It’s a tradition. Or an old cliché or something.

Inspectre Hovis took a pinch of snuff and paced over to the big notice board behind his desk. “These young fellow-me-lads,” he said, pointing to a row of twelve grainy photographs. “These young fellow-me-lads here.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said an anonymous constable who had a good memory, “but aren’t they the young fellow-me-lads who were caught on the speed-trap cameras five years ago?”

“Correct,” said Hovis. “An unsolved case. And one that hangs over me like some sword of Androcles.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said an anonymous constable who had been classically trained (probably the one in the Greek Tragedy poem), “but surely that should be Damocles. Androcles was the chap with the lion, you know.”

Inspectre Hovis nodded thoughtfully, paced over to the constable and stamped upon his foot. The classically trained constable hopped about for a bit and then returned to anonymity.

“One of these young fellow-me-lads,” said Hovis, returning to the photographs, “is a murderer. I know this as surely as I know the back of my own head.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said an anonymous constable who had studied anatomy as well as turns of phrase. “But surely that should be hand.”

Hovis paced over and stamped on his foot.

“To continue,” said the Inspectre. “I know for a fact that these young fellow-me-lads are big fans of the Beatles. And if they do not turn up at the concert in Gunnersbury Park today then I’m a Welshman.”

Hovis paused.

The anonymous constable with the geography ‘O’ level kept his counsel.

“Just testing,” said Hovis. “Now, I want all you lot in plain clothes.”

“Oooooooooooo,” went the anonymous constables. “Plain clothes, how exciting.”

“Yes, and none of you are to wear your helmets this time. It gives the game away. I want these young fellow-me-lads and I want them today. Do I make myself clear?”

The constables nodded anonymously.

“Right, then draw copies of these photos from the front desk, get into your civvies and bugger off to the park. Do you understand me? Bugger off!”

Buggery has always been a popular prison pastime.

It ranks higher than scratching your initials on cell walls, fashioning guns and keys from soap, lying about what crimes you’ve committed and protesting that you were fitted up by the filth.

Oh, and tunnelling out. Tunnelling out has always been a very popular prison pastime.

But not so popular as buggery.

Buggery wins hands down.

And bottom-cheeks apart.

Small Dave hadn’t been buggered once. His reputation had entered the prison before him and any aspiring buggerers kept a respectful distance from the vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard who had cut Parkie short on prime-time TV.

Not that Small Dave had been given a lot of opportunity to get himself buggered. He hadn’t. They had banged Dave up in the high-security wing of the new Virgin Serving the Community Secure Accommodation Unit, which stood upon what had recently been an area of outstanding natural beauty, right next door to the Brentford nick.

Small Dave was a Rule 42 merchant. Solitary confinement and a close mesh on the window.

So Dave kept himself pretty much to himself. And busied himself with a pastime of his own.

Small Dave was tunnelling out.

Now, the major problem with tunnelling out is this: What do you do with all the earth?

Small Dave asked Norman about this during one of their little afternoon get-togethers, Norman inhabiting as he did the cell next door to Dave, and having already removed several of the bricks from the dividing wall by means of a chisel he’d fashioned from soap.

“The secret,” said Norman, “is to dig not one hole but two. And put all the earth you’ve dug from the first hole into the second one.”

Small Dave made the face of thought. “But what about all the earth you’ve dug from the second hole?” he asked.

“That’s where the science comes in,” explained Norman. “If you dig your second hole twice the size of your first hole, there’ll be enough room in it for all the earth.”

Small Dave made with the approving nods. “And is that how you’re meaning to escape?” he asked.

“Actually, no. I thought I’d just blow my way out with the help of this stick of dynamite that Zorro the paper boy smuggled in.”

Small Dave whistled. “That’s a really big stick of dynamite,” he said. “How exactly did Zorro manage to smuggle that in?”

Norman leaned over and downwards and whispered.

“Bugger that!” said Dave.

“Bugger me!” said Soap to himself. “I’m never going to find Geraldo amongst all this mob.”

And quite a fair old mob it was by now. They were still plodding in through the park gates and bottle-necking up amongst the concession stalls and T-shirt stands and beer wagons and overpriced Portaloos and all the rest that had been flown in beneath a fleet of helicopters. But the Brentford sun was shining bravely and it did have all the makings of a beautiful day.

The world’s media were there in force. Camera teams and up-front girlie presenters in boob tubes and belly button piercings. Eager to grab the old soundbites from the kids for the evening news.

Because the Beatles could still make the news. They were British Institutions, each of them. And they were safe and cosy establishment figures. Part of society’s furniture.

They’d been bought off with their medals from the Queen (John had apologized for giving his back and Prince Charles had bunged him a replacement in the Royal Mail). And they gave the public what the public thought it wanted. Which is slightly different from giving the public what it actually needs. Which is a boot up the arse sometimes.

Yes, the Beatles were dead fab and the devil take the man who says they’re not.

A girlie presenter in a boob tube with belly button piercing stuck out her mic towards a not-so-fattish chap in a black T-shirt and shorts. “And do you dig the Beatles?” was her question.

“Not really,” said the chap in a squeaky voice. “I think they’re pretty crass. Although we’ve just come here straight from their last gig at Wembley Stadium.”

“But their last gig at Wembley Stadium was twenty-five years ago. You wouldn’t even have been born.”

“Ah, no, of course not,” said the chap. “What I meant to say was that we’ve just come here after watching it on video. But it’s really the Gandhis we’ve come to see.”

“You dig the Gandhis, then?”

“And then some. And this concert’s going to be special.”

“Special? In what way special?”

“Just make sure your cameras are pointing at the stage after the Beatles finish their set,” said Geraldo (for who else could it be but he?). “You’ll see something you’ll never forget. Trust me. I know what I’m saying.”

“Trust me, I know what I’m saying,” said The Voice.

“Well, you should,” said Wingarde. “You’re God.”

“Precisely,” said The Voice. “So perhaps you’d like to hurry up with what you’re doing. God does not like conducting conversations with people who are sitting on the toilet.”

“I’m almost done,” said Wingarde, making the face of strain. “So what is it you want me to do this time?”

“Something important that must be done today.”

“But I’m meeting the Beatles today and I’m making history again. This concert could never have happened if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Are you forgetting me?” asked The Voice.

“No, sir.” Wingarde finished his bottom business, rose from the bog seat, turned around and peered down at his doings.

“Why do men always do that?” asked The Voice. “It’s disgusting.”

Wingarde shrugged and wiped his bum. Doing that horrible thing some people do, of folding and refolding the paper.