Free Dead famous by Ben Elton

there were no papers or pens allowed in the house David had set to learning the poem orally directly from the author.
    ‘Lactation,’ said Layla.
    ‘That’s very, very beautiful,’ said David.
    ‘It’s the title,’ Layla explained.
    ‘I understand,’ said David, nodding gently, as if the fact that ‘Lactation’ was the title required a heightened level of perception to come to terms with.
    ‘Shall we take it two lines at a time?’ Layla asked. By way of an answer David closed his eyes and put his hands together at the fingertips, his lips gently touching his index fingers. Layla began.
    ‘Woman. Womb-an. Fat, full, belly, rich with girl child. Vagina, two-way street to miracles.’ ‘ David breathed deeply and repeated the first two lines of Layla’s poem. It was clear from his manner that he thought Layla would be amazed and thrilled to have her words lent wings by such a richly liquid and subtle voice. If she was, she hid it well.
    ‘Actually, that first line is meant to be very upbeat, joyful,’ Layla said.
    ‘You’re being too sombre. I always say it with a huge smile, particularly the words ‘girl child’. I mean, think about it, David, doesn’t the thought of a strong, spiritual woman’s belly engorged with a beautiful girl child just make you want to smile?’ David was clearly aghast.
    ‘Are you giving me direction, Layla?’ He asked.
    ‘No, I just want you to know how to say it, that’s all.’
    ‘The whole point about getting an actor to work on a piece of writing, Layla, is in order to get another artist’s interpretation of it. An actor will find things in a poem that the author did not even know were there.’
    ‘But I don’t want the things that aren’t there, I want the things that are.’ David seemed to snap.
    ‘Then you’d better recite it yourself,’he said, jumping angrily to his feet.
    ‘Because quite frankly it stinks. Apart from the repulsive imagery of fat, engorged female stomachs, from, I might add, a woman with less flesh on her than a Chupa Chups stick, I am a professional actor and I simply will not take direction from an amateur poet! Particularly after I have paid her the enormous compliment of actually taking an interest in her pisspoor work!’ And with that David headed outside for a dip in the hot spa.

DAY THIRTY-TWO. 10.15 p.m.
    V ery short fuse. Master David,’ Coleridge observed thoughtfully.
    ‘Short enough for murder, do you think?’ Rewinding slightly and freezing on David’s furious face, it did seem possible.
    ‘He certainly looks like he wants to murder her,’ said Hooper.
    ‘But of course it wasn’t Layla that ended up getting killed, was it?’
    ‘As we have discussed endlessly, sergeant. If the motive were obvious our killer would be awaiting trial right now. All we can hope to find is the seed from which a murder will grow.’ Hooper informed Coleridge as briskly as he dared that he was aware of this.

DAY FIVE. 9.15 p.m.
    A fter David had left the room, Layla did indeed take his advice and recite the poem herself, grinning like a baboon with a banana wedged sideways in its mouth throughout. Jazz, Kelly, Dervla and Moon listened respectfully, and when it was over, they all said that they thought it was very, very good. Woggle opined from his corner that poetry was merely an effort to formalize language and as such indicated a totalitarian mindset.
    ‘Words are anarchists. Let them run free,’ he said. But the others ignored him, something that they had learned to do as much as possible, while counting the minutes to nomination day.
    ‘That was the business, that poem, Layles. It was dead wicked, that, so fair play to yez,’ Moon said in her Mancunian accent, which seemed to be getting thicker by the day.
    ‘Did you notice my red lipstick?’ Layla gushed. They all had.
    ‘Some anthropologists believe that women paint their lips red in order to make their mouths reminiscent of their vaginas.’
    ‘Steady on, girl,’ said