Free Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time by Dominic Utton Page B

the one who got the job.
    I was on the last train out of Euston (not one of your trains, no offence) and first thing Saturday morning I was watching it myself, in grainy black-and-white but unmistakeably the boy with the golden boots, open-mouthed, notebook out, chequebook ready. It was a story – it was a story all right. But it wasn’t a splash – not yet, not without Jamie himself.
    And do you know what happened then? Just as I am about to name a price and take a copy of the footage back to London with me, I only get a nudge from the kid who called me in the first place. He’s jumping up and down. He’s buzzing like a mobile phone. He’s so excited he can barely speak. And he’s pointing at the monitors. At the ones showing the live feed, at what’s happening in the store right now. And there he is! England’s Jamie Best, handsome and tall in his designer threads and plumped-up quadruple-Windsor knot, sauntering down the aisles to the pre-school section!
    He doesn’t even have kids!
    One sharpish text to Goebbels back at the office (‘story big, send snapper, more to follow’), and I was out of there like a whippet, like a young Maradona, showing blistering pace, with the kid from security hot on my tail. And as we streaked down to intercept the boy Best, we talked tactics.
    It was a classic move. We sprung the old inside-out, the onside-offside trap. The give-and-go. Security hung back, out of sight, behind our man’s back… and I took up a position on the wing, off the ball as it were, but close enough to see his every move.
    It worked like a dream. I watched England’s hottest young prospect in 20 years hoover up Iggle Piggles and Upsy Daisys and Makka Pakkas. I witnessed him shovel in armloads of Tombliboos and fistfuls of Pontipines. I saw the precocious Boy Wonder fill his bag with Ninky Nonks and Pinky Ponks. It wasn’t shoplifting: it was theft on a grand scale, every bit as audacious and extraordinary as the 30-yard screamer against Italy that marked his England debut just eight or so months ago. And if his goal that day filled me with wonder and joy and heart-bursting belief in the future of this country, Jamie Best’s performance in the aisles of Toys R Us on Saturday made me feel a million times better.
    After that it was easy. A tap on the shoulder, an introduction, a flash of the press card, a nod towards the security guard and the offer of a deal. My heart was hammering and I felt sick with terror at what I was about to do… but I kept my voice calm, I kept my gaze steady, I held my nerve. I did it all by pretending to be Harry the Dog.
    Talk to me now, Jamie, I said, tell me everything I want to hear. Lay it all out in heartfelt detail, in sentimental, remorseful, sincere tones, in the simplest, most easily understood terms. Fess up to the crime. Give me the skinny on every cuddly toy you’ve taken and every children’s plaything you’ve pinched. Don’t spare a single detail.
    And then, tell me and my eight million readers about the terrible pressure you’ve been under, about your troubled childhood, about your need to get professional off-the-pitch help. Plead with us to show you some compassion, to let you get your head together so you can get back to doing what you do best for club and country next season. Pose for the photos, promise us the exclusive follow-up chat in a week’s time and another after that should it ever happen again…
    Do all that for me, Jamie, play ball, give the Globe everything you’ve got – and I think I can persuade my boy in the uniform over there, and the other lads watching in the security office, to do the decent thing and not press charges. I think I can convince them that the best and most compassionate thing to do would be to let you seek the help you need, on your terms, and not according to the ruling of some judge in some crown court. I think I can leave the police out of it, pretty much.
    What do you say, Jamie?
    Oh, and we need to have this