PLAYGROUND HEROES

The weirdness started from the moment the camera fixed on Finbo Widger. It was obviously his face, for the human capacity to recognise people is phenomenal and worthy of scientific study, but there seemed to be something wrong with the Smile. For one thing, it was more of a Grimace, and lacking the dazzle it usually possessed; without which, it was possible to focus for the first time on the eyes, which the nation was astonished to see had a hunted, haunted look. Their owner, usually so chirpy and infuriating, looked as though he didn't want to be there. In fact, he looked as though he didn't want to be in this world; this world, his expression said, of fear and pain, tears and heartache. This man had seen the fires of Heck that burned behind the stage scenery painted with pritty flowers and ickle fluffy bunnies. The aforementioned eyes blazed with horror and accusation. How could you deceive me so, they cried, and the nation knew at once that the monumental fire of love for all the world and its people that he had espoused for so long had been snuffed out as easily as a tiny puff of breath could dissipate a candle flame. And his words confirmed.

"THE MASKED MARTIANS with their NEW SINGER Ferdie McIntyre HE'S THE VEEBIL I TELL YOU!"

Hurrah for Ferdie McIntyre! How cruel a peoples can be.

The studio tape started with a storm of percussion while Ogg sat there like a goon, creating yet another occasion where the featured artistes exposed the miming principle that everyone but the smallest pre-schooler knew about while wondering why the programme bothered to keep up the pretence. It wasn't until the bass fell in that he got the idea when he saw Phoebe's head bobbing as she pumped at her unplugged.

Buzz buzz, twang twang, flum flum, came the sound from a squillion TV speakers. On stage, however, all the Martians could hear was the echoing boom of Ogg attacking the provided kit with all his mustered strength. The guitarists could only flail wildly at their instruments and hope it was in time with the tape.

The only sound with the power to cut through was Ferdie's voice, trained over years of battle through the punishment of smoke and alcoholic dehydration. Wally's feeble yells of "Ogg! You're not supposed to actually hit them!" stood no chance.

If Finbo's introduction for the band was uncharacteristic, his subsequent attack on their singer was beyond previously possible imaginings.

To the sharp-eyed, or the blasé who refused to focus on the band, Finbo's disappearance from the podium would have seemed unusual; for unlike any of his compatriots, who had the habit of sneaking off for a swig or a smoke between announcements, Finbo tended to stay in position, jigging up and down to whatever song was playing, which he would invariably describe as "fantabulous" afterwards. But this was a night for the unusual, and nobody batted an eyelid - they didn't want to miss anything. So Nice Cup of Tea's drummer, having emerged from backstage to stand among the dancers and find out what the animated huddled conversations of the techs and audience hasslers were about, wasn't too phased when one of his miming sticks jumped out of his hand; so engrossed was he in the spectacle of one of the performing band's guitarists pretending to play with his foot, wobbling precariously on one leg whilst the other had been hoisted through the strap in strumming position, leaving the usurped arm to wave about in the air with the fingers at its farthest outpost arranged in a disdainful gesture. Those Mon Rockers made an awful racket, fiercely opposed to his own band's cheerful chewyfruit pop, but they certainly knew how to make an impression.

The rest of the crowd was similarly entranced and simply bobbed out of the way as a disturbance made its way through them. They only became aware of its identity as he leapt onto the stage, drumstick raised, and pounced on Ferdie.

"PERISH IN SPLINTERS, WICKED ONE!" howled Finbo, "I NAME THEE VEEBIL AND STAKE YOU WITH THE LANCE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS!"

He plunged the drumstick into Ferdie's heart. Or rather, he didn't. In fact he squashed it into a splodge on his victim's rancid vest. The miming prop was fashioned not of wood, but of putty. Finbo's face, no longer fixed in rigid beam, made the most of its freedom and ran through anger, bewilderment, realisation and fear as quickly as it dared. Ferdie's simply maintained its façade of mild belligerence. He grabbed his attacker's active arm as though to ward off further despoilment of his vestments, while Finbo tried to push himself away with the other, which still held his introducing microphone.

Something seemed to grab Ferdie's attention. He drew the face of Finbo closer to his own, and stared into the troubled eyes, now awash with tides of terror. Those observing expected the Widger to blub for mercy as tears rolled down the cheeks once so rosy and gay, now pale and drained; instead, it was Ferdie, the light of sudden recognition enlivening his visage, who broke the silence with his first decipherable word, picked up by Finbo's live radio mike and broadcast to the country.

"Brother," he grizzled.

"Popular pop programme Heart of the Charts, popular with pop fans, was rocked[1] earlier tonight during a performance by obscure Mon Rockers The Masked Martians when presenter Finbo Widger attempted to assassinate singer Ferdie McIntyre. Viewers all over the country witnessed his failure and heard the singer refer to him as 'brother'. (turns to co-presenter) What do you think he meant, Myreeta?"

"Well, Twimbit, I think he meant that Finbo was his brother."

(to camera) "An interesting spin there from Myreeta. Now, a film report from Aswil Fnad."

(VT - man with microphone standing in street. Young people jumping about behind him waving and shouting)

Reporter:	"I'm Aswil Fnad, and I'm here on the streets to ask some kids drinking cider who ought to be home tucked up in bed what they think of The Masked Martians. (to lout) What do you think of The Masked Martians?"
Lout:	"I think they're brill, right, 'coz Finbo Widger tried to kill the singer, I reckon they drove him mad! (sings) They drove Finbo, they drove Finbo, they drove Finbo Widger mad!"
R:	"And what do you think singer Ferdie McIntyre meant by 'brother'?"
L:	"He's his bruvver, innee! That's why he tried to kill him, right, so he couldn't tell nobody! He din't want anyone to know he was related to a mad Mon Rocker!"
Gang:	(sing) "We are the Mons, we are the Mons, we are the we are the we are the Mons!"
R:	"Well, there you have it; Ferdie McIntyre is Finbo Widger's secret sibling, say the louts on the street. Aswil Fnad, News at Night, out in the dark and cold surrounded by louts. Back to Twimbit and Myreeta in the nice warm studio."
Lout #2:	"Ere, give us a go on your mike, mate! Go on!"
R:	"Gerroff! It's mine! Ow!"

"Aswil Fnad there. So, the debate rages - just what exactly did Ferdie McIntyre mean by 'brother'?"

"They're brothers, Twimbit. Finbo Widger was unavailable for comment, and is said to have disappeared, as are The Masked Martians, who apparently left the studio immediately after the fateful performance. And finally… a talking parrot."

The Masked Martians were unaware of their new iconic status as they sat in the lounge of Bilson's Lumpen abode. He had graciously allowed them in for coffee and biscuits while Ferdie was sent off for shower, shave and fumigation. The latter had been quiet ever since Bilson had hustled them out of the studio before the aftermath of their performance could congeal, and had even uttered more recognisable English, including "please", "thank you", and once "OK, Mr Bilson". Soon he would be able to form full sentences. He sat there now all clean and polished with a nice mug of cocoa, having turned down the offer of something stronger. Without his bristle and grime, and clad in one of Bilson's less treasured casual outfits, it was possible to convince oneself that there was a certain family resemblance to Widger. But there were so many questions to be answered.

"Ferdie, are you really Finbo's brother?" Wally asked of the new pin.

Ferdie answered not.

"Ferdie, if you Finbo's brother be, how come you tramping man and he nationwide famous jiss dockey?" Phoebe tried.

Ferdie refrained from reply.

"Ferdie, if Finbo your brother be, how come you not recognise when met in Green Room?" persisted Flodge.

Ferdie was erudite in his silence.

"Look! Ogg balance custard cream on nose!"

Ferdie smiled indulgently at the drummer's trick.

"Now, now, Martians," came Bilson into the convo, "We’ve all had a hard day, and Ferdie's had a traumatic. He'll tell all when he's ready. When will you be ready, Ferdie?"

Ferdie sipped his cocoa.

"There will come the inevitable press furore, of course," Bilson warned.

"That's why it's inevitable."

"Thank you, Wally. I am now aware that you are aware of the meaning of the word 'inevitable'."

"And 'tautology'."

"Yes, all right, Wally."

"And 'floccinaucinihilpilification'. Although I can neither spell nor pronounce it."

"Oh? And what then is the meaning of 'floccinaucinihilpilification', which I also can neither spell nor pronounce?"

"The action of estimating as worthless." Ferdie got there first! All turned to stare.

"Which is the action I performed upon my life," he continued, "Such was the trauma I developed during my early years, of which I got the initial inkling when I was taken to my first meeting with my baby brother."

The atmosphere surrounding the emergence of a new life (he continued further) is often one of great joy involving much smiling and ooh-ahhing, although it generally follows a period of much screaming and protestations of future abstention from the process that resulted in the event. However, in the case of my new sibling, this appeared to have been taken to ludicrous extremes. As I was taken to make my acquaintance with the latest addition to my family, I was troubled despite my tender years by the unusual demeanour of the nurse who had come from my mother's bedside to escort me. I could feel her hand trembling as it held mine, and she walked slowly as though reluctant to return from whence she had come; she paused at the doorway to the room and I noticed her taking a deep breath as if gathering her nerve.

When we entered, I perceived a glow about the room that seemed not to come from the fluorescent lighting, but instead to emanate from the crib that was our objective. All the people about me were wearing broad grins, the scene that one of happiness such as one expects on these occasions; yet there was something unnatural in these fixed expressions, and had I been a little older and more worldly I would perhaps have fled, for on looking back, I realise that what I was reading in their faces was the fear in their eyes.

I approached the crib without hesitation, for I had never been in a maternity ward before, and for all I knew this was the normal atmosphere for such an environment. On looking into the bassinet, I saw that my new relative also wore a smile, but one that sat happily upon his chubby little face chockfull of a quantity of teeth unusual in a newborn, complemented by the cheery sparkle in his eyes and his gurgling chuckles. A sweet little thing he was, but I could not understand why those about me seemed so manic in their delight, while at the same time giving the impression of a deep desire to be elsewhere.

I had seen people gathered around babies before, and they were all "ooh diddums" and chucky-under-chin, but this assembly simply stood there entranced. I made all the right noises of course - I knew how to behave - but I was uneasy in this company. It was as though I were the only human being in a society of androids, and I was glad to make my escape.

I was able to avoid another visit, and it was only when little Finbo came home that I noticed the effect pervading the household. Many family members and friends came to visit the newbie, but none more than once. I was bewildered by this, as they seemed so joyful when in his presence; one would have thought they would have been more eager to repeat the experience. But as he grew, I realised the extent of his influence; when he was there, everyone about became imbued with an exuberance, a sheer joy in existence, with the avowed conviction that it was, indeed, a good life. When he was absent, however, such as when he began to attend various kindergartens - where he was said to be highly popular, although he was unaccountably let go and moved from one to the next until he had exhausted the supply - I observed that my family simply lay around in apparent exhaustion, as though they had been worn out by the effort of constant cheer. It seemed I was the only one unaffected by this, due, I have since become aware, to a flaw in my sight which renders me incapable of perceiving the entire spectrum.

A side effect of this was that I became all but ignored by my family, who had no strength to spare on my behalf. I grew embittered and perceived Finbo as the cause of all my woes, determining to rid myself of him. I made an attempt to lose him in the woods, only for him to turn up escorted by a troupe of bunny-rabbits who had guided his steps back home. Subsequent escapades ended in the same manner. My only other recourse was to kill him, and I was not then, nor am I now, a violent being. So instead, I decided to rid him of me.

I ran away from home one cheesy moonlit night, joining a circus which was fortuitously passing through town, and grew to adulthood fully-trained in the skilled profession of mucking out the heffielumps and putting up tents. I shut out all memory of my past, for this was a new life under a new name adopted and adapted from ringmaster Iendgil McIntyre who had taken me under his wing, and although I was always a bit nervous of the clowns - ah, but who isn't? - I was quite content, until one day I was taking breakfast in my caravan and switched on the radio only to hear a familiar voice.

Yes, I had inadvertently tuned in to Radio Fun. I never finished that bowl of cornflakes, for it seemed to me that my past was catching me up, and I fled immediately from that caravan and took to the road, not daring to look back. My clothes became ragged, my hair and beard wild, accompanied only by the fear that gripped my heart at the idea that somewhere behind me I was being pursued by what I visualised as a giant mouth packed with gleaming peggies hopping on one great big foot. My diet, which began with nuts and berries and progressed to half-eaten kebabs and other takeaway remnants filched from bins or retrieved from amidst flocks of pavement pigeons, became steadily more liquid-based on the proceeds of casual labour and the occasional petty theft, in a bid to blot out the burgeoning terror and hideous images that beset me, until I became the human wreck that Mr Bilson so assiduously recruited into your ranks, dear colleagues.

It is indeed a stroke of luck that I was in the right place at the right time, for I was wandering aimlessly along a country lane only hours before when I was hailed by a kind lady of indeterminate age and wearing a white laboratory coat, who was standing outside a barn just off the track. It seemed she was in need of a volunteer for a small experiment she was undertaking, from which, using what remained of my powers of logical deduction, I took her to be a rural scientist. She promised a meal of sausages and a little white wine, so naturally I was pleased to accept, and followed her not into the large barn doors as I had expected, but through a smaller door in the side.

The inside of the barn was not at all what I would have expected to find had I been of a more lucid disposition, but was filled with control consoles, blinking lights and levers. I sat at a nice pine table placed in the middle of the room and happily availed myself of the pledged meal while she fiddled with the knobs and switches.

I am unsure what the purpose of the experiment was, as it appeared to consist of her asking me how I felt before the meal - my reply was "hungry" - and again how I felt after finishing it - my reply this time was "full". It is debatable how much use this was, but she seemed to be pleased with the result, and escorted me to the door.

I exited not onto the country lane from which I had entered, but into an urban back alley. I was, of course, bemused, even beyond the influence of the two bottles of wine which had accompanied my repast. I turned to enquire of my benefactor how this change of scene could have come about, but to my surprise, the door from which I had emerged was now a blank brick wall.

My bewilderment, however, lasted but a few seconds, for my state of mind allowed too little an attention span to accommodate consideration of such a bizarre phenomenon. So I staggered instead into the main street where I wandered for only a short while until I encountered Mr Bilson.

So now you know the story, my friends. I have been able to keep up with my little brother's career from discarded newspapers, television shop windows and casual run-ins with radios, yet I am left wondering one thing in relation to Finbo.

At this point Ferdie lapsed into silence again, apparently deep in thought, although maybe he had discovered the art of the dramatic pause.

Mr Bilson was not appreciative of this art, so hastened to prompt.

"What is this one thing you are left wondering?" he urged.

Ferdie looked around at his audience.

"What," he said, "happened to Finbo's twin Robilton?"

Not only had Arnold Aloysius Potts's parents had the temerity to name him after his paternal grandfather, thus ensuring mild mockery among his peers for the entirety of his childhood, they had also refused to provide him with a record player on the grounds that it was an ongoing financial commitment, as he would forever after be obliged to pester them for the funds to buy the records. Instead, ignorant or contemptuous of copyright laws, they had given him a tape recorder for his birthday, advising him to tape the latest hits from the radio. Arnold had a sizeable collection of chart songs missing the intros and fades out, and had developed a fine sense of the timing employed by the idiot DJ's of Radio Fun. The one advantage he could find of the tape recording system was that he could capture rare performances of artists appearing on TV. He had Arxenblatt's "Mallowtron Drone", Millie Baggott's "Dire", and the infamous Flakie Snood incident all held prisoner on magnetic particles from their collisions with Heart of the Charts, along with various obscurities from the late-night arts strand's rock representative Alternative Wardrobe, and his pride and joy, Flakie Snood in Concert[2]. It was Flakie Snood's modern take on classic rock'n'roll who had first fired his interest in the form that eventually evolved and split into the many varieties of today's music. Now the playground had moved on from deriding his unfortunate nomenclature and turned instead to his chosen mode of attire; the trousers rolled up to imitate pedal-pushers, his tie rolled up into a thin strand and tied in a bow, the uniform blazer many sizes too big that he had chosen, all in a pale reflection of the fashions adopted by the Beanie Boys of yesteryear, the original followers of rollin' rock.

It was fortunate, as it turned out, that he had kept up his taping habit, and that he had chosen to record Hotcha! that night. Although he had once had to take his chances on whether an act would be to his taste or not, winding back the tape when they proved themselves abysmal so he could record over it from the start, he now had a cassette recorder in his arsenal, enabling him to record the entire programme and transfer the highlights later; so he recorded not only the version that was to make him his first entrepreneurial hundred beans, but also the spoken introduction that marked the first hint of Finbo Widger's descent into madness, which was to become a historical nugget.

The Martians were awoken by the thumping of Bilson's fist on the side of the Blunderbus, where they had spent the night.

"Quick! Open the door!"

Flodge obliged, being the unfortunate chosen to sleep in the front with the gear stick poking into his midriff. A person in a sack was bundled in and over the seats into the back, followed by the bundler, Bilson, who slid into driving position and ignited.

"Wherewigoan?" mumbled Flodge as he struggled out of his sleeping bag.

"We're off to a secret location, the location of which must remain a secret of the confidential kind until we get there, by which time it will be known." Bilson eased out into the road.

"Wuh?"

"Because in this day and age, needs must you have a promotional video for promotional purposes, to be filmed in said secret location."

"I bet it's Basin Wharf," claimed Wally from his wedged position between two large speakers, "That industrial wasteland beloved of promotional video makers."

Bilson turned angrily, narrowly missing a cyclist (who made his escape onto the pavement and through the front doors of a department store), turned his eyes back to the road and made do with annoyed glances in the rear view mirror.

"Who told you that? If someone in this band is leaking secrets to the press…"

"It's obvious," interjected Phoebe, "90% of all known bands make their videos there."

"Well, all right," Bilson defumed, "It was the only place I could get at such short notice. Are you okay there, Ferdie?"

The desacked one replied politely. "Perfectly, thank you, Mr Bilson. Why, it is the very lap of luxury to travel in the back of a van atop a collection of musical equipment with sharp edges and hard surfaces, mingling with my colleagues who have not bathed since last night's energetic performance, compared to trudging the many miles in open-toed boots with no soles or laces, and precious little other substance."

"Good, you all need to be refreshed and raring to go. Here, have some breakfast."

He tossed a mammoth bag of crisps and a bottle of red fizz into the back.

"Has anyone seen Ogg?"

By the time they realised he had crawled into Ferdie's sack for a lie-in, they had reached their destination, and poured out of the van to set up their gear in front of the more punctual camera crew, with reminders to arrange it in a picturesque fashion.

Habitually late, Arnold never heard the morning radio so was unaware of the after effects of recent events, and the deserted exterior of his allotted institute of education was quite normal for the time he turned up, although he was both surprised and relieved that he did not have to dodge the prefects loitering about the gates. It was only after he had performed his practised floor-level sneak into the classroom and emerged from below his desk that he took the time to look around and find himself surrounded by vacancies, open to the piercing gaze of two wondrous blue eyes. He stared aghast at his willowy blonde form mistress

"So that's how you get in without me seeing you, Potts."

Miss Bliss had sussed him out. No longer would his insistence that he had been there all the time, honest Miss, be able to keep him out of detention. Moreover, his secret dreams of being alone with his crush crumbled when faced with the reality. He felt a blush creep up towards his ears and mourned the passing of the fantasy that lulled him to sleep at night.

He was saved further embarrassment by the arrival of his classmates, bursting in chattering excitedly and waving their copies of Go Away You Belchers. As chairs scraped and bottoms plonked, they were greeted by the presiding presence with harsh words which did nothing to stifle their exuberance.

"Right! You're all in detention tonight with Potts here! Never before have I known such a flagrant disregard for punctuality as I have borne witness to here today et cetera, et cetera."

As he tuned out the standard speech being echoed throughout the school, Arnold mystified over the odd behavioural phenomenon of his class.

He remained mystified as he slouched now in the corner provided by the conjunction of two walls at the back of the yard, tapping his winkle-pickers to the vintage roll music playing in his head, peripherally aware of the excited conversations being echoed throughout the nation's playgrounds: the mystery illness of the breakfast DJ, replaced this morning by Bandril Zist, who was normally tucked away out of bounds in the graveyard slot regaling insomniacs with personally chosen noise and nonsense and had been the only one present at Radio Fun to take over once the news came in, seizing his chance to broadcast his eclecticism to unsuspecting innocents; the unprecedented behaviour of his predecessor the night before; the enigmatic declaration of kinship by the odd tramp-like vocalist on national television; and, almost as a sideline, the music of The Masked Martians. Attention was focused particularly on the broadcast rendition of their single, which Zist had played repeatedly over cornflakes and orange juice with, commendably, only the barest suggestion of gloat.

The late arrival of the entire school bar Arnold had been due to their first beetling to the record shop to purchase the single, although the elitist contingent, despite most of them having formed the head of the queue well before opening time to ensure the snaring of their precious booty, had sneered and claimed preference for the version they had heard the night before, which had the added depth of Ferdie's historical proclamation. But nobody, of course, was able to provide a recording to prove its superiority.

This was the part of the background buzz that drew Arnold's attention. He sidled closer to the nearest group and turned up his sonar.

"Yeah, the record's all right, but the way they played it on TV was better." Dungo Mitt was holding forth as ever.

"Is that what you listen to, Dungo?" asked Gilbern Bogg.

"Naaahh, nobody's got it except the Beeble, but my cousin's a sound man there and he's going to make a copy and send it me."

"Is this the same cousin who went on the secret mission to Uranus for the Secreted Servile and saved the world from Dr Nasty's weather machine?"

"No, this is another cousin."

"The one who retro-engineers alien technology and gave you the pen that writes underwater which you can't show us because it's invisible?"

"Look, I've got lots of cousins, all right?"

"So can you make me a copy of the copy when you get it?"

"I would, yeah, but he's not supposed to do it and he might lose his job if people find out."

"You're having us on, you are. I don't believe you," Gilbern sneered, bravely

"Me neither." Dungo's credibility floundered among his cronies.

"I've got a copy." All eyes turned towards Arnold.

"You? Tedward Bean? You don't know nothin' about music, all you like is that dead prehistoric stuff!"

"No honest, I taped it last night."

"Didja? Will you do me one? I'll give you this dead frog."

"I can't spend a dead frog. Make it cash."

"OK." "Can you do one for me too?" "You're a pal, Arnie!"

So it went, all through the day and well into detention for the whole school, after which Arnold went to town and invested in a big box of cassettes onto which he copied his precious fragment over and over again. It took all weekend, but the next week he would be the most popular person in the school for a whole day until everybody had been given their copies and it was safe to return to mockery. At least he still had their money, and a special place in his heart for The Masked Martians, even though he thought they were rubbish.

Engineer Rugtop started the playback. It was only the second time the Martians had heard the official version of Go Away You Belchers, the first time being when they had first recorded it, and after Bilson's remix it sounded quite different; with all the studio tricks and years of practice at his disposal he had managed to make it sound professional. Phoebe's pumping bass riff and Ogg's clattering drums were welded together into one great pulsing rhythm reminiscent of a flow of searing lava with rocks in, while Wally and Flodge's clanking chords and jingly jangly solos had been processed into explosive crashes and screaming firebolts.

Only Ferdie, who had never heard it at all, managed to get the hang of it and mime perfectly. After the first run-through he expressed his considered critique.

"A most stimulating piece," he opined, "The lyrics being at once pithy and vulgar, the very epitome of working-class angst and articulation. Coupled with the primordial rush of the accompaniment, it provides a vivid soundtrack to life in contemporary society. It inspires an epiphany in my soul, as indeed did last night's show; to be precise yet metaphorical at the same time, it opens my eyes, which must have been, to answer a question previously put to me, why it was only during the heat of performance that I was able to recognise my brother, the thrill of the stage being strong enough to burn out the various befuddling substances in my system."

"Well, I'm glad that's sorted," decided Wally. "Now before we try again can somebody please help me persuade Ogg to get out of that sack?"

"Ogg like sack!" protested the percussive element, waving his arms about through the holes he had poked for the drumming.

"No, leave him," said Phoebe, "It's not often you see a drummer with anything approaching an image. Besides, he looks better with a sack pulled over his head."

So they began the second rehearsal. It was during this that the ground started to tremble beneath them.

"Turn it down a bit, Rugtop," Bilson counselled the tape op, "We have to pay for any damage."

Rugtop complied. "It's not making any difference, Mr Bilson."

Bilson turned back to the band.

"Come on! Make an effort! We have to get this finished by lunchtime!"

But the Martians were standing stock still, staring at something behind the crew. Only Ogg was still in motion, blinded as he was by hessian.

"What's so fascinating? You can't sustain a career if you stop playing because you've seen a particularly interesting seagull performing aerobatics, you know!"

The Martians showed no response except for Wally, who raised his hand to point over Bilson's head, his lips quivering as he failed to summon up the reserves to babble.

Bilson turned.

Looming over and proceeding towards them upon an impressive set of caterpillar tracks was a twenty-storey office building.

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[2] Oh if only he could have recorded the visuals as well! But it was folly to think that a common household such as his could afford the video-tape technology to fulfil this dream. No, the day would never come when ordinary families would be able to watch their favourite programmes over and over again at the touch of a button, treating television schedules with the contempt they deserved.