Liar’s Kingdom (10base8) : The Emperor of Lancashire.

There are many disappointments in life, but I can safely say that not even the rejection of my novel – ah wait…

Expository digression alert: it is recommended, for those requiring linear narrative, that you skip at least eight lines.

1. Well, of course, it wasn’t exactly rejected. Not immediately. A pivotal

2. character was a (fictitious) relative of a famously litigious family. So I

3. changed it. The protagonist was a cartoonish 19^th century anti-semite.

4. Since he was the narrator every word from his mouth condemned him

5. and his views for racist and plainly wrong. However, it was assumed

6. I had written what I knew. I did rewrite the book, but it never did

7. get published. That was the last time I really tried. If you don’t try,

8. you cannot fail, after all. So call me a Liar, but, honestly, it was the

9. one and only time I ever tried. Besides, self-sabotage is funnier

10. than success.

… is as disappointing as hearing Jeanne Moreau speak.

‘Sa-oond, ah nevah bin down ‘ere before. It looks as borin’ as Oldham.’

Ms Moreau, star of not a few teenage fantasies, speaks as if she were the love-child of Liam Gallagher and Lisa Stansfield. Cerberus shrugs and his hump changes sides. I imagine he’ll be on all fours again soon. I hold out a hand, Ms Moreau shakes it and then accepts my hand. If only she won’t open her mouth again, I think.

‘Is thu enneh tea?’

I feel I am being punished for thinking about tea earlier. Ms Moreau is looking at me strangely.

‘Wha’? Don’t yeh speak English, fellah?’

It slips out, ‘Don’t you?’

‘Me mam were from Lancashire, ‘course ah dew!’

‘Sa-oond,’ I say.

I would like to say that at this point I live out my clearasil-spattered fantasies, but life isn’t like Frank presents it in Bwana Dik. No, Ms Moreau is looking at me expectantly, waiting for a cuppa and I know I’m going to give her one, come hell or hot water. And the tea of course. I’d better stop that carry on, I think.

Cereberus hasn’t turned into the hump-backed hound, but he is rolling around on his hump next to the French Lancastrian with his belly exposed. He gets the toe of my shoe in his ribcage but continues to wriggle for a few seconds before standing up.

‘Well, it does get confusing,’ he says.

At least he wasn’t rubbing up and down against her leg, or mine.

‘Think of a number between 1 and 10!’

‘Zero,’ says Cereberus.

‘Faah-ve,’ says the French movie siren.

‘Never mind, just join hands and think of tea.’

Surprisingly Cereberus complies, but then I realise that if I’m holding Jeanne Moreau’s hand then so is he, so it’s not so amazing after all.

I go down the row of cabinets stop at number 5, and, yes there is a bone china tea set. They have followed and Ms Moreau lets out a

‘Ma foi!’

‘Shall Ah bi’ moth-eh?’ I’m starting to sound like the Emperor of Lancashire, myself.

Cereberus nods and Ms Moreau winks and says

‘Bien sûr!’

She sounds better in French.

I pour us all a nice cuppa tea.