Excerpt from Johnny Nothing – the funniest kids book since American Psycho

More shameless self-promotion. To celebrate the fact that my little kids book ‘Johnny Nothing’ is finally available in paperback here’s an excerpt in which the MacKenzie family go on a round the world trip and encounter lots of really dreadful puns.

Chapter 10 – Holiday

Now that the MacKenzie family was rich the world was their lobster. ‘I’m going on a trip!’ announced Felicity MacKenzie a couple of days after her latest spending spree. ‘And since it’s school holidays Johnny can come too. Say thank-you, Johnny.’

‘Thank-you,’ said Johnny weakly.

So the family packed up their belongings: Mrs. MacKenzie took four large trunks full of clothing, make-up and baked beans (in case she didn’t like foreign food). Mr. MacKenzie took two medium sized suitcases crammed with copies of the Racing Post, electronic gadgets and cans of lager (in case he didn’t like foreign beer). Johnny took a Sainsbury’s carrier bag stuffed with a few comics, some pencils and a change of underpants.

The trio boarded a plane to Paris in France. The grown-ups sat at the front in first class, sipping champagne and eating posh caviare sandwiches. Johnny sat at the back of the plane in economy class. There he read his comics and tried to ignore the chorus of howling babies that surrounded him. (Most airlines make it compulsory that there is at least one howling baby in the cheaper section of the plane. The idea is to encourage passengers to pay extra to go and sit in the expensive section of the plane. For long haul flights they try to ensure that there is at least three howling babies per passenger.)

When they got to Paris it took Mrs. MacKenzie only a day or so to get bored with the French. She objected to the fact that most of them didn’t speak English. And when her attempts at speaking French failed she grew restless. (In other words, she did what most English tourists do when they are abroad – she spoke English, only slower and louder than usual and expected everyone to understand what she was going on about.)

After copping an eyeful of the big tower in Paris she insisted that the family get on another plane and go somewhere better. Over the next couple of weeks they flew all over the world at tremendous cost. But nowhere was good enough for the MacKenzies:

• They went to Amsterdam but found the Dutch tulippy.

• They took a slow boat to China but they were bored to death by the time they got there.

• They went to Coventry but the locals wouldn’t talk to them.

• They flew to Warsaw but found it an eyesore.

• They found Cuba dull (although everyone else seemed to be Havana good time).

• They went to Egypt but the pyramids were like a prism.

• They went to Sao Paulo but thought the Brazilians were nuts.

• They sailed to Costa Rica but it Costa fortune.

• They got hungry in Hungary.

• So they had turkey in Turkey.

• And then chicken in Kiev.

• And crackers in Caracas.

• And visited a Deli in Delhi.

• They got thirsty in Chertsey.

• So they had high tea in Haiti.

• Then drank iced tea in the Black Sea.

• They went for a wander in Rwanda.

• Something went wrong in Hong Kong.

• They weren’t bowled over by Moldova.

• They found Chile too cold.

• They bought perfume in Cologne.

• Mr. MacKenzie had a very painful accident in Bangkok.

• They found Nuremberg a trial.

• They thought that Guinea was fowl.

• They went to a party in Toga.

• Things got vicious in Mauritius.

• They saw sea shells sitting in the Seychelles.

• They watched the Gaza Strip.

• They heard the Galway Bay.

• They saw the Colorado Springs.

• They got lost on the way to San Jose.

• They bought new pyjamas in the Bahamas.

• They couldn’t settle in Seattle.

• They got catarrh in Qatar.

• It was not so great in Crete.

• In the end they simply flew back to France – they had nothing Toulouse.

Back in France Mrs. MacKenzie declared that the rest of the world was boring. That it was dull. That it was overrated. That the food was funny. That in future she’d be taking her holidays back in England. They boarded one final plane and ended up in Weston-Super-Mare. There Mrs. MacKenzie spent a contented week sitting indoors watching the rain and complaining about the English weather, the English food, the price of alcohol, how ugly the tourists were and about how foreigners were taking over our country and should go back to where they belonged.

She smothered herself in fake tan, not forgetting to brown her eyelids. She fed lit cigarettes to the seagulls. She wore a ‘Kiss Me Quick’ hat that terrified her fellow holidaymakers. She hogged the karaoke machine. She lost hundreds of pounds playing the slot machines on the pier.

She had never been so happy.

If you fancy purchasing Johnny Nothing it’s really cheap and available at:

http://goo.gl/WTyNRV

http://goo.gl/Z7KwEL

My book is being pirated — am I bothered? No.… Help yourself.

Yesterday someone pointed out to me that my kids book, Johnny Nothing, is available to download for free on some dodgy website. This has happened to me a few times with other books in the past but it’s a first for Johnny Nothing.

Am I bovvered? Not at all. Let them have it. Let them read it. Let them hopefully tell people about it who also download it. Who knows whose hands it might fall into?

There are so many reasons why I cannot and will not start bleating on about people downloading my book. Probably the chief one is hypocrisy. And whilst I am not overjoyed that people are stealing my work without paying for it (believe me, I’d much rather get paid) I’m not going to waste my time trying to stop it.

So here’s the dodgy link: http://ift.tt/1m80tyh

It’s a bit of a scam because you have to sign up to download, which I have not done. Maybe you will. Alternatively, Here’s the links if you do want to get the book legitimately and buy me a beer in the process:

http://goo.gl/WTyNRV

http://goo.gl/Z7KwEL

Nice review of Johnny Nothing

http://ift.tt/1xb5OtA

Glyn Leach – farewell to a boxing stalwart

In the last few years so many people I know have died that I seem to be in a constant state of shock. Friends, colleagues and family: they’ve all been dropping like flies. Heart attacks, cancer, Motor Neurone Disease – fate, it seems, has no trouble in coming up with different ways of killing us all. And none of them are pleasant.

This week yet another friend of mine died. His name was Glyn Leach. He was only fifty-four-years-of-age and best known to the world of boxing as the long-standing editor of Boxing Monthly. I hadn’t actually seen him in person since 22 November 1990. I remember that date because it was the day that Margaret Thatcher resigned from government. It was also the day that I was sacked as editor of the magazine’s sister publication Boxing Weekly.

But what I’m about to write is not about me. It’s about Glyn, and Bola, and Jon, and Anna, and my father. And other people who shall remain nameless. People who have in some way touched me, been important to me. And Glyn was one of them.

Let me take you back to 1989. The dark, dusty, internet free days of 1989. It’s seems impossible to me that I’m talking about a quarter of a century ago. Not because it really does seem like yesterday but because I can still smell and taste that decade on my fingers and toes. I’d just walked out on a job as boxing reporter for the Sunday Sport and been invited to come and work for the company that published Boxing Monthly. Although the magazine was still in its first year the publishers were full of confidence and ambition. They were in the process of launching a weekly edition. They wanted me to edit it.

The operation was run from a suite of rooms above a newsagents in Notting Hill. Glamorous it was not. The place smelled of piss. The one solitary toilet was a health hazard, as was the owner of the company who operated a revolving door policy. Staff were in and out of the building on a daily basis. New faces replaced old with alarming regularity. It was sometimes difficult to remember the names of the people you were supposed to be working with.

Masterminding the chaos was Edward Crawshaw, a charming ex-public school rogue who was an accountant turned art dealer. At his side was Barry Hugman, a boxing statistician and editor of the British Boxing Yearbook (who one ex-Boxing Monthly editor – now Eurosport commentator – once cruelly claimed ‘put the chin in Hitching’).

I turned up on my first morning in the job to find that I was the only one there. There were no other staff members. It transpired that there had been an argument a day earlier and all the staff had walked out. To better things, I might add. Eventually Crawshaw and Hugman appeared and brought with them some new staff members. There was Chris, a university graduate from up north, and Lee, a recent school leaver (who still happens to be one of the funniest people I have ever met). Neither of them had any experience of running a weekly paper. Neither of them had ever had a solitary word published – not even in the school magazine let alone the national press. And I was only a child myself – not yet twenty-five. It was clear that difficult times were ahead for us all.

A couple of weeks later Glyn joined the cast. From what I remember he had been regularly corresponding with Barry Hugman in the hope of getting a start in boxing journalism. Hugman had apparently invited him to his house and given him a subbing test, which Glyn had passed. What sealed the deal was Glyn’s offer to work for free.

I don’t much recall Glyn’s entrance: Boxing Weekly was only days away from launch and we were all too busy to welcome a new arrival with any pomp and ceremony. Glyn just rolled up his sleeves and helped out where he could. Even then it was clear that Glyn was a grafter. He was prepared to live in the Boxing Weekly offices if that’s what it took. And he frequently did.

I may be wrong but I think that I had the privilege of editing the very first piece that Glyn offered to Boxing Weekly. If I recall correctly it was about Frank Bruno. It was a little rough around the edges but Glyn quickly and quietly improved, becoming an accomplished writer and commentator on boxing.

I spent a year at Boxing Weekly and it was most definitely the hardest year of my life. Unless you have ever been in this situation it is difficult to understand just how tough it is to run a weekly paper. It really is like being on a treadmill. After the euphoria and relief of completing the paper in the early hours of a Saturday morning it was back to the grindstone: the planning meeting on Monday morning, the allocation of tasks to staff members and freelancers, the continual worry that the pages might not be filled, that photographs might not turn up. The constant threat of legal action from managers, promoters and boxers.

And when the day’s work was over, more work. This time spent attending the fights that would be reported in next week’s issue. Attending them to such a degree that I personally began to resent the sport of boxing for the demands it was placing upon me. The scrambling to achieve deadlines, the constant worry.

What made things harder for Boxing Weekly was the paucity of funds that were provided for the editorial team. We really did live from hand to mouth. On too many occasions contributors and suppliers would not be paid and instead of working on the paper I would find myself engaged in lengthy telephone conversations attempting to placate creditors. Even worse, staff members would often not be paid, myself included. It was the ultimate slap in the face for all the work that we had been putting in.

Of course there were laughs. Sometimes episodes of manic laughter when all of us would get drunk and offload the strain that we had been going through. Our habit of calling everyone ‘matey’ for no apparent reason. The time Lee called up Paul McCartney in the middle of the night and swore at him. The time all the computers were removed from the office by men in crash helmets as we worked. The time a drunken Kirkland Laing crashed the offices knocking over everything in his way.

Yes, there were laughs. But those laughs were mainly overshadowed by the constant grind. Grind like nothing else on earth.

The reason I talk about all this is because Glyn experienced this grind for over a quarter of a century. I lasted a year before I was burned out but Glyn, being the grafter that was, carried on and carried on. And carried on.

He carried on when he arrived into work one morning to find all the computers gone and along with them all the staff. He carried on when the magazine went bust, obtaining a bank loan and purchasing half of the magazine outright. He carried on when the internet arrived and everyone in the world was suddenly a published writer. He carried on when paper was superseded by pixels. He just carried on. And for the succeeding generations of boxers and boxing fans it was as if he had always been there and would be forever.

A few years ago Glyn and I got back in touch. We became FB friends and began exchanging messages and emails. We planned to meet up and have a few beers. But it never happened. In one of our very last FB exchanges Glyn told me that he was arranging a lunch with another former Boxing Monthly editor, the kind and knowledgable George Zeleny. But now that, too, will never happen.

Now twenty years older, Glyn and I had other things in common. I was on the verge of having a hip replacement and he had just had one himself. I wanted his advice. Earlier this year Glyn surprised me by telling me that he had suffered a seizure, in which he had collapsed but made a full recovery. Except for the fact that he found it difficult to concentrate when he was working. In retrospect, alarm bells should have been ringing then and perhaps they were. In the March issue of Boxing Monthly Glyn confessed at length to feeling the strain of that continual grind in an editorial that was completely out of character for him.

The outpouring of grief and sadness on Twitter and on the many boxing sites that now proliferate has been genuinely moving for me and those who knew Glyn. And this is my own way of saying goodbye, of tipping my hat to someone who always commanded respect. You made a difference, Glyn, and although you’d no doubt be laughing at the the sentimentality of that last statement, an awful lot of people are already missing you far too much.

Ian Probert 2014

http://ift.tt/1qslpll

http://ift.tt/1qslpll

Author interview

http://ift.tt/W4hMo5

The Comeback — Chapter 06

Vincent Mortego’s urgent appointment was waiting for him in the basement of the Papua and New Guinean embassy near London Bridge. Robert Angelis was wearing the same suit that he had on fourteen hours earlier when little Clyde had initiated this meeting. He looked tired and stressed but his eyes were alert with fear.

Vincent’s arrival was inauspicious. After leaving Simon Clarke he had driven to his Hackney home and quickly changed into a tracksuit. It had taken him under an hour to leisurely jog the three-and a-half miles to his office. Vincent liked to run whenever he could. He recognised the importance of a fit body and a fit mind.

‘Mr. Angelis,’ he said, casually strolling into the room holding a bunch of keys and what looked like a small plastic sandwich box. ‘A Greek name, yes?’

Robert Angelis was sitting in the only chair of the basement of Vincent’s offices. Some years earlier it had been converted into a gym so that Vincent could work out whenever he felt like it. ‘Yes… that’s right,’ said Robert quietly, almost embarrassed.

The gym was sparse: there were a few weights lying around on the floor; there was a running machine in one corner where a locked metal storage cupboard stood beside it. In the middle of the chamber was a large massage table which was unremarkable except for the leather straps that hung loosely from each corner. There were no windows in the room, which had also been soundproofed.

‘Catch!’ said Vincent, throwing the plastic sandwich box towards Robert. ‘Excellent! Very good reflexes!’

Standing behind Robert was Clyde Grainger. Clyde was a former bantamweight boxer with the build and stature of a jockey. He had close cropped blonde hair and brown eyes like a squirrel. He often accompanied Vincent and always wore a neatly-pressed suit. Most people who met him assumed that he was Vincent’s second-in-command, although the title had never been made official. He let out a high-pitched cackle which made Robert Angelis flinch slightly.

‘Calm down Mr. Angelis,’ said Vincent. ‘You mustn’t let Clyde spook you so easily. I can assure you his bite’s far worse than his bark.’

‘Look…’ Robert began to speak but his voice trailed off.

‘Do you know who I am?’ asked Vincent.

There was a pause. Robert Angelis shook his head.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Although I’m sure we have a mutual acquaintance.’

Robert fidgeted in his chair and felt pain in his ribs. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had been leaving the Embassy Club in Mayfair when Clyde had emerged from the shadows holding his favourite weapon of choice. Most people used a pestle for grinding herbs and spices but Clyde found that it fit perfectly into his jacket pocket and could quickly disable even the largest person if employed correctly.

‘I guess I’m what you might call an advisor,’ continued Vincent. ‘I help people… I guide people… And I sort out problems from time to time.’

‘What’s this got to do with me?’ Robert finally found his voice. He sounded a little like a school prefect.

Vincent smiled. His pure white teeth were immaculate. He could easily have passed for a movie star. ‘I have quite a range of clients… Although the majority are athletes. One of my clients, for example, is at West Ham – young but an excellent prospect… Another is rather a big name at Chelsea Football Club, scores a lot of goals… I also have another client who is a very famous central defender who plies his trade with Arsenal. He has more than fifty England caps actually.’

Vincent watched as Robert’s face suddenly reddened.

‘Oh… I see that you might have an idea who I’m talking about,’ said Vincent.

‘Look…’ Robert’s voice trailed off a second time.

‘Look at what?’ asked Vincent sharply.

Robert shuffled about in his chair and groaned a little. He clutched his ribs. ‘Look… I was having a quiet night out with some friends and this man… This man bloody attacked me…’ Robert turned his head in the direction of Clyde. ‘It’s a damned outrage!’

Vincent raised a single eyebrow. ‘Oxbridge?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Oxbridge? Your accent is public school. Are you Oxbridge educated?’

‘Er… No. Exeter actually. What’s that got…’

‘Interesting… Not quite top of the heap. Second division…’

Robert was still holding the plastic container. He felt its weight in his hands. It seemed to be empty. Although when he looked at it he could just about make out something inside wrapped in tissue paper.

‘My client has a problem. Do you think you might know what it is Mr. Angelis?’

Robert did not reply.

‘Nothing to say? Let me see if I can help you remember.’

‘Look… It’s all a big mistake…’

‘There’s that word again. Look at what?’

‘It’s all an error. It’s silly… We can sort it out. There’s no need for…’

Vincent moved closer to Robert. He leaned over towards him so that the other man was able to smell his breath. ‘I know that we can sort it out. I’m completely sure of that,’ he said. ‘Now take your clothes off.’

The room fell silent. Robert’s mouth gaped open. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.

‘You heard me correctly. I said take your clothes off.’

Robert set the plastic box on to his lap and gripped the sides of the chair with both hands, unwilling to let go. Vincent shook his head reproachfully. ‘Not playing ball, eh?’ he said. ‘Clyde, would you mind popping out and fetching Tina? I assume that you have the address?’

Robert let out a gasp and now attempted to climb to his feet but was roughly pushed back into position by Clyde standing behind him.

‘No problem, Mister Mortego,’ said Clyde in his market trader accent.

‘Let’s see if Tina minds taking her clothes off,’ said Vincent.

‘Leave her out of this!’ said Robert, his bottom lip quivering.

‘Then please take your clothes off.’

Robert Angelis slowly got to his feet and reluctantly removed his jacket, looking wide-eyed at Vincent as he did so. It dropped to the cold wooden floor. He took off his tie and then his shirt. He undid the laces of his shoes and stepped out of them. Finally he removed his trousers, also letting them fall to the floor.

‘The underwear if you don’t mind,’ said Vincent.

Robert turned to look at Clyde for a moment and then did as instructed. He stood naked before the two men, his body tanned and slim, except for a slight roll of blubber around his stomach. Under his right arm was an angry bruise the size of a grapefruit. Clyde’s smile mocked him.

‘You see, the thing is,’ said Vincent, ‘as an educated man I’m sure you will understand that there is no better way of establishing superiority over another person than the enforced removal of clothing…’

Vincent slowly circled Robert, inspecting every part of his body. ‘…You literally feel naked, don’t you?’

Robert trembled and nodded his head submissively.

‘It also looks like you’ve shit yourself,’ added Vincent, sorting through the bunch of keys and strolling over to the metal cupboard.

‘Some time ago my client came to me with a problem.’ continued Vincent. ‘Namely £175,000 missing from his bank account. He asked if I could help and naturally I told him I could. It cost me a little money I can tell you but I was able to employ the services of a forensic accountant. You do know what a forensic accountant is don’t you Mr. Angelis?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Being an accountant yourself I assumed that you would. Anyway, it didn’t take long for him to discover a breadcrumb trail and guess where it led?’

‘Look…’

‘There’s that fucking word again…. Clyde?’

‘Yes Mr. Montego.’

‘I’m getting irritated. Strike Mr. Angelis if he says it again. Hard.’

‘Will do, Mr. Montego.’

‘If I can continue: The point is, Mr. Angelis, is that my client wants his money back. Are you in a position to return it. Yes or no?’

‘I… I… Didn’t…’

‘Yes or fucking no?’

There was a pause then: ‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. Very pleased to hear it.’

‘Can you do this by the end of tomorrow?’

‘It’s not going to be…’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes… I think… Yes.’

‘Excellent. There’s also the matter of my commission. I’m going to be charging you my usual 15%. In addition to this my client is entitled to the interest that he has lost as a result of your activities. I’ve taken the liberty of rounding off the figure to 200K. Do you have a problem with this?’

Robert Angelis’s face grew pale. A vein throbbed in his forehead. ‘That’s not fucking fair,’ he finally managed to say.

Once again Vincent Mortego grinned. ‘It’s not is it? But what can you do?’

Robert was silent once more.

‘Because I don’t need to say that if you do not comply with my request Clyde here will be very unhappy. And he’s know for his temper. There’s no telling what he might do to you… Or Tina.’

‘You fucking bastard.’

‘Not so Mr. Angelis. Both my parents are alive and flourishing thank you very much. The question remains, however, is what is to be done with you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I mean is that it’s obviously not going to be enough for you just to return the money that you stole from my client. You must also be taught a lesson.’

‘I don’t understand…’

‘I think you do, Mr. Angelis. As a matter of fact only recently I was having a similar sort of conversation with another acquaintance of mine. He wasn’t quite so educated as your good self. Take a look inside the box I gave to you earlier.’

Robert looked confused. The box was now at his feet. He picked it up and felt its weight once more.

‘Open it.’

Robert Angelis gasped and dropped the box. Its contents rolled on to the floor. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed.

‘I recall we having a philosophical debate,’ said Vincent. ‘We were talking about what made our species so successful, so efficient. We thought about the wheel… We thought about fire…

‘In the end we decided that it was opposing thumbs that achieved this. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Robert said nothing and nodded his head sadly.

‘Needless to say, the acquaintance in question is fifty per cent as efficient as he once was. Or fifty per cent less efficient, depending on how you look at it…’

‘Look… I don’t…’

There was a flash of movement from behind him. Robert collapsed to the floor in agony clutching his ribs. Vincent waited a few moments before speaking again.

‘I told you to stop saying that fucking word,’ he said, his voice for the first time betraying anger. ‘Now fucking get up and lie face down on that thing.’ Vincent was pointing at the massage table.

‘Do it fucking now!

Robert slowly got to his feet. He was trembling as he climbed on to the massage table. He whimpered a little as he discovered what the leather straps were for. ‘You look ludicrous with your hairy white arse sticking up the air,’ laughed Vincent. ‘Shame I don’t have a camera.’

Robert was now bound firmly to the massage table. The leather straps tight around his wrists and ankles, cutting off the blood supply.

‘You mentioned earlier that you were of Greek origin.’

Robert did not respond.

‘Speak man! Jesus Christ! Fucking speak!’

‘Not… Not really – I’m pretty sure my grandfather was half Greek!’ Robert spoke urgently, his voice muffled.

‘Nevertheless an educated man such as yourself may have heard of falanga.’

‘What?’

‘Falanga. Surely you must be familiar with the word? Let me elaborate: It’s a form of punishment that was used by the Greek Junta during the sixties.’

Vincent fished around in the cupboard and pulled out a stiff wooden walking stick. He walked around to the front of the massage table so that Richard was able to see it clearly.

‘They were a brutal bunch the Greeks. Apparently the technique involved striking the soles of the feet with a stick or a whip… Or a cane.’

Richard made a sound like he was in pain and yelled out something unintelligible.

Vincent continued: ‘From what I’ve read falanga is particularly painful in view of the fact that the feet contain hundreds, perhaps thousands of nerve endings. If that isn’t bad enough the healing process can be very protracted.’

‘Please… I didn’t know…’

‘…Who you were dealing with. Well now you do. I hope you’re a good liar Mr. Angelsis. Because your going to have to explain to Tina – and your business colleagues – why you’ve suddenly developed a limp.’

‘Please…’

Vincent moved behind Robert Angelis. He swished the cane through the air. Robert began to shake violently, as if the temperature in the building had suddenly dropped below zero.

‘Left or right, Mr. Angelis?’

‘Huh?’

‘Left or right? Make your choice or I’ll do both.’

Robert began to sob.

‘Left or right? Last chance.’

‘Left,’ said Robert, his voice weak with terror.

There was a loud swish in the room. This was immediately followed by a scream of agony that would have been heard in the next street were it not for the soundproofing.

Vincent moved around to Richard’s front once more. He lowered himself on to his haunches so that his head was at the same height as the crying man’s.

‘Don’t fuck with me, Mr. Angelis,’ he said calmly. ‘Don’t fuck with me. Because next time I won’t be whipping your feet – I’ll be cutting them off. Do I make myself clear?’

In between his sobs, Robert managed to nod his head. ‘Yes! Yes!’ he cried.

‘I want that money back in my client’s bank account by close of play tomorrow. To repeat: that’s 200K in total. Understand?’

Robert seemed not to hear him.

‘Understand!’

‘Yes… Yes…’

‘And if it’s not there Clyde here will come looking for you and your lovely wife. And then things will get really messy. I can promise you that.’

Vincent scooped up the severed thumb and put it back in its container. Then he moved back over to the cupboard to return the cane. He locked it up and put the bundle of keys in his pocket.

‘One more thing, Mr. Angelis. There’s always one more thing, isn’t there? Clyde over there has had a very busy time because of you. He needs some form of compensation for his trouble. Isn’t that right Clyde?’

‘Yes Mr. Montego.’

‘As I said earlier, I really do hope that you’re a good liar Mr. Angelis. Because as well as that limp of yours, you’re going to have to explain to Tina why your arse is bleeding to fuck. I have every confidence that you can do it. Tell her it’s your haemorrhoids. ‘

Vincent moved to the exit of the gym. From the corner of his eye he could see that the diminutive figure of Clyde had already moved behind Robert Angelis and was unzipping his flies. In a few moments the walls of the gym would reverberate with the sound of more screams.