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We’ve decided to celebrate the one week anniversary of Andrew Flintoff falling into the sea by publishing a story about it. A lot has been made of this, how the young man disgraced himself, got stripped of the England captaincy, how he failed to face up to his responsibilities again blah blah blah

I find it quite surprising that the British Pedalo Association’s reaction has been completely ignored by the world’s media. Especially given that Andrew was signed up two years ago to be the ‘face of pedalo’ and can currently be seen on posters up and down the country…

Friday 23rd March

Mike swung into the space and killed the engine. Although the car key was pressed tight in his sweaty palm he felt no urgency to remove it from the ignition. Instead, he let the voice of Katie Melua wash over him, watching a light sprinkling of snow dust the windscreen.

There was no-one quite like Katie, thought the promotional manager for the British Pedalo Association. She was lively and spunky, earthy yet refined.

For thirty minutes the heating in the car had been turned on full blast, and as a result, Mike felt rather like a baby wrapped in a snug romper suit. Katie Melua, bless her heart, was the suit. And there weren’t many romper suits as comfortable as Katie Melua.

He sighed then reached over and cut her off mid-phrase. If I could meet her, I would tell her what a lovely singing voice she had, thought Mike, blindly searching for the CD player’s eject button.

Then I would ask her for a drink. After that, I would drive her to a hotel. Then we would get a room and I’d sit her on the bed, put out the ‘do not disturb sign’ and crack open some bubbly.

Then I would get her to sing for me.

Then I would give her a massage.

Then I would loosen her bra, and take off her trousers.

Then I would undo my belt and get …

Suddenly there was a sharp knock on the glass. Mike opened his eyes and took in the wizened face of Albert. He was the longest serving member of the BPA.

Mike wound down the window.
‘What’s that you’ve got?’ said Albert, gesturing towards the compact disc.
‘Katie Melua. She’s a singer’ replied Mike.
The old man leaned forward, squinting, as a snowflake landed on his nose.
‘It says Norah Jones on there, doesn’t it? Come away with me.’
Mike turned the disc towards him and narrowed his eyes. ‘So it does,’ he said. ‘So it does.’

Mike pulled his laptop out of the back seat and shuddered. The cold wind cut right through the thin fabric of his coat.

‘It’s taken a while to organize this Emergency meeting, then.’ Mist drifted out of Albert’s mouth as he spoke. ‘We were originally going to have it on Monday, but then we put it off till Tuesday. Then Wednesday. Then Thursday.’

‘I’ve been really busy’ said Mike.

Albert snorted. ‘And now it’s Friday. And after all this time, I still can’t believe he did it. He’s made bloody fools of us.’

Mike nodded in agreement. Andrew Flintoff, the iconic face that stared out from the British Pedalo Association’s poster campaign, had indeed made bloody fools of them. His reckless decision to drunkenly ride and fall off a pedalo, in the sea, in the middle of the night, had brought new meaning to the BPA’s slogan “Andrew Flintoff says get pedaloing.”

The two men trudged towards the grey building.
‘He’ll be fired then. Flintoff.’
‘Of course he’ll be bloody fired,’ grumbled Albert. ‘We can’t have someone like that telling people to “Get Pedaloing!” He’s supposed to be a bloody role model, for goodness sake.’

At the revolving door Albert pushed hard. ‘We should never have gotten that bloody bastard in the first place.’

In the boardroom, a solemn atmosphere hung over the proceedings, in spite of the copious bottles of fizzy pop, donuts, cakes and sausage rolls which lined the far table.

Mike bit into a sausage roll. Of the four people present, he was the only one eating. Gingerly, he brushed some crumbs onto the carpet, aware that the sausage roll was not the only thing which marked him apart.

Mike was also the sole member of the Chief Executive committee who hadn’t been a professional pedaloist. He was brought on board for his commercial and promotional acumen.

‘Well, we need somebody else now. Obviously’ barked Albert.

Floella, a bronze medallist at the Los Angeles Olympics, leaned forward and rapped the table. ‘We need someone who won’t make us look daft.’

Sheepishly, Mike brushed some more scraps of sausage roll off his knee. Two years ago, when he had hooked the Ashes-winning England captain Andrew Flintoff into a fifteen year pedalo promotion contract, the news had been met with gasps and hearty handshakes.

‘It’s quite obvious that Andrew bloody Flintoff never understood pedaloes,’ muttered Albert.

‘Or else he wouldn’t have got on one drunk,’ added Dale, a 43 year old Samoan, who was perhaps the most enthusiastic member of the BPA.

He lived on a converted pedalo, pedaloed to work every day, read books about pedalos and was president of no less than four pedalo societies. Around his neck, the big man wore a pedalo necklace, and in his hand he held a custom made pen-dalo.

Dale was particularly upset with Flintoff and was worried that the public perception of pedalos had been taken back to the Stone Age. In his free time, the beefy Samoan was working on a screenplay, a Hitchcockian thriller set on board a pedalo, entitled ‘Pedalo of Death’. He had been hoping to get it optioned by a major Samoan film studio, and had been hearing encouraging noises from Apia. However, at that moment, around the large wooden table, Dale’s movie-making dream seemed a long way off.

‘So, what are we going to do?’ said Floella.
‘We need to make amends as soon as possible’ said Dale. ‘As soon as possible!’

Mike got up to fetch another sausage roll.

‘Mike! You’ve been awfully bloody quiet’ snapped Albert. ‘Haven’t you got any bright ideas?’

Mike leaned forward and brushed some more crumbs onto the floor. ‘No’ he said. ‘Not really.’

‘Bloody hell. You’re supposed to be the promotional expert!’

‘I’m sorry to say this’ said Dale, standing up. ‘but we’re in a big hole. This lout, Flintoff, has made our beloved sport look like a drunken lark! It isn’t darts, for goodness sake. Pedaloing should be as serious as horse racing, or show jumping.

Every few words Dale thumped the table. He was like a political leader giving a particularly impassioned speech.

The big man continued…

‘We face a severe problem here today. We need to reverse this damage, and show people that pedalos are serious. They aren’t to be trifled with. And neither are we!’

He looked around the room, his eyes bulging.

A light drizzle had started to fall against the boardroom window. Mike rubbed his stomach, which had become a little sore.

‘Well, we’re not getting anywhere here’ said Albert. ‘How about I leave it with you, and we reconvene next week? Oh, and I’ll call Andrew’s agent.’

‘Just give me five minutes with that bastard,’ said Dale, his fists clenched.

Albert shuffled his papers. ‘So, when you’re thinking about who to approach. We need someone sporty. With a wide appeal. Who we would be proud to have as a spokesperson. Who is often in the public eye. And most importantly, isn’t going to get on a pedalo in the middle of the night and fall into the sea. Okay?’

Mike fastened his seatbelt and looked over at Dale who was pedalling furiously off down the canal.

The rain lashed the windscreen, but he didn’t mind. The perfect candidate to front the new campaign had just popped into his mind. Five minutes on Photoshop would do the trick, then he could take the weekend off. And at the next meeting he’d be a hero! He’d deserve the sausage rolls!

He turned on the cd player and smiled. The sunny voice of Katie Melua filled the car.

Jonathon P. Fielding looked up from his book and saw it was his stop. He slipped the battered copy of Mansfield Park into his briefcase, picked up his portfolio and jumped out off the train.

As he fought his way up towards the teeming and chaotic streets above, his thoughts lingered on Fanny Price. Of all Austen’s heroines, she certainly had the most complex allure. Juxtaposed with the coquettish Mary Crawford, to the modern reader Fanny seemed all too timid and retiring. But there was something about her fixity, her steadiness, her stubbornness even, which appealed to Jonathon a little more each time he read the book. He felt like he could use a Fanny Price in his own life.

Outside the subway, a spring shower was giving the city a light rinse. Without stopping, Jonathon opened his umbrella and stepped off the curb of the sidewalk into the tangle of traffic and noise. Five minutes later, he emerged damp but unscathed and pressed a buzzer which read: Lucas P Heinmannn, Publisher. He shook the droplets off his umbrella and pushed the door open when it buzzed its response.

‘Just go right on through’ said the secretary.

Lucas P Heinmannn was standing behind his desk looking down at some designs. He was a big man in a cheap suit, with an unshaven, crumpled look about him. A cigarette hung down from his lips. When Jonathon entered, he glanced up and indicated a chair with a vague gesture. Jonathon could see the man was busy and he quietly sat down.

‘Bullcrap, all bullcrap…’ muttered Lucas P Heinmannn, shaking his head.

Jonathon began to be a little curious about the designs on the desk of Lucas P Heinmannn and he craned his neck to get a better view. They looked like they were intended for comic books rather than the classic literature he had supposed that Lucas P Heinmannn and Co. specialised in.

‘Absolute total 100% bullcrap’ the publisher said and with an air of absolute finality he opened his short arms wide and brought them together over the designs, transforming them instantly into a tiny ball that he tossed onto the floor.

‘Some people just wanna waste my time, I swear to God’ he said, looking at Jonathon properly for the first time. ‘You’re Fielding, right?’
‘Yes, Mr Heinmannn, I’m very –’
‘Heinmannn, just call me Heinmannn. I don’t go for all that Lucas P bullcrap, that was Morrie’s idea. Now, Fielding, you’re not gonna waste my time, are you?’
‘Well I hope – ’
‘It was Mannering Park wasn’t it?’

Jonathon looked at Heinmannn.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Mannering Park. The Jane Austen book that you were gonna do for us.’
‘Mansfield Park, you mean.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Mannering Park is the pet cemetary, I always get confused… Anyway, have you got the designs?’

Jonathon fumbled with the catch on his portfolio, then hurriedly pulled out the sheaf of papers. While he spread them out on the desk, Heinmannn scratched around for his cigarettes, eventually finding them in the jacket hanging on his chair.

The publisher lit a cigarette and looked down at the designs. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he looked up at Fielding and said:

‘So… what is this bullcrap?’
‘It’s the cover, sir. For Mansfield Park.’
‘Who’s that supposed to be?’

Heinmannn pointed at the main figure in the illustration, a woman sitting in the shadow of an alcove in an empty room.

‘Why that’s Fanny Price’ said Jonathon. He looked again at his rendering of the lonely girl. He had given her a simple prettiness, but made sure to mask it with sadness. He liked the way the alcove seemed to be swallowing her up – as though she were trying to become part of the fabric of Mansfield Park and at the same time remove herself from the turmoil of human interaction. It was a dark picture for a front cover, that was true, but then it was dark novel. And there was one element of light in the picture: Edmund’s silver locket that hung around Fanny’s neck and which caught the light.

‘Who?’ asked Heinmannn.
‘She’s the heroine of the story – a poor girl who goes to live with her rich cousins, and they – ‘
‘No, but who is she? The woman you drew? It looks a little like Deborah Kerr, but… more like a man…’
‘Oh, I… I just created her.’

Heinmannn looked at Jonathon.

‘Ok, so if I ask you to do this picture again, and next time to create a woman who looks a lot like Jane Russell, would that be a problem?’
‘Well, I… The thing is, Fanny Price isn’t –’
‘Don’t waste my time Fielding. I don’t care about Fanny Price, I care about Jane Russell. Here’s how it works: I would very much enjoy giving Jane Russell children, and because of that I want to buy this book. Next question, where’s the swordfight?’
‘There isn’t a swordfight in the novel, sir.’
‘Ah – but there is a mad woman in the attic, right?’
‘No, that’s Jane Eyre.’
‘Well, what is there? A sea monster? A headless ghost?’
‘No, I…’

With the air of a desperate governor talking to the young master of the house, Jonathon stumbled through what there was in Mansfield Park: an old schoolroom, a makeshift theatre and a ha-ha. Reluctantly, Heinmannn allowed himself to be dragged through the plot, but he kept interrupting Jonathon to leap at possible apparitions, aliens and ferocious animals that might feature on his cover.

‘…Anyway, when Fanny comes back from Plymouth she finds the Bertrams in turmoil –’
‘Because the animals have risen against them, correct?’

Jonathon, on the brink of tears, could only shake his head. Heinmannn looked at him, frowned and stubbed his cigarette out on the desk.

‘Well anyway Fielding, how does it end? Or does this bullcrap just go on forever?’
‘At the end, Fanny marries Edmund.’

Heinmannn lit another cigarette and stood in contemplation for a few seconds. ‘Fanny marries Edmund’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘Edmund the priest.’
‘Yes – well, vicar.’
‘Fanny’s cousin.’
‘Erm, yes, well – ’

Fielding felt like the Dutch boy holding back the flood, who had just followed an impulse to check his watch.

‘So we could say, just here’, Heinmannn tapped the top of the design, ‘“A cousin’s love is impossible to resist – even for a holy man!” And we’ll have a picture of Jane Russell sitting on the alter, sort of leaning back with the top three - that’s three not two - buttons on her blouse undone, and Gregory Peck is trying to shield her from his eyes with his crucifix, and in the doorway there’s a ghostly presence: it’s Clark Gable with stigmata, and he’s weeping. Fielding, you’re a genius! Sharpen your pencils, we’re gonna make a lot of money…’

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Some of this artwork comes from Slate Magazine

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