Publicity

With the launch date of my new novel Return to the House of Fox fast approaching, thoughts this week turned to publicity, and how best to pimp my magnum opus to the masses. I’m not allowed on TV after my infamous wardrobe malfunction on the Des O’Connor Show, and they’ve refused to have me back on the radio since I inadvertently used the C word during Children’s Hour.

How then, with the mainstream media shunning me, should I go about ensuring SJ Smith is the name on everyone’s lips?

The answer came to me during a heavy drinking session in a skip behind Tesco. I should make an  attempt to break a world record. What better way to draw attention and boost my reputation? I immediately got on with researching the subject, scouring the web for heroic feats to undertake. The world record for swimming the Channel? Too much like hard work. The world record for eating cheese? No thanks, might give me heartburn.

Then I found it, the perfect challenge for a bone idle fellow like me; the world record for running over old ladies, while driving a double decker bus dressed as Philip Schofield.

A few phone calls and several cans of lager, and I was soon ready for my attempt. A shining red double decker was dispatched from the depot, and my good friend Dodgy Dave managed to procure a dozen old dears from a local Alzheimer’s ward. I donned a grey wig and clutched a cute kitten, and passers-by swore I was a dead ringer for Schofield himself. With everything in place, I gunned the engine and lurched forward to make my mark on history.

But, is as often the case, the day was beset by difficulties. Either my wig would fall off or the kitten would escape, or else the old ladies would wander off to make racial slurs or play bingo. And then a tramp failed to notice the ‘Sorry, not in service’ sign on the front of the double decker, climbed aboard and shat himself on the back seat. The bus company insisted on recalling the vehicle for a hosing down, and I had to wait ages for a replacement.

Eventually, with the sun sinking in the west, I made one last ditch effort. Accelerating along the High Street, I swerved this way and that and mowed down the collective of pensioners. Zimmer frames, false teeth and fur lined boots flew in all directions, and as the screams finally quieted I lit a cigarette and waited for my attempt to be verified.

Norris McSquirter, a wrinkly old bastard in an ill-fitting suit, wandered up and down, hands behind his back, counting the corpses. The current record stood at ten. Had I done enough?

Alas, no. McSquirter conducted an autopsy on one of the old biddies and found she had died not from wounds inflicted by my aggressive driving, but rather from an attack of mange. He ruled the attempt a failure, and sped off chuckling in his Aston Martin.

So, no world record for me, and with only two and a half months to go until the release of Return to the House of Fox, I must come up with a different way to spam the public.