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‘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.’

‘These tables are really grimy,’ said Digsby Troutwhistle approvingly.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Zak Ziyad. ‘There was a lot of trouble over that. We had a research group spend 18 months creating a synthetic grime mix, only to find that it tasted of strawberries. This coating is the real thing. We dig it up from grime pits around the world.’

‘Is that ethical?’ said Troutwhistle.

‘It’s all fairtrade,’ said Ziyad. ‘Our grime farmers are paid above the going rate to ensure we get the pick of the grime.’

There was a commotion from outside: people were cheering, cameras were snapping, a trumpet fanfare sounded.

‘Wednesday’s here,’ said Ziyad.

A limousine pulled up outside the pub. The chauffeur opened the door and out waddled a small duck. The crowd went wild. The duck continued up the red carpet to a tape across the entrance to the bar.

‘Quack!’ it announced to the crowd. Ziyad wielded the scissors on its behalf.

‘Warmest thanks to the Duck of Wednesday for re-opening this fine pub,’ he said. ‘And now, do come in! This evening only, free pork scratchings!’

‘Let me guess, you’re worried about the swine association,’ said Troutwhistle in his ear as the guests filed in to the bar.

‘Nothing could be further from my mind,’ said Ziyad. ‘I believe in snacks for the common man, that’s all.’

‘So what have you got in store for the common man this evening?’ said Troutwhistle.

‘Just a good old singalong around the piano,’ said Ziyad. ‘Oh, and a laser display and firework show. And a fly-past by the Red Arrows. And the unveiling of a statue to the original medieval lucky drover. It’s quite a work of art: solid gold with droving sound effects on the hour. Our archaeological team did some great research on that, you’ll never guess what the lucky incident was … anyway, after that-’

‘Quack!’ interrupted Wednesday.

‘I do beg your pardon, Wednesday’ said Ziyad. ‘What would you like?’

‘Quack! Quack!’ said Wednesday.

‘And some pork scratchings?’

‘Quack!’ said Wednesday.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Ziyad. He poured a pint of Dogswaggler into a bowl for Wednesday, who downed it.

‘Quack!’ said Wednesday.

‘Can I quote you on that?’ said Digsby Troutwhistle.

For five months the Lucky Drover Inn had lain empty. The previous owner had tired of the pub game and was looking to turn the building into upmarket flats, but he was eventually dissuaded by a depressed rental market and – perhaps more decisively – a mob of enraged regulars wielding pitchforks.

Hopes were high, then, when rumours went around that the place had been bought. Wild stories grew about Russian billionaires and Middle East investment funds. Investigative reporter Digsby Troutwhistle camped out for weeks in the woods behind the inn, watching patiently for movement through a telephoto lens. But the only thing he ever saw was a badger, who found a way into the cellar one night and came out in a drunken stupor. Troutwhistle sold the shot to a badger-centric spinoff of Heat magazine for £500.

His frustration grew until one night, when he was startled by a tap on his shoulder.

‘Got a light, mate?’ said the tapper.

‘Sure,’ said Troutwhistle. ‘If you’ve got a story.’

‘Urm -’, said the tapper. ‘Not really. I’ve bought the pub here, that’s all. Need a light for my celebratory cigar.’

‘You bought the pub?’ said Troutwhistle. ‘Are you a Russian billionaire?’

‘No,’ said the tapper.

‘Middle East investment fund?’

‘Sort of,’ said the tapper. ‘My family owns one anyway. Zakiy Ziyad, pleased to meet you.’

‘I knew it!’ said Troutwhistle, shaking his hand. ‘You didn’t look Russian at all.’

‘Listen,’ said Ziyad. ‘I’m organising the gala re-opening for next week. If you agree to get the story on the front page of your paper I’ll give you one of these fine cigars.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Troutwhistle, picking out a cigar from the box offered to him. ‘Word of advice, first thing you need to do is proof the cellar against celebrity badgers.’