought the trick had gone wrong and Steve had died, but then he started whimpering and everyone sighed with the disappointment that he was still alive.

 “Fear not,” Jonathan said as the blades were removed and Steve was released from the box, “the trick isn’t quite over yet. The second part of the trick is making a Steve disappear!”
 He threw a sheet of material over Steve’s head and the Houghton seemed to disappear into thin air. The audience went wild again and gave Jonathan Creek a standing ovation as he left the stage.

 Damien himself was applauding.
 “Thank you, Jonathan and Maddy for that great performance,” he said, “and also thank you to the now invisible Steven Hoot-en.”
 “It’s HOUGHton.....” a ghostly voice came from somewhere.

 Within seconds, the donations total had gone through the roof.......

+       +       +

 
 Ros and Beckett made a quick get-away while Ed and Alex watched ‘Damien’s Guide To Getting Injured’, but returned a little later to find the show no better.

 “You’re just in time for a ‘special’ edition of the lottery,” sighed Ed, “where they ‘let the blue balls decide....’.”
 
+       +       +

 Brian Connelly was unfortunately the presenter for the show and had been making a hell of a lot of ball-related jokes which Ros and Beckett had been fortunate enough to avoid. What they hadn’t managed to avoid, however, was the ‘decision-riding-on-the-bonus-ball’ segment.
 “We’ve got a dilemma to solve for two men who would like our balls to end their argument,” said Brian. Other than a few smutty laughs, his comment didn’t get much of a response, so he glossed over that and went instead to the dilemma....
 

 “Hello. I’m Gary.”
 “And I’m Tony.”
 “And we’ve got a problem.”
 “Tell ‘em, Gary.”
 “OK, OK, I’m getting to it.”
 “Go on, mate.”
 “Alright. You see, Tony’s got a cheese collection.”
 “It’s really great.”
 “But it doesn’t smell so good.”
 “It smells fine.”
 “You only think that because your socks mask some of the smell....”
 “Hey! What’s wrong with my socks?!”
 “You can’t tell them apart from the cheese collection!”
 Tony scowled.
 “Gary wants me to get rid of my cheese collection,” he mumbled crossly.
 “It’s him or the cheese, I’m afraid.”
 “But we’re great mates!”
 “We were until the cheese got in the way....”
 “I think Gary should learn to accept my cheese for what it is.”
 “But some of it’s ten years old!”
 “Dorothy’s older....”
 “We’re not talking about Dorothy!”
 “...and she smells worse, too....”
 “So anyway, I want Tony to get rid of his cheeses.”
 “And I want to keep them.”
 “Let the balls decide tonight.”
 

 Brian came back on, completely bemused by the dilemma.

 “Uh.... so.... does the cheese stay or not? Earlier, Gary and Tony agreed that an even number as tonight’s bonus will mean the cheese can stay, but an odd number means it will be gone for good! And remember: the balls decide...... There’s not long for us to wait to find out one way or another, though because it’s time for the draw!”
 

 The team fished out their lottery tickets as the draw music struck up and the balls dropped....
 “Do you feel lucky?” asked Ros.
 “Nope,” said Ed.

 “And the first number out tonight...... twelve......”

 “I’ve got that one,” mumbled Beckett.
 
 “.... second number..... forty-six.....”
 
 “I’ve got that one, too,” said Beckett.

 “.... third out tonight..... number three.....”

 “.... and that one!”

 “....the fourth ball..... thirty-nine....”
 
 “I’ve got that one! Ros, I’ve got that one! I’ve got four!”

 “Fifth one out tonight...... fourteen....”

 “Ros! I’ve got that one!”
 “Are you kidding?”
 “No!”

 “... and last out tonight, number ten”

 “I’ve done it, Ros! We’ve won!”
 “Nick?!”
 “We’ve WON, Ros! We’ve won the lottery! We’re rich!”

 The office exploded into celebration as the bonus number was drawn.

 “And the bonus tonight.... remember, there’s a lot of cheese riding on this..... It’s twenty-five! It’s an odd number!”

 “Tony’s lost his cheese,” said Alex.
 “Who gives a bloody damn?!” cried Beckett, “I’ve won the lottery!”

 “.... and if you’re our lucky lottery winner tonight, then you’ll be pleased to know you’ve won that cheese collection,” said Brian.

 Beckett froze.
 “I’ve what......?!!”
 

 “...After all, this is for charity,” said Brian, “you didn’t really think you were going to get any money did you?!! No, all our prizes won tonight are objects donated by the public, and our lucky jackpot winners will be sharing that cheese out amongst them....”
 The camera shot cut to one of Tony in tears as the lottery ended.

+       +       +

 Beckett was also in tears.
 
 “A cheese collection,” he wailed, “a horrible, stinky, cheese collection......”
 Ros wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
 “There, there,” she said quietly, “it was nice while it lasted....”
 “But I should be rich!” wailed Beckett.

+       +       +
 
 Damien returned.

 “We’re getting quite a good response to this Channing Hardy thing,” he said, “and I believe we have another of Ros’ ex-lovers on the line. Hello?”
 “Hello...?!!”
 “Who’s this?”
 “This is Roland Blatty.”
 “How long have you known Ros?”
 “Oh, years. We were at college together...”
 “And how long were you going out for?”
 “A year.”
 “A year. So you’d have been pretty close  then....?”
 “Yes.”
 “Did you ever sleep with her?”
 “Many, many times.”
 “Was it good?”
 “She was the best!”
 “So what happened?
 “She dumped me,” sniffed Roland, “I... I was devastated.”
 “And how’s your performance now?”
 “Non existent,” said Roland, “I haven’t managed it since.... well, since the last time I was with her.”
 “With Ros?”
 “Who else?!!”
 

 Ros buried her head under a cushion.
 “I want to die,” she decided.
 

 “Thank you for your call, Roland,” said Damien, “and don’t worry - we’ll track down this heartless monster and make her pay!” He smiled pleasantly at the camera. “But before we victimize that woman any more, let’s have a look at that total so far.....” He glanced up at the overhead screen and digits appeared, boasting of a total exceeding 2 million pounds. “...I think we have Jonathan Creek to thank for that with his magical disappearing Hoot-en trick!”

 “It’s HOUGHton.....” the ghostly voice insisted.

 “Just before the end of my hour,” said Damien, “we have time for another of our Cheap Celebrity slots!”
 “Yay!” cheered the audience.
 “...and then the Friday Night Armistice team will be back to co-present the final hour of the show with Graham Norton,” said Damien, “who of course will be bringing you some more calls of support for Channing, a very special competition and the round-up of the night’s highlights, but first.... here’s that Cheap Celebrity slot I promised you.”
 

 ‘Tragedy’ blared out.

 “Hi! We’re Steps!”
 “That group of zero talent that you just love to hate!”
 “And if you think our music’s bad, then pray you never experience our personalities!”
 “Us girls have weird hair...”
 “Especially me, ‘cos I look more like a bloke....”
 “And us men look like little boys who should still wear nappies....”
 “How we got a record contract, we’ll never know....”
 “....But we did, and now you’re never gonna get rid of us!”
 “It’s your own fault for buying the records....”
 “But anyway - enough about us. Donate your money.”
 “Blue Bollocks needs it.”
 “.... and we need a kick in the bollocks.”

+       +       +

 Beckett scowled as Steps’s plea came to an end.

 “Thank God for that,’ he mumbled, “I hate them!”
 “Perhaps the ‘bringing-back-the-death-penalty’ thing can be used for Steps as well as Celine Dion,” suggested Alex.
 “I wish they’d bring that Steven Houghton back on,” said Ed.
 “Shut up, Ed,” snapped the rest of the team.

 They watched in silence for a few minutes as the last hour got underway.

 “OK, I give up,” Beckett said eventually.
 Ros frowned.
 “Give up with what?”
 “Why Graham Norton has joined the Midday Armistice,” said Beckett.
 Ros scowled.
 “Beckett, any more comments about armistices at the wrong time of day and I’ll do to you what I once did to Channing......” she warned.
 
+       +       +

 They vaguely watched a very half-hearted performance on the TV by ‘Spice Girls - The Next Generation’, including Serious Spice, Monotonous Spice, Flappy Under-arm-hair spice and Toilet Cleaner Spice, and also Mark Lamarr, which was a bit of a mistake. He’d been accidentally recruited for a nature series entitled ‘Llamas And You’ when a BBC executive had misread his name and he had then found himself lost in the corridors of Television Center until he’d found the Spice Girls and had mistakenly thought they might lead him to safety. Instead, of course, they’d led him on-stage.

 Just as they were coming to the end of the third lousy chorus of “Baby, You Can Disinfect My Lavatory Bowl Anytime (but not with those marigolds)”, the real Spice Girls gunned them down and cut their act short rather abruptly.

 Armando came on stage as the pistol smoke died down and the last of the dead bodies were removed.

 “Wow... what an explosive item that was. And how can we possibly follow that up, other than with some Channing messages!”
 
 The audience clapped their little hearts out as a ten-foot square banner of a grinning Channing Hardy was dropped over the back of the stage.

 “We’ve been getting a lot of naughty suggestions,” said Graham, “Melissa from London wants to know, Channing, do you like hot chocolate? Because at this moment, she’s covered in chocolate and she’s hot for you! Caroline the hairdresser from Crawley would like to try a few massage techniques to try to relax you, Channing, and a lovely young lady from up North says she would love  to see you in those tight leather pants, and has offered to be your new girlfriend - ‘one who’ll never dump you’. Ahhh, isn’t that sweet?!”

 “Ahhhh,” agreed the audience.

 “And I believe we have another of Ros’ ex-boyfriends on the line,” said Armando, “hello? Is that Robin?”
 “Y - yes,” said a hesitant voice.
 “There’s no need to be nervous, Robin,” said Armando, “we’re all here to help you.”
 “How long were you seeing Ros for?” asked Graham.
 “I only went out with her once,” Robin sobbed, "when we were still at school."
 “You went out once?”
 “Yes.”
 “Did you..... get very far?”
 “What, you mean get intimate?”
 “Yes.”
 “No,” said Robin, “she wouldn’t even let me kiss her properly. I only got a peck on the cheek and she said she didn’t want to see me again.... but from that day to this I haven’t been able to perform.”
 “Have you any idea why this could be?” asked Armando.
 “Y - yes,” said Robin, ‘because Ros is perfect and every time I see another woman it... it’s just a turn off.”
 “Because they’re not as perfect as Ros?”
 “Exactly.”
 “Well, thank you for calling in, Robin,” said Armando.
 “Our thoughts are with you,” added Graham.
 

  “I just can’t believe this!” cried Ros, “it’s getting worse!” the phone rang and Ros snatched it up furiously, “Hello?!!!”
 “Ros? It’s me - Dave.”
 “Oh... Dave,” Ros sighed, “what are you doing calling me?!”
 “Well,” Dave began, “I’ve been watching this Balls thing and I’ve been thinking..... from what I’ve seen, it’s a good thing I dumped you and not the other way round, or now I wouldn’t be able to.....”
 “Shut UP!” screamed Ros as the phone found itself thrust back down.
 
 

 “Let’s leave this subject for now and go onto the part you’ve all been waiting for,” said Armando, ‘the result of the raffle several leading high-street chains have been running for us.”
 

 “I actually bought a ticket for that,” snapped Ros, “more fool me.”
 “Come on, Ros, “Beckett said gently, “you weren’t to know how the programme would turn out.”
 

 “Here’s what we’re going to do: We’re going to pick out five tickets. If we pick out the ticket with your number on it then you’ve definitely won a prize. We’ll then pick out a number for each ticket and the owner of the ticket wins the corresponding prize. Clear?”
 “No.....”
 “Tough.”
 
 Graham Norton thrust his hand into the huge tombola.

 “And the first number is two-five-six....” he said, “.....and the second..... three-ten.  Third number..... eight- ten..... ticket number four..... nine-two-four...”
 

 “But that’s me!” cried Ros, “I’ve won a prize!”
 “At least it won’t be a cheese collection,” said Beckett.
 
 “... and the last number.... two-thirteen,” Graham concluded.
 “And would you believe it,” laughed Armando, “one of our lucky winners is Ros Henderson!”
 “....Boo.....”, chanted the audience.
 “But we mustn’t persecute her for that,” said Graham, “she’s won a prize fair and square.”
 “But what could that prize be?!” said Armando, “let’s match up the winners with their winnings!”
 Graham put his hand into a hat and pulled out a piece of paper.
 “Ticket number two-five-six has won prize number three....”
 “Which is a gold watch and cufflinks set!” said Armando.
 Graham pulled out another piece of paper while the audience ooh-ed and ahh-ed.
 “Ticket number three-ten has scooped prize number five....”
 “....Which is this pocket calculator,” said Armando.
 

     “These prizes are actually pretty decent,” Ros said in surprise.
 “This isn’t fair,” scowled Beckett, “you’re in line for some wonderful prize and all I get is a moldy ball of cheese....”
 

 “.... Ticket number eight-ten has won prize number.... two,” said Graham.
 “.... A personal stereo and a ‘Now 2359’ CD,” said Armando.
 “Ticket Nine-two-four,” Graham continued, “... that’s Ros Henderson’s ticket..... has won.... prize number one! The grand prize!!!!”

 A fanfare struck up and the crowd went wild.

 “Well done, Ros,” said Armando, “you’ve won this attractive, expensive, state-of-the-art clock  that cuts people’s heads off!”

 
 Ros prayed she had misheard.
 She prayed harder than she ever had before in her life.
 “No,” she whispered, “they can’t mean that. It’s got to be a mistake....”
 

 Graham cheered as the clock was brought onto the stage.

 “Look, you put your head in here....” he demonstrated with a melon, “and the little men come around here...... and the blade comes down here...... and your head falls here......”
 
 

 Ros could feel her stomach churning.
 “No...” she whispered, “please tell me I haven’t just won that sick object....”
 “Ros? Are you OK?” frowned Beckett, “you look a little......”
 “Horrified?!”
 “Pale.”
 Ros swallowed hard.
 “You really blame me for that after seeing what I’ve won?!” she cried. She burst into tears against Beckett’s shoulder. “I don’t want to live any more!!!!”
 

 “And finally, ticket two-thirteen has won this insignificant, 58 inch, 3D multi surround-sound television with teletext, a built-in video and the ability to make really great sandwiches,” Graham concluded as the final prize was drawn.
 “Well done to all our prize winners,” said Armando, “and rest assured, your prizes will be winging their way to you in the very near future....”
 Somehow, he managed to make that sound like a threat.
 “But in the meanwhile,” said Graham, “we’ve got another one of those cheap celebrities, and I think you’re going to like this one.....”
 
 

 The screen was filled with flowers.

 “Hello, I’m Alan Titchmarsh and I’m here to lend my support to Blue Bollocks day. I don’t actually support any of the stupid, pathetic causes, but I support the idea of giving pathetic, desperate celebrities like me the chance to get on TV again when the work has dried up a bit, so here I am. Donate all your money and we’ll go and waste it on making horrible gardens out of ones which were really quite nice....”

+       +       +
 

 “Well,” sighed Armando, “it’s nearly the last half hour of the show.”
 “Ahh.....”, the audience said in disappointment.
 “But don’t be sad,” said Graham, “it’s been a great night.”
 “We’ve raised a lot of money,” said Armando, “we’ve discovered what it’s like to be Channing Hardy and we’ve seen the disappearance of Steven Hoot-en!”
 “It’s HOUGHton....” Steve’s ghostly voice announced as his essence swirled around and finally reformed on the stage.

 The audience groaned in disappointment and the total immediately halved.

 Armando sighed.
 “Next time, there’s going to be a rule against withdrawing pledges,” he mumbled.

 
+       +       +

 Graham and the Friday Night Armistice team seemed to become depressed shortly afterwards.

 “With just twenty minutes left of the evening, it’s time to recap the highlights,” said Armando.
 “And believe me, it was very hard to narrow them down,” said Peter.
 “Why?” asked Graham, “because there were so many?”
 “Err.... no,” said Peter.
 “So sit back and enjoy this little compilation,” said Armando, “remember - we couldn’t have done it all without you....”

 The compilation began, reminding the viewers about all the events they’d really hoped they could be allowed to forget........
“Are you ready for fun?!”
 “Yes!”
 “And are you going to get easily offended...?!”
 “No!”
 “What do we do if we see someone without their bollocks...?!”
 “Give ‘em a good kneeing!”
 

 “We don’t have to watch the highlights, do we?!” begged Beckett.
 Ros sighed.
 “No,” she said, “I suppose not. I could do with a hot chocolate. Coming, Nick?”
 “Anything to get me out of recapped Balls,” said Beckett.

 Ros took his hand and led him out while the others watched the mish-mash of clips.
 

“As we said earlier, tonight’s event has a very serious point behind it, supporting the causes that most charity events sweep under the carpet, like impotence for example......”
“I was capable once....very capable. But then I was.... dumped by someone I loved very much. By a beautiful woman with.... with long, black, flowing hair..... incredible intelligence..... a gorgeous smile.....”
“.......When are we going to meet that nice Mr. Channing?”
 “Oh, Otis, you are silly! Channing was on earlier.......”
“Hel-lo, I’m back again.... and how can I possibly follow that last item?!!”
 “Get Channing on!......”
 

 Ros made the hot chocolate and sat down at the kitchen table with Beckett.
 
 “It’s not been your night, has it?” Beckett said sympathetically, seeing the downcast expression on her face.
 “I’m sorry if I seem miserable,” she apologized, “it’s just wound me up today. All that Channing stuff..... well, it brought back a lot of bad memories. And as for winning that clock.....”
 “Just about did you in, huh?” said Beckett.
 “Did me in? I’m on the verge of doing someone else in with it!” Ros decided.
 Beckett reached out and took her hands.
 “Never mind, Ros,” he sighed, “it’s nearly over now.”
 “I’ll be teased for weeks,” Ros said sadly.
 “No you won’t,” said Beckett, “I’ll make sure of that.”
 “How?”
 “Anyone who tries to tease you,” Beckett began, “will get a good kneeing.”
 Ros smiled.
“And they say romance is dead.....,” she teased.
 
*       *       *
 
The highlights were still going on when they returned to the others a few minutes later, concluding with the entire impotence film being shown again.

+       +       +

 “We’ve only got a few minutes left,” said Armando, “but before we go, we’ve got someone very special on the phone.....”
 “Hello,” said Graham, “who’s this?”
 “It’s Channing Hardy!” came a voice.

 The audience lost control of their bodily functions in sheer excitement.
 
 “Channing!!!” cried Armando, “our main man!”
 “How are you, Channing?” asked Graham.
 “I’m well,” said Channing, “all the better for your support on here tonight.”
 “Ahhhh,” smiled Graham, “That’s what we like to hear.
 “I just wanted to thank every single one of you for your kind messages and for the overwhelming response my webpage has received,” said Channing, “it’s nice to know that some of you do still care, even if Ros Henderson doesn’t......”
 “Ahhhh,” the audience chanted again.
 “That’s quite alright, Channing,” said Graham.
 “Do you think this has helped you overcome your.... problem in any way?” asked Armando.
 Channing sniffed sadly.
 “No,” he said, “not yet. But I’m not going to give up.”
 The audience applauded Channing’s brave front.
 “We’ve just heard some rather encouraging news, actually, Channing,” said Graham, “a kind-hearted counselor has called and announced she’s going to set up a support group for all those of you who have been dumped by Ros Henderson, to help you get your dignity back.”
 The audience cheered and Channing became tearful.
 “Oh, thank you so much, everyone,” he sniffed, “I’d thought I was alone until tonight but now I feel so much better.”
 “Well, lets just hope some of the funds we’ve raised tonight will be able to find a cure for this terrible Ros Henderson Syndrome,” said Armando, “and thank you for calling in, Channing.”
 “No problem at all,” Channing said amiably.
 “That’s Channing Hardy, ladies and gentlemen!” cried Graham.

 The audience cheered him one last time and all the guests from the whole evening crowded onto the stage, including the recently reappeared Steven Houghton.

 “But now, sadly, it’s time to say good-bye,” said Armando.
 “Ohhhhh,”  the audience groaned.
 “....And what better way to end the evening than with a rousing chorus of our official song, ‘Balls!’, so please feel free to join in with us and sing along,” concluded Armando.

 The music struck up and the stage-full of people joined Steve in singing the rude monstrosity which somehow passed for a piece of music.

+       +       +

 “Oh, what?!!!” cried Beckett.
 “How can they end the show with this?!” Cried Alex.
 “How could they have Channing on?!!” said Ros.
 “Good point,” said Alex.

 They covered their ears and prayed that the song was about to finish. It finally did, a little earlier than expected when the screen went blank and a voice came on, announcing,
 

 “Regrettably, ladies and gentlemen, due to that last item, the final total of this evening had reached zero......”

 
 The team exchanged glances.
 “So that’s it?!” cried Ros.
 “Out with a fizzle,” frowned Beckett.
 “And that’s the show over with,” said Alex, “well, congratulations, BBC2, you have officially created the single biggest charity flop in the world!”
 “So what do we do now?!” cried Beckett, “go to bed? Call and make a complaint?!!”
 “Personally, I favour the latter of the two,” said Ros.

 “And now,” said the voice on the TV, “in a change to our published programme, we have an episode of that great series, ‘Crime Traveller’.”

 “Oh hell,” mumbled Ed, “I think the ‘getting bored to tears’ option might be more like it....”
 “Or the ‘let’s do ourselves in’ one,” said Alex.

 The doorbell rang just then and Ros jumped a mile.
 “Oh no,” she cried, “that’ll be someone else here to have a go at me!”
 Beckett put his arm around her shoulders.
 “I’ll get it,” he said.

 Silence fell as he left the room and went to answer the door.

 “I’ve never felt such a let-down in all my life,” said Alex, “as that show just gave me.”
 “Yeah,” agreed Ed, “how could they cut off the end of that song?!!”

 The others looked at him incredulously.

  “Ed, you’re sad,” said Alex.
 “And you’re being a pain,” snapped Ed.
 Alex looked at him with angry eyes, stood up in silence and marched out the room, where she practically collided with Beckett. She then screamed in horror......

 “What’s wrong?” asked Ros.
 “It’s hideous!” cried Alex’s voice.
 “Thanks a lot,” mumbled Beckett.
 “No, not you, - IT!” said Alex.

 Beckett stepped into the room to show Ros what had been at the door.
 
 “Err... Ros,” he began sheepishly, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but.... your clock has arrived rather sooner than expected......” he paused, “and Damien Day was good enough to deliver it himself.....”

 He struggled in with the huge object and dumped it on the table in the middle of the room.

 Ros looked at it.
 It ‘looked’ back at her.

 “I swear it’s eyeing my neck up for size,” she whispered.
 “Hmmm, this looks interesting,” said Ed.
 “Well, since you’re such a great mate,” Ros began,  “you can keep it.”
 “I can?!!” cried Ed, “oh, wow, you’re the best, Ros!”
 “Glad someone thinks so,” mumbled Ros, annoyed with Ed’s increasingly false tone.
 “Right,” said Ed, “now, let’s see how this works..... I think I should lean over this... and.....”
 “Err, Ed.....” Ros began.

 There was a soft thud as the clock cut off something rather unfortunate, and Ed found himself being rushed to hospital........

*       *       *

 “Hey, Ros,” Damien commented as they waved off the ambulance, “I know you like causing impotence, but isn’t that a bit extreme?!!

 Ros glared at Damien.
 Damien swallowed hard.
 
 “You bastard,” Ros hissed, “I’ve put up with far too much tonight already but I think you’ve just over-stepped the mark......”
 “Uh, Ros..... I’m sorry,” he protested, “come on, Ros, put the clock down..... Ros? Ros, come on.....”
 “Hold on to your balls, Damien,” snapped Ros, “you’ve sown your last wild seed.......”
 

THE END......
Damien Hopes.....