Andrew Peters's Blog: Andrew's Blog - Posts Tagged "mystery"
Starting Out
So,it's another hot sunny day in the middle of Spain, and here I am indoors with a computer....pretty much as I have been for the last five weeks.
My artistic talents, such as they were, had always centred round guitar & vocals, writing my own songs from time to time, then being lucky enough to tour the world for a few years in a duo. Hotels, ships, bars, ratholes.
Five weeks ago, a story popped into my head about murdering my ex wife....every man should try it! Within a month I'd typed out over twenty. I say "typed out" because they just seemed to arrive in my head ,complete. I sent them to people, they laughed.
So, just to see what it was like, I decided to put two collections on Amazon. They've been well received, but no Ferrari for me yet.
If you find your way here, feel free to try a story or two. I'll send you a sample, or Amazon & Smashwords will let you read a little to see what you think.
Hope they raise a smile or two.
Oh, and I never did manage to murder my Ex!
My artistic talents, such as they were, had always centred round guitar & vocals, writing my own songs from time to time, then being lucky enough to tour the world for a few years in a duo. Hotels, ships, bars, ratholes.
Five weeks ago, a story popped into my head about murdering my ex wife....every man should try it! Within a month I'd typed out over twenty. I say "typed out" because they just seemed to arrive in my head ,complete. I sent them to people, they laughed.
So, just to see what it was like, I decided to put two collections on Amazon. They've been well received, but no Ferrari for me yet.
If you find your way here, feel free to try a story or two. I'll send you a sample, or Amazon & Smashwords will let you read a little to see what you think.
Hope they raise a smile or two.
Oh, and I never did manage to murder my Ex!
The Lettuce
You really don't want to know where the idea for this came from.....but Jules Lee & Ian McAdam bear a horrendous responsibility!!
The Lettuce
Alright, let’s be honest, just between you and me....I can’t stand the bloody stuff. I mean, come on , it’s got to be the single blandest, least interesting food form on the planet. What does it taste of? Nothing, sort of cold, watery with a vague sort of ....leaf... tang to it.
Women love it for some reason though, don’t they. Can’t get enough of it...fridge is always heaving full of at least three varieties....all of which look and taste exactly the same to me. Well, alright, maybe not exactly the same. There’s the one with the sort of open leaves, the one with red edges to the leaves, and the one that looks like a green football, always so tightly wrapped in cellophane that you need industrial cutting equipment to get the damn thing out.
Yeah, I know. Iceberg. Believe me, I know.
Sometimes seems it’s illegal to eat anything without the bloody stuff. You have dinner all sorted, nice piece of steak, maybe a bit of salmon, what does the wife come out with
“Ooh, I’ll just make a salad to go with that.”
And off she goes, chopping up lettuce and other bits of crap that nobody wants to eat. What’s wrong with some chips? But no, salads are healthy and every salad must, by law, contain at least 80% poxy lettuce. Healthy, why? Oh, because it contains very few calories. Well, not bothering with it at all contains even fewer, and doesn’t give me a bloaty stomach afterwards.
Ungrateful? Well yes, I suppose I am in a way, though I often wish none of this had ever happened.
Of course, the money’s useful, very useful. And it can be nice sometimes being recognised. But it's had its price, I can tell you.
All because Dorothy left it off her shopping list.
Oh, no. Not again. You know the story, everyone knows the story by now. You’ve done your research.
Well, why would a TV dramatisation need me? Oh, consultant.
How much?
Well, of course you'll need to talk to my agent about all that.
Alright then, Once more it is.
It was a Friday afternoon. Wet. Miserable. November 18th.
Yes, I am sure, I’m not likely to forget, am I. I’d just left work. Bank. Assistant Manager I was in those days. I’m just about to get into the car when my mobile goes.
Dorothy.
Seems she’s been to the supermarket, but she’s forgotten to get the lettuce, and we’ve got the Richardsons coming round for dinner. Could I just.......
Richardsons. Dave and Jean. Nice couple. No, I don’t see them now. Didn’t see them that night either, as it turned out.
So, I pop back to the High Street and into the little Pak.....er....general store. Does everything, fruit, veg, off-licence. Pick up the famous Iceberg Lettuce, pay the bloke,.....no I don’t remember how much....and I’m turning to leave when the door bursts open and this young bloke charges in.
Well, no, not at the time. I learned his age later. At the time he had a scarf over his nose and mouth.
And besides, when someone’s holding a shotgun, it sort of draws your attention away from the finer details of his appearance.
Anyway, he shouts the usual stuff, nobody move, open the till.
Well, yes, I suppose that is a bit of a contradiction, but no-one was in much of a mood to point out the drawbacks in his sentence construction. A shotgun has a way of dulling your critical faculties.
The little bloke behind the counter is terrified and starts bringing out handfuls of notes. The young chap must have been in before, because he knows about the cash box under the counter and wants that too. I’m pretty terrified as well, though most of his attention is on the money and the shopkeeper.
That’s when I do it.
Yes, everyone always asks what went through my mind, and I honestly couldn’t tell you.
I just do it.
I throw the bloody lettuce at him as hard as I could.
Hits him full in the face. I suppose it must have hurt, I don’t know....nobody’s ever thrown a lettuce at me. Apparently the scrunched up knob of cellophane on it caught him in his eye, and he was lucky not to lose it.
Anyway, he yells and tries to turn towards me, and this is where it all gets a bit Benny Hill.
He treads on the bloody lettuce. Turns his ankle and down he goes. Money goes flying and the gun goes flying towards me. So I pick it up. Point it at him. he starts swearing. I tell him I’ll decorate the wall with his brains if he says one more word.
No, saw it in a film once. Anyway, it shuts him up. Just as well, since I wouldn’t have a clue how to fire the thing.
Well, yes, I suppose pull the trigger, but aren’t there safety catches and things?
Anyway, the shopkeeper’s on the phone and inside a few minutes, the police show up.
I imagine they’ll take the young lad away, I’ll make a statement and be home in time for dinner. Ideally with a free replacement lettuce.
No such luck.
Apparently the shopkeeper makes the mistake of using the word “gun”, so they won’t even come inside. Decide to wait for an armed response unit.
I wasn’t outside to see it, but, apparently, inside fifteen minutes, they were doing the full Rambo thing. Twenty or so of them, with the rifles, the vests, handguns, masks on their faces, and I don’t know what all. They’re shouting at us through a megaphone. No idea why, they could just have chatted through the door. Come out one at a time, hands in the air, lie face down on the pavement. All this SAS stuff. Well, I tell the young bloke to go first and out he trots. Then the shopkeeper. Then me. Left the gun inside of course.
Face down on the pavement, then they all stand round pointing guns at me while they search me. Handcuffs. Back of a van and down the police station. None too gently.
The full works. Arrest, DNA swabs. Fingerprints, then into a cell.
Three hours it must have been, then the interview room.
I tell you, those policemen had been watching too much TV. “Detective Superintendent Smethhurst, Detective Sergeant Brown. Now then Richard.....”
I'm surprised I wasn’t “Chummy”. My fingerprints all over the gun, why don’t I just tell them all about it. Got me, dead to rights.
An hour we were at it, In the end some other policeman came in and had a word and off they went.
Came back twenty minutes later, full of apologies. Couldn’t be more sorry Mr. Davis, had to check things out. Highly public spirited. Should have a medal.....though not the sort of thing they’d advise me to repeat. Could have ended tragically. Police car, home sir? No trouble at all.
Explaining it to Dorothy was none too easy. She’d been fuming, since none of our Boys in Blue had thought to inform her where I was and she’d had to put the Richardson’s off, and the lamb was nearly ruined, though she’d remembered to take it out just in time, and did I know how worried she’d been, and couldn’t I have had the decency to call with one hand while I was holding the gun, or maybe send a message via pigeon from the bloody cell and I never give any consideration to her feelings.......
Anyway, she calmed down, we had a little cold lamb (without the salad) and off to bed.
Last normal day of my life.
Seven o’clock next morning the front doorbell goes. I stagger down in my dressing gown and pyjamas to answer it.
All hell’s let loose on the front lawn, people waving cameras, microphones, TV cameras. Everybody shouting at me. I just slammed the door. Then they started pushing envelopes through the letterbox, Offering money for an exclusive interview. Silly money. Bloody silly money.
Daily Mail it was I decided to talk to ....or “break my silence” as they put it. Not that I’d had much time to be silent in really. Of course they tarted it up a bit for the website. Well, yes, it went on there first, since they didn’t want to wait till Monday for the newspaper to come out.
They weren’t quite sure what to call me at first. “Lettuce Have-a-go Hero”, they started with, but it didn’t have much of a ring to it really. “Mr Lettuce” sounded pretty silly. “Lettuce Vigilante” didn’t quite work either. After a while they came up with the one that stuck “The Iceberg Warrior” They made up a lot of quotes about “someone needs to take a stand” “rid the streets of these vermin”, “Flying the flag for traditional values and British salad vegetables*.
All that sort of thing that would never have occurred to me. Very good they were.
Well, I saw it on the website later, when my son Martin brought his laptop round. Very nice spread, good photo of me, not so good of Dorothy. They’d even printed a photo of a lettuce, just in case people didn’t know what one looked like. (No, not the actual one. The shopkeeper sold that on EBay. There was a bit of a court case about that, since I’d actually paid for it, but I settled for half.) And the Readers’ Comments under the story were amazing. People saying I should get a knighthood, credit to my generation, that would show all these bloody benefit scrounging immigrants (no, the thief was white.....but it was the Daily Mail).
The phone didn’t stop ringing all weekend. TV companies, agents, the Lettuce Marketing board, record companies, old friends I hadn't seen in years. Oh, and the bank of course. Offering me two weeks paid holiday until the fuss died down. No, of course I never went back.
So, what was the next thing I did? Breakfast TV on the Monday I think. On the sofa with Anthea somebody. No, she doesn’t do it now. Once they get past thirty...... And some girl pop group Legs Akimbo or something.
Nice enough interview, though they didn’t let me say much, really. They set up some cardboard cut-outs of crooks. Bit stupid I thought, ....striped sweaters and masks, then gave me some iceberg lettuces and offered £1000 to charity for each one I knocked over . Eight out of ten.
Well , then the mail ran another feature all about the interview with a couple more pictures of me. Rather more of Legs Akimbo, but I didn’t mind.
Truth to tell, I expected all the fuss to die down then. But it just seemed to keep going and growing. More phone calls, offers and lots of money to be made.
Yes, I did have an agent. Max Clifford....he’s dead now. Oh, he was good. Talked about maximising potential, windows of opportunity, making my fame work for me.
No, more like 25% from what I remember.
I think the next thing was the National Lottery the following weekend. Bit of a problem there. For some reason, someone at the BBC had a very limited imagination, and decided that since I was famous for throwing a lettuce, they’d really need to get a giant rabbit in there with me.
I wish it had been some bloke in a funny suit, I tell you.
No, a real giant rabbit. Huge. Size of a pig. Belgian or Dutch or something. And I have to hold it just before we start the lottery. Well as they say, never work with children, or animals. Especially bloody rabbits. The Rabbit Wrangler (show business term. my dear), says he’s fine, docile, wouldn’t hurt a fly. Never said he was bloody incontinent. No sooner do I pick the thing up than my BBC suit is covered in rabbit piss. They cut away to Dale Winton pratting about and Ms Wardrobe brings me out a new jacket. Just in time.
They’ve set up a special target.....huge thing, a blind man could have hit it, though I don’t think it was actually connected to anything. They start the audience counting down 10....9..... well, you know the system. They get to zero, I throw a lettuce at the target and the lottery machine starts up.
Nice little earner that was, and more quality exposure.
No, I don’t know what happened to the rabbit.....something nasty I hope. Apparently rabbits won’t even eat Iceberg Lettuce, or so someone told me!
Things kept snowballing. They asked me to turn on the Staines Christmas lights. Well, yes, there was another giant rabbit, but this one was a bloke in a suit. Bit of a twat if you ask me, but at least he didn’t piss on me. And, as usual, I had to throw a lettuce at a target to switch on the lights. I’m sure it was all fake, and somebody was there with a switch in case I missed. Though, by now, I was getting pretty good at it.
To be honest, I was getting a little bored with it now. Bit infra dig and all that. Though I did like the money, it must be said. Around then the agent decided that my profile was high enough to be able to turn down cheap stuff, and wait for the really big offers to come along.
And they did soon enough. The one that really put me on the map.
Celebrity Shipwreck.
You never saw it? Well. you’re young I suppose.
Ten Celebrities, Lets see, there was me, The Iceberg Warrior, two topless models, some trollop who’d slept with a footballer, an ex Tory MP (he’d also slept with a footballer, I think), a TV chef, two blokes who’d been in a Channel 5 soap, the bass player from Adam and the Ants .....oh and Vanessa Feltz.
We were all marooned on a desert island, having to forage for our own food, build shelters from timber we rescued from the remains of the ship and wood and plants we found on the island. All there was to drink was spring water. We needed to bond and form our own community. A chance to start society again from Day One.
What?
No, it was all bollocks. Filmed on the backlot at Teddington studios under bloody sunlamps. As soon as the cameras were off us, the models were smoking sixty a day and Vanessa was straight down the canteen.
I lasted four weeks until I was voted off. I mean, I wasn’t really all that interesting, an ex-assistant manager....but I wasn’t a big enough jerk to upset too many people. Four weeks wasn’t bad, especially not for what they were paying me. No, no, let’s just say it was well into six figures.
The bass player won, I think. Garry Tibbs?
I was thinking I was set up for life now, but then the trouble started with Dorothy. All of this had come as a pretty big shock to her, and she wasn’t prepared for it. Didn’t really like it. Didn’t at all like the scenes with me rolling lettuces down the supermodel’s cleavage. Or that thing in the shower.
The upshot was, that when I came off the “island” there was a note waiting for me , saying she’d gone home to her mother to think about things for a while.
No, can’t say that it did. I was moving in more exciting circles now. Night clubs, smart parties. I’d pull out a lettuce, two blondes would drape themselves over me , and I’d be in the papers next day. As Max said, it’s all publicity, it ups your profile.
Around then the shotgun bloke came up for trial. Got off, of course, because his lawyer said he’d never get a fair trial, with all the publicity around me. I hear he’s doing quite well himself out of it now, I did a couple of chat shows with him and I think he’s written a book. Good luck to him I say. Wouldn’t be where I am without him.
Next? Ah, my Reality show. “The Only Way Is Lettuce”.
Not all that real, truth to tell. They brought in an actress to play my wife (Dorothy and I had pretty much reached the end of the line) and moved me to Florida, where I was meant to be trying to interest American TV, It was mostly shots of us on the beaches, driving around, seeing American producers, posing with some second rate actors. Just ran for the one series.
No, the American’s weren’t interested in me personally, but they quite liked the concept of an urban vigilante, so I ended up as a cartoon.
“Captain Cos”....wrong lettuce of course, but they said it had a better ring to it. Now that was a VERY nice earner, I’m still getting cheques for the licensing rights. Same guy who did the Simpsons. I believe.
Around then Dorothy and I got the divorce. She took me for half, but I wasn’t complaining. I was already seeing the current Mrs Davis. Well yes, but the footballer thing is all in the past.
What else?
Oh yes “I’m Famous And Pissed, Get Me out Of Here”. Another bunch of us, locked in a pub after closing time, swapping stories, throwing up and trying to get each others’ clothes off.
Week one, I’m afraid. Never could hold my drink, just sends me to sleep. Still, another six figures.
The books?
Yes, well first the cook book....or non-cook book “Iceberg Warrior’s Salad Selection”, and then the autobiography “The Heart Of The Lettuce”. There was a bit about abusive childhood in that I believe. Well, why not if it sells, and the parents are long dead.
Well, no idea really, never read either of them. They sold loads though.
And then of course my novel.
“50 shades of Lettuce”.
Best seller for twelve weeks. And sold the film rights now. Tom Bloody Cruise apparently....as if anyone’d believe he was a sex god!
Don’t know about that one either, got bored after the first twenty pages. I prefer that Stephen Leather stuff myself. Thrillers and that.
Oh...yes the quiz show. “Lucre or Lettuce”, Brilliant concept. You keep answering questions and putting more and more money in the bank. I sit there, stroking my chin and looking smug. Make sure we always have a commercial just before I reveal whether they’re right or wrong. Of course, if they’re wrong, they go home with just a lettuce.
Yes, that’s where the catchphrase comes from.
“Lob Me The Lettuce Lucy!!”
And the blonde girl in the leotard and tights throws me an Iceberg to give to the poor loser. No, her name was Carol.....but it didn’t work.
Well yes, “Chuck Me The Cos Carol,” I suppose.......
People still shout it at me in the streets. I still get handsome cheques from that. My contract entitled me to a percentage see.
I believe Noel Edmonds does it now, poor sod.
No, no. I don’t do any of that stuff any more. I’ve sort of got above it now. Well, yes, still a new autobiography from time to time, you’ve got to keep up to date, the odd chat show, “Question Time” now and again. But really, I don’t need the money any more. I’m pretty comfortable in all respects.
Anyway, I’ll have to be getting along, we’ve got a vote down at the House of Lords in thirty minutes.
Funny thing, I still can’t abide bloody lettuce.
The Lettuce
Alright, let’s be honest, just between you and me....I can’t stand the bloody stuff. I mean, come on , it’s got to be the single blandest, least interesting food form on the planet. What does it taste of? Nothing, sort of cold, watery with a vague sort of ....leaf... tang to it.
Women love it for some reason though, don’t they. Can’t get enough of it...fridge is always heaving full of at least three varieties....all of which look and taste exactly the same to me. Well, alright, maybe not exactly the same. There’s the one with the sort of open leaves, the one with red edges to the leaves, and the one that looks like a green football, always so tightly wrapped in cellophane that you need industrial cutting equipment to get the damn thing out.
Yeah, I know. Iceberg. Believe me, I know.
Sometimes seems it’s illegal to eat anything without the bloody stuff. You have dinner all sorted, nice piece of steak, maybe a bit of salmon, what does the wife come out with
“Ooh, I’ll just make a salad to go with that.”
And off she goes, chopping up lettuce and other bits of crap that nobody wants to eat. What’s wrong with some chips? But no, salads are healthy and every salad must, by law, contain at least 80% poxy lettuce. Healthy, why? Oh, because it contains very few calories. Well, not bothering with it at all contains even fewer, and doesn’t give me a bloaty stomach afterwards.
Ungrateful? Well yes, I suppose I am in a way, though I often wish none of this had ever happened.
Of course, the money’s useful, very useful. And it can be nice sometimes being recognised. But it's had its price, I can tell you.
All because Dorothy left it off her shopping list.
Oh, no. Not again. You know the story, everyone knows the story by now. You’ve done your research.
Well, why would a TV dramatisation need me? Oh, consultant.
How much?
Well, of course you'll need to talk to my agent about all that.
Alright then, Once more it is.
It was a Friday afternoon. Wet. Miserable. November 18th.
Yes, I am sure, I’m not likely to forget, am I. I’d just left work. Bank. Assistant Manager I was in those days. I’m just about to get into the car when my mobile goes.
Dorothy.
Seems she’s been to the supermarket, but she’s forgotten to get the lettuce, and we’ve got the Richardsons coming round for dinner. Could I just.......
Richardsons. Dave and Jean. Nice couple. No, I don’t see them now. Didn’t see them that night either, as it turned out.
So, I pop back to the High Street and into the little Pak.....er....general store. Does everything, fruit, veg, off-licence. Pick up the famous Iceberg Lettuce, pay the bloke,.....no I don’t remember how much....and I’m turning to leave when the door bursts open and this young bloke charges in.
Well, no, not at the time. I learned his age later. At the time he had a scarf over his nose and mouth.
And besides, when someone’s holding a shotgun, it sort of draws your attention away from the finer details of his appearance.
Anyway, he shouts the usual stuff, nobody move, open the till.
Well, yes, I suppose that is a bit of a contradiction, but no-one was in much of a mood to point out the drawbacks in his sentence construction. A shotgun has a way of dulling your critical faculties.
The little bloke behind the counter is terrified and starts bringing out handfuls of notes. The young chap must have been in before, because he knows about the cash box under the counter and wants that too. I’m pretty terrified as well, though most of his attention is on the money and the shopkeeper.
That’s when I do it.
Yes, everyone always asks what went through my mind, and I honestly couldn’t tell you.
I just do it.
I throw the bloody lettuce at him as hard as I could.
Hits him full in the face. I suppose it must have hurt, I don’t know....nobody’s ever thrown a lettuce at me. Apparently the scrunched up knob of cellophane on it caught him in his eye, and he was lucky not to lose it.
Anyway, he yells and tries to turn towards me, and this is where it all gets a bit Benny Hill.
He treads on the bloody lettuce. Turns his ankle and down he goes. Money goes flying and the gun goes flying towards me. So I pick it up. Point it at him. he starts swearing. I tell him I’ll decorate the wall with his brains if he says one more word.
No, saw it in a film once. Anyway, it shuts him up. Just as well, since I wouldn’t have a clue how to fire the thing.
Well, yes, I suppose pull the trigger, but aren’t there safety catches and things?
Anyway, the shopkeeper’s on the phone and inside a few minutes, the police show up.
I imagine they’ll take the young lad away, I’ll make a statement and be home in time for dinner. Ideally with a free replacement lettuce.
No such luck.
Apparently the shopkeeper makes the mistake of using the word “gun”, so they won’t even come inside. Decide to wait for an armed response unit.
I wasn’t outside to see it, but, apparently, inside fifteen minutes, they were doing the full Rambo thing. Twenty or so of them, with the rifles, the vests, handguns, masks on their faces, and I don’t know what all. They’re shouting at us through a megaphone. No idea why, they could just have chatted through the door. Come out one at a time, hands in the air, lie face down on the pavement. All this SAS stuff. Well, I tell the young bloke to go first and out he trots. Then the shopkeeper. Then me. Left the gun inside of course.
Face down on the pavement, then they all stand round pointing guns at me while they search me. Handcuffs. Back of a van and down the police station. None too gently.
The full works. Arrest, DNA swabs. Fingerprints, then into a cell.
Three hours it must have been, then the interview room.
I tell you, those policemen had been watching too much TV. “Detective Superintendent Smethhurst, Detective Sergeant Brown. Now then Richard.....”
I'm surprised I wasn’t “Chummy”. My fingerprints all over the gun, why don’t I just tell them all about it. Got me, dead to rights.
An hour we were at it, In the end some other policeman came in and had a word and off they went.
Came back twenty minutes later, full of apologies. Couldn’t be more sorry Mr. Davis, had to check things out. Highly public spirited. Should have a medal.....though not the sort of thing they’d advise me to repeat. Could have ended tragically. Police car, home sir? No trouble at all.
Explaining it to Dorothy was none too easy. She’d been fuming, since none of our Boys in Blue had thought to inform her where I was and she’d had to put the Richardson’s off, and the lamb was nearly ruined, though she’d remembered to take it out just in time, and did I know how worried she’d been, and couldn’t I have had the decency to call with one hand while I was holding the gun, or maybe send a message via pigeon from the bloody cell and I never give any consideration to her feelings.......
Anyway, she calmed down, we had a little cold lamb (without the salad) and off to bed.
Last normal day of my life.
Seven o’clock next morning the front doorbell goes. I stagger down in my dressing gown and pyjamas to answer it.
All hell’s let loose on the front lawn, people waving cameras, microphones, TV cameras. Everybody shouting at me. I just slammed the door. Then they started pushing envelopes through the letterbox, Offering money for an exclusive interview. Silly money. Bloody silly money.
Daily Mail it was I decided to talk to ....or “break my silence” as they put it. Not that I’d had much time to be silent in really. Of course they tarted it up a bit for the website. Well, yes, it went on there first, since they didn’t want to wait till Monday for the newspaper to come out.
They weren’t quite sure what to call me at first. “Lettuce Have-a-go Hero”, they started with, but it didn’t have much of a ring to it really. “Mr Lettuce” sounded pretty silly. “Lettuce Vigilante” didn’t quite work either. After a while they came up with the one that stuck “The Iceberg Warrior” They made up a lot of quotes about “someone needs to take a stand” “rid the streets of these vermin”, “Flying the flag for traditional values and British salad vegetables*.
All that sort of thing that would never have occurred to me. Very good they were.
Well, I saw it on the website later, when my son Martin brought his laptop round. Very nice spread, good photo of me, not so good of Dorothy. They’d even printed a photo of a lettuce, just in case people didn’t know what one looked like. (No, not the actual one. The shopkeeper sold that on EBay. There was a bit of a court case about that, since I’d actually paid for it, but I settled for half.) And the Readers’ Comments under the story were amazing. People saying I should get a knighthood, credit to my generation, that would show all these bloody benefit scrounging immigrants (no, the thief was white.....but it was the Daily Mail).
The phone didn’t stop ringing all weekend. TV companies, agents, the Lettuce Marketing board, record companies, old friends I hadn't seen in years. Oh, and the bank of course. Offering me two weeks paid holiday until the fuss died down. No, of course I never went back.
So, what was the next thing I did? Breakfast TV on the Monday I think. On the sofa with Anthea somebody. No, she doesn’t do it now. Once they get past thirty...... And some girl pop group Legs Akimbo or something.
Nice enough interview, though they didn’t let me say much, really. They set up some cardboard cut-outs of crooks. Bit stupid I thought, ....striped sweaters and masks, then gave me some iceberg lettuces and offered £1000 to charity for each one I knocked over . Eight out of ten.
Well , then the mail ran another feature all about the interview with a couple more pictures of me. Rather more of Legs Akimbo, but I didn’t mind.
Truth to tell, I expected all the fuss to die down then. But it just seemed to keep going and growing. More phone calls, offers and lots of money to be made.
Yes, I did have an agent. Max Clifford....he’s dead now. Oh, he was good. Talked about maximising potential, windows of opportunity, making my fame work for me.
No, more like 25% from what I remember.
I think the next thing was the National Lottery the following weekend. Bit of a problem there. For some reason, someone at the BBC had a very limited imagination, and decided that since I was famous for throwing a lettuce, they’d really need to get a giant rabbit in there with me.
I wish it had been some bloke in a funny suit, I tell you.
No, a real giant rabbit. Huge. Size of a pig. Belgian or Dutch or something. And I have to hold it just before we start the lottery. Well as they say, never work with children, or animals. Especially bloody rabbits. The Rabbit Wrangler (show business term. my dear), says he’s fine, docile, wouldn’t hurt a fly. Never said he was bloody incontinent. No sooner do I pick the thing up than my BBC suit is covered in rabbit piss. They cut away to Dale Winton pratting about and Ms Wardrobe brings me out a new jacket. Just in time.
They’ve set up a special target.....huge thing, a blind man could have hit it, though I don’t think it was actually connected to anything. They start the audience counting down 10....9..... well, you know the system. They get to zero, I throw a lettuce at the target and the lottery machine starts up.
Nice little earner that was, and more quality exposure.
No, I don’t know what happened to the rabbit.....something nasty I hope. Apparently rabbits won’t even eat Iceberg Lettuce, or so someone told me!
Things kept snowballing. They asked me to turn on the Staines Christmas lights. Well, yes, there was another giant rabbit, but this one was a bloke in a suit. Bit of a twat if you ask me, but at least he didn’t piss on me. And, as usual, I had to throw a lettuce at a target to switch on the lights. I’m sure it was all fake, and somebody was there with a switch in case I missed. Though, by now, I was getting pretty good at it.
To be honest, I was getting a little bored with it now. Bit infra dig and all that. Though I did like the money, it must be said. Around then the agent decided that my profile was high enough to be able to turn down cheap stuff, and wait for the really big offers to come along.
And they did soon enough. The one that really put me on the map.
Celebrity Shipwreck.
You never saw it? Well. you’re young I suppose.
Ten Celebrities, Lets see, there was me, The Iceberg Warrior, two topless models, some trollop who’d slept with a footballer, an ex Tory MP (he’d also slept with a footballer, I think), a TV chef, two blokes who’d been in a Channel 5 soap, the bass player from Adam and the Ants .....oh and Vanessa Feltz.
We were all marooned on a desert island, having to forage for our own food, build shelters from timber we rescued from the remains of the ship and wood and plants we found on the island. All there was to drink was spring water. We needed to bond and form our own community. A chance to start society again from Day One.
What?
No, it was all bollocks. Filmed on the backlot at Teddington studios under bloody sunlamps. As soon as the cameras were off us, the models were smoking sixty a day and Vanessa was straight down the canteen.
I lasted four weeks until I was voted off. I mean, I wasn’t really all that interesting, an ex-assistant manager....but I wasn’t a big enough jerk to upset too many people. Four weeks wasn’t bad, especially not for what they were paying me. No, no, let’s just say it was well into six figures.
The bass player won, I think. Garry Tibbs?
I was thinking I was set up for life now, but then the trouble started with Dorothy. All of this had come as a pretty big shock to her, and she wasn’t prepared for it. Didn’t really like it. Didn’t at all like the scenes with me rolling lettuces down the supermodel’s cleavage. Or that thing in the shower.
The upshot was, that when I came off the “island” there was a note waiting for me , saying she’d gone home to her mother to think about things for a while.
No, can’t say that it did. I was moving in more exciting circles now. Night clubs, smart parties. I’d pull out a lettuce, two blondes would drape themselves over me , and I’d be in the papers next day. As Max said, it’s all publicity, it ups your profile.
Around then the shotgun bloke came up for trial. Got off, of course, because his lawyer said he’d never get a fair trial, with all the publicity around me. I hear he’s doing quite well himself out of it now, I did a couple of chat shows with him and I think he’s written a book. Good luck to him I say. Wouldn’t be where I am without him.
Next? Ah, my Reality show. “The Only Way Is Lettuce”.
Not all that real, truth to tell. They brought in an actress to play my wife (Dorothy and I had pretty much reached the end of the line) and moved me to Florida, where I was meant to be trying to interest American TV, It was mostly shots of us on the beaches, driving around, seeing American producers, posing with some second rate actors. Just ran for the one series.
No, the American’s weren’t interested in me personally, but they quite liked the concept of an urban vigilante, so I ended up as a cartoon.
“Captain Cos”....wrong lettuce of course, but they said it had a better ring to it. Now that was a VERY nice earner, I’m still getting cheques for the licensing rights. Same guy who did the Simpsons. I believe.
Around then Dorothy and I got the divorce. She took me for half, but I wasn’t complaining. I was already seeing the current Mrs Davis. Well yes, but the footballer thing is all in the past.
What else?
Oh yes “I’m Famous And Pissed, Get Me out Of Here”. Another bunch of us, locked in a pub after closing time, swapping stories, throwing up and trying to get each others’ clothes off.
Week one, I’m afraid. Never could hold my drink, just sends me to sleep. Still, another six figures.
The books?
Yes, well first the cook book....or non-cook book “Iceberg Warrior’s Salad Selection”, and then the autobiography “The Heart Of The Lettuce”. There was a bit about abusive childhood in that I believe. Well, why not if it sells, and the parents are long dead.
Well, no idea really, never read either of them. They sold loads though.
And then of course my novel.
“50 shades of Lettuce”.
Best seller for twelve weeks. And sold the film rights now. Tom Bloody Cruise apparently....as if anyone’d believe he was a sex god!
Don’t know about that one either, got bored after the first twenty pages. I prefer that Stephen Leather stuff myself. Thrillers and that.
Oh...yes the quiz show. “Lucre or Lettuce”, Brilliant concept. You keep answering questions and putting more and more money in the bank. I sit there, stroking my chin and looking smug. Make sure we always have a commercial just before I reveal whether they’re right or wrong. Of course, if they’re wrong, they go home with just a lettuce.
Yes, that’s where the catchphrase comes from.
“Lob Me The Lettuce Lucy!!”
And the blonde girl in the leotard and tights throws me an Iceberg to give to the poor loser. No, her name was Carol.....but it didn’t work.
Well yes, “Chuck Me The Cos Carol,” I suppose.......
People still shout it at me in the streets. I still get handsome cheques from that. My contract entitled me to a percentage see.
I believe Noel Edmonds does it now, poor sod.
No, no. I don’t do any of that stuff any more. I’ve sort of got above it now. Well, yes, still a new autobiography from time to time, you’ve got to keep up to date, the odd chat show, “Question Time” now and again. But really, I don’t need the money any more. I’m pretty comfortable in all respects.
Anyway, I’ll have to be getting along, we’ve got a vote down at the House of Lords in thirty minutes.
Funny thing, I still can’t abide bloody lettuce.
A Case For The Blues Detective
Just in case anyone missed my relentless self-publicising elsewhere, I have released another collection of stories about Otis King, Memphis' Number One Welsh Blues Detective.
Feel free to peruse the first few pages free on Amazon......feel even freer to buy it for your Kindle: Should be available in paperback by the end of the week.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Case-For-Blue...
http://www.amazon.com/Case-For-Blues-...
Feel free to peruse the first few pages free on Amazon......feel even freer to buy it for your Kindle: Should be available in paperback by the end of the week.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Case-For-Blue...
http://www.amazon.com/Case-For-Blues-...
