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.