The View from Mount Dog by James Hamilton-Paterson

world’s hottest sporting property – or at any rate you’re in some insane class of your own – but I doubt anyone would let you into a team. Not only would you presumably refuse to conform in such matters as training, clothing and – dare I say it? – conduct, but I can’t imagine you’d find many people willing to compete with you. Or even against you. You make a mockery of it all, Carney, and that people can’t forgive. They might at a pinch put it all down to eccentric temperament – genius or something – if you were the world’s greatest at one particular thing. Then the only guys you’d really upset would be those directly involved in it. But to be that good at everything and still not give a damn and wear, God help us, tap-dancing shoes while doing it: nobody in the trade is about to overlook that.’
    ‘The expression you see on my face, Bob, is one of pure contrition. But I still feel I have a little way to go yet with my mission – a few more laughs to get. I want to set one or two more records before I get really bored and find something else to do. You can help arrange it just as you did at that dismal stadium the other day.’
    Bob Struthers was nodding. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘we can fix that’ – and his brain lobes were thudding with arithmetic. ‘Let’s see, the TV fees we could charge would be astronomical – we could cover our costs in the first five seconds ofbidding…. What about spectators?’
    ‘Oh, yes, lots of those. The more the merrier.’
    ‘Great, Carney. Entrance fees…. How much will your cut be, do you imagine? A ball-park figure?’
    ‘Nil.’
    ‘You mean nothing ?’
    ‘I told you before, I don’t want money; I’m not doing it for money. I already make quite a decent amount out of my serials, you know.’
    ‘Yes, but no money …. It’s pretty weird. In fact it’s the most bizarre thing of all. Limitless talent and you refuse to capitalise on it.’
    ‘I’m laughing, Bob, that’s what you don’t understand. Deep inside I’m falling about.’
    ‘Well, that’s nice,’ said Bob Struthers, ‘but, OK, if that’s what you want. Now for the bad news, Carney. There’s going to have to be a quid pro quo on your part.’
    ‘I may not like it.’
    ‘Oh, you won’t. It’s called a medical examination. The plain fact is that a lot of people flatly refuse to believe that someone your age can do what you do without assistance. They suspect either that you’re a guinea-pig for a new superdrug or a sort of test-bed for some bionic device.’
    ‘Like the Six Million Dollar Man? Rewired and full of microchips? Servo-motors? That sort of thing?’
    ‘I know, I know, Carney. I think it’s crazy, too. But there it is. Without a thorough medical examination …’
    ‘… carried out before twenty thousand witnesses …’
    ‘… no record you set will ever be officially recognised. There’s a more sinister aspect, too. I had a call from somebody claiming they were working with the Ministry of Defence. Did I know where you were and, if so, would it be OK to ask you to pop down for a chat? All very matey, of course, but need I go on?’
    ‘I’m of potential military value? I get clobbered by the Official Secrets Act? To prevent me from falling into Russian hands I am given a drugged cup of coffee and wake up in a country house in darkest Berkshire where in the course of several agonising weeks implacable army surgeons tear my body and mind apart to find out what makes me different? I like it, Bob, I like it. It’s got real potential for a series. I see it all, now. At the end of their experiments they’re left with a pile of bones and tissue, theusual human debris, without having learned anything. The silly asses have done what an old proverb from China’s Frozen North no doubt says: you don’t cook your lead husky.’
    ‘I didn’t expect you to take anything I say seriously.’ Bob Struthers, on whose words an audience of millions hung weekly, was