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Laurence Inman’s Blog

SNOT FUNNY

07-05-2009

A new career beckons for Laurance Inman. He suddenly fancies himself as the Max Clifford of the Midlands.

Thursday.
Decided to embark on a new career. I am going to be a publicist. Must think of a name, a logo and a mission slogan.

Friday.
Agonised over the name for some minutes before settling on Inman Publicity. The logo is rather clever. I went for the strictly emblematic – a fat red finger pointing at a copy of The Sun, with a pile of filthy tenners showering down in the background. I’m still working on the slogan. ‘Working together for money.’ ‘It’s all for the money.’ ‘Stuff your trousers with money – you’ll feel much warmer and nicer.’ ‘Money money money.’ ‘The winner takes it all.’ ‘Fernando.’ ‘Dancing queen.’ I just can’t choose.

Saturday.
Decided to contact all my media and journo mates (the Stirrer himself) to sort out the lie of the land. I give him the general outline of my overplan and profit forecast for the next two quarters.
‘So, mate, what do you think ? Adrian ? Are you all right ? What’s so funny ? Eh ? Adrian.....’

Sunday.
Never underestimate the power of the word of the mouth.
My first punter fetches up at my front door. I can’t tell you his name because he hasn’t paid yet.
‘I’ve had a bit of a runny nose,’ he says.
‘Sit down, Mr Mendacity, and tell me the whole story.’
‘Call me Reg. It started yesterday with a feeling of generally being under the weather. It developed into classic late Twentieth century angst, like what Albert Camus had, and then...then....I sneezed and ribbons of snot cascaded down my chin.’
‘So what do you think it is?’
‘I know what it is. It’s Greedy Pig fever, that’s what it is, and I want you to get me on every front page in the country, VT of my mates coming to the house under blankets, hourly bulletins on ITN, professors telling the country we’re all going to die horrible squirming deaths, the whole shebang.’
‘Don’t tell me my job, Reg.’
‘But....’
‘Just don’t, all right ?’

Monday.
My first efforts are something of a disappointment. I sent the story to the Bromsgrove Messenger, but they had already turned their front page over to ‘Charford Man in Stubbed Toe Mercy Dash’ and ‘Aston Fields cat still missing.’

Tuesday.
Things are going terribly wrongly. Even The Mail seems more interested in some football team getting ‘promotion’ than Reg’s snot. But at least there’s one silver lining on the horizon over the rainbow: Villa are guaranteed six points next season.

Wednesday.
Not a penny has come in all week and what it’s cost me in phone calls I dread to ponder. Inman Publicity has called in the cleaners. Reg is down the Cocks in Moseley telling anybody who’ll listen about the treacherous dogs who infest the media. His cold is a bit better. He keeps taking the Lemsip. My dinner is ready. It’s spag bol with that nice Lloyd Grosman sauce. The Apprentice is on the telly......

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