Fountain mania

12:21pm Monday 17th March 2008

"Who," The Scribbler wanted to know, "is this Chris that everyone's going mad for?" He felt it a fair question to ask, given that the entire newsroom was pasted with posters with encouraging shout lines such as "Go, Chris!" and even the Assistant Editor With Special Responsibility for Ensuring There Was Little Or No Frippery In the Office had even joined in the fun, sporting a T-shirt illustrated with the face of a beaming young blond chap.

"Scribbler, for shame," admonished Thelma Gusset (pronounced "Gussay"), the fragrant women's editor of the newspaper. "It's Chris Fountain!"

"And I am supposed to know who he is?" snapped The Scribbler crossly.

"Don't you have a telly in that little broom cupboard on the third floor that you call home?" asked Thelma.

"You know full well that I do," said The Scribbler, for Thelma had visited him there more than once on matters of the heart. "But I generally watch the news or a good documentary."

"More to the point," rumbled the Ass Ed, beardily, "don't you read your own newspaper? We've been full of Chris Fountain this week."

"He's the Bradford lad who's made the final of the Dancing on Ice TV skating competition," said Thelma, taking pity on her paramour. "He's an actor."

"I thought you said he was a skater?" said The Scribbler.

"Some people can do two things at once," supplied Thelma sweetly. "Even some men. I find that a very attractive trait."

Which was why The Scribbler found himself at Bradford Ice Rink, strapping on a pair of bladed boots and looking with trepidation at the frozen surface on which he had convinced himself he could glide with the grace of a St Tropez yacht.

Holding on to the barricade at the edge of the rink, The Scribbler valiantly tried to move forward. Within ten minutes the seat of his trousers was soaked after he had been unceremoniously dumped on his behind with every third step.

"Enough is enough," he said. "I shall not be beaten by this. How difficult can it be? These kids seem to be doing it well enough."

With that, he pushed off from the barricade with a violent shove and, to his amazement, began to move and stay upright at the same time. He held on to his hat as he gathered velocity, and actually began to enjoy himself.

"Ah ha!" he exclaimed. "This is a piece of cake! Now, how do you suppose one stops..."

When The Scribbler turned up at his usual watering hole The Boilermaker's Arms that night, his friends were in for a shock.

"Scribs!" exclaimed Thelma. "What happened?"

"Were you in a car accident?" asked Boris the Landlord.

Easing his bandaged leg into a seat and propping his sprained wrist on the table, he gratefully accepted a pint of Old Muff.

"It's nothing serious," he said. "Just a few bumps and bruises. I just wanted to impress Thelma with my ice skating skills, as she seems to like that Chris bloke so much."

"Oh, Scribbler, you are such a silly thing," said Thelma. "Besides, I don't like Chris any more?"

"You don't?" said The Scribbler, as Thelma unfolded a page from a magazine that she had in her bag.

"No, this chap's much more up my street," she said.

The Scribbler peered at the picture of the handsome, muscular bloke. "And what does he do?"

"He's a mountain climber," said Thelma.

The Scribbler gulped. "Boris," he called weakly. "Another drink over here, please."

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