Bite The Wax Tadpole by Phil Sanders

as Captain Bligh. He hadn’t cared about the ratings and look what they did to him.
    “Come on, we were up against Davis Cup tennis. We could put Christ coming back to Earth on a shaft of sunlight up against Davis Cup tennis and still lose. Except in Adelaide, of course.”
    Leo continued his march up and down the cheap, cack coloured linoleum. “You know who’s going to get the blame, don’t you? Me. Fucking producer always gets the blame. Always the producer’s fault. ”
    “Of course it’s your fault. The scripts are absolutely perfect when they leave this department. Always.”
    “He’ll start on you when he’s finished with me, don’t you worry, mate. If I end up producing regional round-up in Gosford you’ll be back teaching English as a second language to traumatised reffos.”
    “Oh, those happy days at TAFE.”
    Leo unwrapped a piece of gum, shoved it in his mouth and started chewing rapidly and noisily. “Have you ever thought”, asked Rob, “of taking up smoking? It might help you kick that filthy chewing gum habit.”
    The phone rang and Rob answered it, prepared for another verbal volley from the distaff side or to deal with publicity’s request to find a story line for a recently released serial killer’s guest appearance. But the peremptory voice on the other end merely said: “You and Leo, my office, ten minutes.”
    Rob put the phone down. “Good old Nev, as succinct as ever.”
    “The Ice Man calleth, eh?”, said Leo.
    “Ice Man?”
    As they made their way through the swooshing magic doors that separated the lino and concrete of the production and studio areas from the highly polished executive area known as Mahogany Row, Leo, still chewing furiously, explained the sobriquet.
    “He’s been on crystal meth for months, mate.”
    “That would explain a few things.”
    As the Light Brigade found when charging the Russian guns at Balaclava, there were functionaries to the right of them, functionaries to the left of them, functionaries in front of them, volleying and thundering away at whatever it is they do that is so vital to the running of a modern TV network. In a glass-fronted office, a cabal of shirt-sleeved executives sat hunched over their agendas. To Rob they looked like the sort of blokes who would do a powerpoint presentation at their daughter’s wedding and get buried offshore for tax reasons. The corridor was lined with photos of the stars of the Network’s fondly remembered shows of the last fifty years. How amusing, not to mention educational, it would be to add a line or two to the legend underneath the smiling faces. Alcoholic... wife-beater... died in a loony bin... stacking shelves in Coles...
    “Bloke’s a mess, mate, close to cracking. Two ex-wives to pay off, property investments gone down the gurgler.”
    “Now I come to think about it, his car was full of smoke this morning. I thought he was just having his usual spliffing start to the day.”
    “I don’t think he smokes it, mate. Nah, he does it the executive way.”
    Rob hesitated to ask but he did so anyway.
    Nev Beale checked that all the toilet stalls were empty before entering one and locking the door. He dropped his trousers, as is the usual drill in such situations, before reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a small plastic bag. From out of the bag he produced a small crystalline rock. He then squatted, reached behind himself with the rock and inserted it where, as the saying goes, the sun don’t shine.
    Rob and Leo sat and waited in Leo’s outer office under the baleful gaze of his PA who was known studio-wide, with no trace of affection or irony, as the Rottweiller. She was totally unaware of this, of course, and could never understand why packets of Smackos would often be left on her desk.
    Leo leaned in confidentially towards Rob. “Bloke’s had more ice up his arse than a one-legged figure skater.”
    Rob winced. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
    “Buggered if I know”, replied Leo as