Our newly-appointed head of merchandising, Mr Rodney Plunkett, would like a few words with you all on the occasion of our shop relaunch.
Yes, hello, Plunkers here, and I must say that this is a bit of a turnip for the old books, or however the expression goes. Old Rodders, who the fellows back at my old school once voted ‘Chap Most Likely to Accidentally Flush Himself Down the Toilet’, being made head of merchandising! And they said that I’d never amount to anything.
I must confess that the route to this present exalted position has been somewhat circuitous. After Cambridge, the Rodmeister was fast-tracked into a cushy little number at the Foreign Office, but I made rather a hash of it, I’m afraid. When a chap gets caught with his hand in the till, his nose in the personal affairs of the Ambassador for Lugash and his finger in a rather pretty little secretary called Janice, there’s really no option but to whisk him out of the way before the press can get a whiff of his aftershave.
Subsequent to this trifling setback my Aunt Jemima formed the opinion that a spell in the teaching profession might do me a world of good and, more importantly, keep me out of harm’s way. Aunt J being in a position to pull a few strings - and a formidable sod to boot - she soon obtained for me a cosy little post in a prep school, miles from civilisation in the wild and woolly badlands of East Anglia. I have to say that old Roddington really took to the life of a schoolmaster: drinking tea in the staff room, supervising rugger matches and occasionally scrawling ‘could do better’ in the odd exercise book. But for the incident of the albino donkey, the margarine and the industrial strength suction pump, I would have been there still.
There followed similarly ignominious stints in the South African police, an animal charity, as headline writer for the Bbc ‘news’ website, and as a solicitor. In this last post yours truly very nearly earned the distinction of securing the first hanging in Britain since 1964, for a man I was defending on a parking offence. I was also a merchant banker for a while - that didn’t end well.
Not to worry. When a fellow has a CV like that to his name, it’s only a matter of time before someone comes a-knocking. Happily, the people doing the hammering on Roddypoop’s door were those jolly chaps from The University of the Bleeding Obvious. Actually, Aunt Jemima was instrumental in this instance as well - apparently she has Polaroids of that Farnsworth fellow. I haven’t seen them myself, but Uncle Steven says they’re pretty racy stuff.
But so much for all this flim-flammery. The point is the UBO chaps have relaunched the shop, with the books that they brought out years ago, and some spanking brand new T-shirts, which I’m told is what the kids really go for. And they wanted the Rodulator to generally ‘big it up’, get the word out, so to speak, and drum up a bit of trade. And of course, my first response once given this awe-inspiring task was obvious: sandwiches.
T-shirts and books are all very splendid, but in my experience what the baying public really wants is somewhere it can get a really good sandwich. Not as easy at it sounds, once you’ve looked into it. It’s the packaging that really taxes the old bean – just can’t seem to get the hang of it. Most of the more fragile concoctions don’t survive in transit, and anything involving mayonnaise just trickles out of the envelope. We’re experimenting with crease-resistant lettuce and reinforced chicken, but until we get it right, you’ll just have to be content with the more traditional fare.
TTFN.
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