By Paddy Bostock
Action/Humour,
452 pages
Cover art by
Richard Stroud
Blurb: Outraged at
the market economic policies adopted by their university, the Podiatry
department kidnap a senior academic in protest. The chance coincidence of the
interests of the gutter press, Welsh Freedom Fighters, and a Prime Minister
struggling for re-election ensures a minor campus story escalates into
cataclysmic national proportions.
Excerpt: Professor Marvyn
"Clyde" Zinkin
was furious, an increasingly frequent phenomenon since his move to the UK, and one
that was starting to cause him concern. Stateside, his blood-pressure had been
consistently described by doctors as that of a "resting athlete," but
now he reckoned it closely resembled that of a kangaroo ice-dancing.
"Whaddya
mean the Podricyclists ain't buying it?" he spat at Dr. Malcolm Moon, the
bearer of bad tidings, who was teetering at the edge of the Presidential-style
cherrywood desk, his bony, blanched knuckles pressed into the gleaming surface
for support, wondering how long he would be able to hold onto his breakfast.
"The hell
they ain't. The other damn Ps bought it and so will they," Clyde bellowed,
jerking his tanned quarterback frame forwards from its high-backed,
black-leather swivel so the Charlton Heston torso beneath his white button-down
shirt covered the major part of the desktop, and the ice-blue eyes above the
remoulded nose and the cosmetic Rock Hudson cleft chin were only withering
inches away from Dr. Moon's watery yellow irises.
"An'
you better believe it, Mal. Toe-pickers?" he said, springing from his
chair, grabbing a remote from the back pocket of his specially imported Lee
jeans-the ones that built America-and marching across to his full-wall, Power
Point display on which, alphabetically arranged, were all the subjects he had
already axed from the university's once wide-ranging offer.
"Philosophics
bought it," he told the cringing don, who had begun to gulp much in the
manner of a haddock out of water. "Psychiatrosis bought it. Psychologomy
bought it. Pekingese bought it..."
Cantonese, Professor Zinkin,"
Malcolm corrected, pedantry surfacing
even in his current anguish.
"Political
Studies bought it. Practically all the goddammed Ps bought it. An' now you're
here to tell me Podricyclists ain't buying it?" Clyde
fumed, oblivious to the intervention and zapping at the remote to indicate the
spaces where once seminal subjects featured as death masks and PODIATRY was lit
up in red with a skull and crossbones flashing over it in black.
"They
are very reluctant, Professor, given the potential financial benefits they
claim to be inherent in the treatment of feet, and also the principle of the
matter," Moon said before his knees gave way and he collapsed onto the
single wooden stool Zinkin allowed for petitioners on the opposite side of the
Presidential cherrywood number.
"The As
bought it…Angly Saxonics, Anthropologism, Archaeologics…all those guys went for
the deal big ways. The Bs...the Cs...the Ds, all the way through to the goddam
Ps," Clyde said, whipping the remote
along the defunct subject line of his projection-analysis screen. "So why
not the goddam Podricyclicists?" he barked, returning to his swivel,
appraising his computer briefly before hitting the auto-piss-off button on a
series of e-mails, and then staring down at Malcolm Moon.
"Did I
say you could sit, Mal?"
"I felt
I needed to, sir."
"'Nother
weak-kneed Brit, huh? You guys gonna be the death of me.
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