Shooting Starr

“You only get ten points for a Brockett.” Darren Peers’ crest fell with a clang.

He’d imagined a Brockett would be worth 20 points at least, 25 seeing he’d just had a try-out for his own quiz show. But the Quartermaster’s decision – as ever – was final.

It was doubly galling for Darren. It had been his first day as a full time member of The Club - and then he’d spotted him – Lord Brockett at the pick and mix counter in Woolworths on Marylebone High Street. He’d just been about to scoop his last chocolate lime into his stripy confectionery receptacle when Darren had bagged him. Straight between the eyes.

Two old ladies queuing to buy their grandchildren The Little Mermaid on DVD “tutted” with vague resentment as the aristocrat-cum-convicted fraudster collapsed into the Liquorice & Blackcurrants. “I wouldn’t mind,” one said to the other, “but I’ve already seen that Michael Portillo garrotted at the bus stop this morning, very messy. The No 73 went right over him.” “They won’t like that at the depot,” said the other shaking her head with the air of one who’d been there frequently when the No 73 rolled in bespattered with failed Tory.

It had started with a bit of confusion. A government health statement on the eve of the London Marathon had been put out on the danger of “Blisters” and how to effectively get rid of them. In a bit of comic typography it had accidentally been rendered as “the dangers of B-listers” and how to “effectively get rid of them.”

Initially the government had scrabbled to get out a correction but when, in the first half an hour Bobby Davro had been eviscerated, the entire cast of Phantom of the Opera had been crucified either side of Tottenham Court Road and Max Boyce had been defenestrated, they’d realised what a potential vote winner they had on their hands and, quite frankly, couldn’t be arsed correcting it.

However, when Dame Judi Dench was killed by mortar fire outside her East Dulwich home, it was decided to at least regulate it. Thus a Special Government Committee – the first ever to be over-subscribed by applications for membership to the tune of 1028 % - was set up to rule on what constituted a B-lister and what constituted an A-lister.

Some were easy. No-one, for instance, who had ever appeared in Hollyoaks survived the first week. Some were debatable. The jury was out on Ben Elton for instance – until, tragically, that same jury won complimentary tickets to Queen the Musical. Traces of Ben’s DNA were found in a rotary mower only four days after the ruling.

Some who thought themselves firm “A” listers, Billy Connolly for example, were surprised when then found that open season had been declared on them. Quite frankly that was nothing to do with the Royal-friendly jobbie-gagster’s celebrity status; it was just that everybody agreed he was a bit of a twat. Perhaps happily for the loving couple, the mortal remains of Pamela Stephenson and the Big Yin were found in a bear trap round the back of his estate less than 48 hours after his change in status had been agreed.

Meanwhile the government soared on a wave of popularity quite unrivalled, whilst coverage of Dale Winton hiding from beaglers made News at 10 three nights running. Life had never been better – apart from on the day that Jim Davison was fed to a cougar on Radio Five live. However, one devout B-lister had managed to avoid the fate the whole nation agreed he richly deserved. Many had debated whether Jade from Big Brother really deserved to be spit-roasted (traditionally that is, not in the News of the World fashion).

Some had even put forward an argument as to whether eight series back-to back of Family Fortunes really meant that Les Dennis had to be hung. drawn and quartered. A lone dissenting voice had even suggested that perhaps it wasn’t entirely necessary to shoot David Dickinson out of a giant catapult straight against the side of the Natwest Tower. However, one thing united the country as seldom before – Comedy Nazi Freddie Starr Must Die.

Not since the 1672 Act of Compulsory Mutual Flagellation or the cancellation of El Dorado had the British People spoke with one voice to such purpose and commitment. It had not simply been one rendition too many of “Starry Starry Night” by the Liverpool-born unfunny man. It was just that he was…eh...a complete git, a one-man reason for rewriting the DNA code and Tippexing out the bit that said “Freddie Starr”.

However, with a guile born of many years of dodging short-changed audiences, Starr had remained elusive. There had been rumours of a badly sung version of Memories here or an unfunny spoof version of Mastermind there, but overall Starr, the Holy Grail for B-List assassins had stayed ahead of the baying crowd. Until now.

A disconsolate Darren was trudging wearily away from the Club House when a familiar goosestep caught his eye. There on the Zebra Crossing, dressed in amusing Nazi tunic and humorously contrasting boxer shorts with a lipstick motif was the fugitive Starr – complete with deliberately unconvincing Black Adhesive Hitler moustache.

Darren sighed. Sometimes he almost felt sorry for them. It was this desperate craving for publicity that always undid the B-listers. In one memorable sting 14 former Eastenders had been mown down when a fraudulent casting call for a TV product endorsement had been staked out. I

n the end they all cracked. With Starr’s dangerous mirth-inducing pseudo-Nazi salute arguably a danger to traffic, Darren viewed it almost as a mercy killing. One carefully aimed shot caught Starr straight between his Third Reich lapels and he fell to the pavement, still feebly horizontally goosestepping as his lifeblood trickled away.

Darren blew the smoke from his barrel, satisfied with a job well done. Bagging a Brockett was nothing compared to this.

Back at the Club House, the atmosphere was electric. Grizzled members of longstanding grudgingly shook Darren by the hand, only the eyes of the Quartermaster remained unreadable.

“Well done, lad” he said, as Darren turned to shake his hand, “you’ve bagged the Big One.” Darren shook his head, affecting modesty at his envied kill. “However,” said the Quartermaster, “you know what that means….?” Darren shook his head again, this time clearly puzzled. “Well,” said the Quartermaster, “it makes you're a bit of a celebrity…”

Darren blanched.

“But, you’re a good lad. We’ll give you quarter of an hour start…”