Champ

Oh man, today I heard Marty and that 'Pantagrueletta' of a girlfriend of his doing 'it'.

I was over at Marty's glitzy TV-world office suites to talk more 'Badge' - he'd already had me waiting for at least thirty minutes because he said he had an "urgent call States' side" to deal with. So I just waited there quietly in the oppressive silence of his anteroom - just me and his PA sitting behind her desk - the only noises being the blub of the water cooler, wetly belching with chaotic periodicity and the click of the PA's computer mouse and fizzle of her tights as she crossed and uncrossed her legs.

Then suddenly, from behind Marty's closed door, there was a loud clatter of objects falling on his floor which made me jump in my seat. I looked at his PA, who just put her hands to her face and started slowly shaking her head with a resigned pathos while donning the headphones of her iPod and turning up the volume. Next thing I hear is more crashing, scraping furniture legs on the floor and then frantic panting - Marty's unmistakable gasping - bursts of wheezing, adenoidal rhythmic whining, rising up in time with the dull thump of some heavy object being shunted along.

There was a wince of pain, a pause of muffled conversation, then Marty's short, sharp grunts resuming again, this time accompanied by what sounded like someone repeatedly slapping a blancmange with a table-tennis bat in time with his falsetto, nasal puffs.

I tell you, it was embarrassing. I don't know how long that went on for - me flicking self-consciously through a copy of 'Broadkastpork', his PA turning up her iPod further and furiously iclicking away on her iBook, refusing to acknowledge the incoherent wailing from beyond - but next thing I remember is Marty's girlish gasps increasing in tempo and, slowly, inexorably, what sounded like the distant rising rumble of something dreadful and menacing which made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. As Marty accelerated in frantic soprano yelps, I heard another voice, a good octave below Marty's, growing in volume to a wild, visceral bellowing - a single, drawn-out yell, like a fearsome battle-cry... "wwooouuuooaa..." it went, "...aaooouuaahhrrraaa..." it went, "...aaaarrgghghgh..." it went - not pausing for breath, incessant, terrifying, louder and louder... then the insane sound of massive, flesh-muted hammering impacts - like two great legs of ham were being relentlessly battered against a slab of cold marble by a mad drummer with superhuman strength. A picture fell off the wall, the water cooler toppled in a bubble-blobbing burst, my chair shook underneath me, the PA had her head stuffed in her Prada handbag with her hands over where her ears were... then... silence.

Silence followed a second later by a single, barely discernible, pathetic wheeze from Marty, as if he had sneezed feebly through his clenched teeth.

Two minutes later, his massive Ukrainian bird came striding out, towering over me ominously, completely blocking out the light from the windows - thick, knotted-rope-like muscles bulging through a tight lime-green one-piece dress that had just been rapidly re-stretched over her. Giant chunks of dazzling jewellery clanking like heavy iron links in a ship's anchor-chain, she walked straight past me, broad, angular shoulders swaying, and chewing a piece of gum with loud, violent smacks of her wide-open mouth. Stopping at the exit, she swivelled round on her teetering heels and, through her swollen bright-red lips, blew out the gnarled chunk of her chewing gum with such force it hit the inside of the waste bin and toppled it over with a clang. Then she widened her vast mouth of monolithic white teeth into a predatory grin and unfurled one of her huge, vein-popping hands into a crimson-taloned outstretched palm and blew a kiss back to Marty who had emerged from his doorway.

I tell you - I am getting sick of Marty acting like this. There must be other production companies out there who would be interested in 'Terry Badge'. It's getting worse - every time Marty has to be the big shot and play these stupid power games - rubbing it in my face. He's now started to affect some kind of Brooklyn accent too which, I admit, does kind of suit his natural nasal drawl. So, shamelessly, he stood there looking like he'd just been pulled out of an industrial tumble dryer, and pointed at me with index finger, thumb raised, in the stylised shape of a gun and said "hey... shoot!"

I mean, what a knob. I was lost for words. His PA was just taking the handbag off of her head with restrained dignity and resetting her hair in a hand mirror when Marty turned to her and started yelling "clam chowdah" - just like that - like he could only move his jaw all the way up or down in spasmodic jerks - "clam chowdah - clam chowdaaghh - go gettusum clam chowdah willya - yeah?" as he tossed a wad of bank notes over to her desk.

I remember when this guy was at school and everyone used to tease him for his mass of curly hair. Well, I guess he showed us. But at what cost? That's what I ask you - at what cost?