The vow of gossip
‘Mr Fip! Mr Fip!’
Charlie Fip ignored the calls and tried to up his pace through the main line of stalls. But his attempts only increased the inertia of the crowds, and at last he gave up and turned round.
‘What do you want, Digsby?’
Digsby Troutwhistle shoved a dictaphone in Fip’s face.
‘Can I ask you your opinion on the Caracas rumours?’
Fip had perfected the art of looking unflappable many years ago, and Troutwhistle’s words passed through him like particularly meek neutrinos.
‘What opinion would you like me to have, Digsby?’
‘Have you authorised a £1m approach from Feria Muy Cerrada of Madrid?’
‘Jack Caracas is not for sale,’ said Fip. ‘He’s still under contract and I think we’re all looking forward to enjoying his unique brand of performance comedy for many years to come.’
‘So it’s not true that you think he’s a talentless moron?’
Fip sighed.
‘Digsby, if Jack Caracas isn’t talented, why would Feria Muy Cerrada of Madrid offer £1m for him?’
‘According to my source in the senate, you suspect it’s because they’re shameless megalomaniacs with all the entertainment taste of a flock of lobotomised seagulls.’
‘Is your source Brother Greenbeard?’
‘I never reveal my sources, Mr Fip.’
‘Because if it is, I’ll be sending him on a one-way mission to our outpost fair in Ulan Bator.’