The Worst Man on Mars
Meet the Flint Stoners

Mission Commander Flint Dugdale sat, legs wide apart, in front of the large wall-screen, probing a fat finger between his teeth to dislodge a lump of steak pie. The darts had finished with a victory for Big Joe “Lard Belly” McGrath.

As he flipped channels, a caption caught his eye. “Coming next,” it said. “Flint Dugdale: First Man on Mars”. His eyes bulged – a programme all about him! A vast smile spread across his face.

“By ’eck,” he said, clapping his hands together. “’Appen this calls for a celebration.”

He detached a can of Stallion from the four-pack on the seat to his right and pulled out a steak pie from under his own seat. He pressed the insta-heat button on the pie packaging, waited the requisite ten seconds and then tore off the cellophane wrapping, tossing it over his shoulder at the empty seats behind him. Greedy teeth sank into the flaky pastry, sending a stream of scalding gravy globules drifting into the room. Sublime sensations exploded on his taste buds and a heavenly aroma filled his nostrils.

With the opening credits now rolling, he popped the ring-pull on the can of ale, discarded the customized zero-G straw, and slapped his gravy-covered mouth over the hole before any of the golden liquid could drift free. He closed his eyes in delight at the delicious taste. A few drops escaped from between his lips, but it hardly mattered.

“Tomorrow morning,” the presenter was saying, “Yorkshireman Flint Dugdale will be the first man ever to walk on the surface of Mars.”

“Get in!” said Dugdale with a fist-punch. The punching fist happened to be the one holding the Stallion, so a good deal of the amber liquid surged out in large, spherical droplets. Dugdale cursed under his breath as he watched the precious beads of ale heading for the man on the screen.

“What kind of man is Flint Dugdale?”

“Chuffin’ lovely,” mumbled Dugdale through a mouth full of pie and ale.

“He’s certainly a controversial figure.”

“Am I ’eck!” Yellowing teeth tore off another chunk of pie.

“Indeed, even within NAFA there are some who think more should have been done to stop him taking control of the mission.”

“Like who?” demanded Dugdale sitting up rigid.

The picture cut to a well-dressed middle-aged man wearing a suit and tie.

“Oh, I could’a guessed it’d be ’im!” A quick swig of Stallion steadied his emotions and relaxed his muscles.

A caption identified the man as Jeremy Franklin, Principal Director of NAFA. “Some people exude greatness,” he was saying, “others hide it under a bushel, while there are those who don’t have a scintilla of it in their entire being. Flint Dugdale most definitely belongs to the third category.”

Dugdale, having lost count of the categories, wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not. Besides, wasn’t a ‘scintilla’ some kind of furry rodent?

A woman, identified as Sarah Wright, NAFA Head of Human Resources, appeared on screen. “No sane or rational recruitment procedure would ever have accepted him. Any job interview, psychometric test, medical examination, or psychological assessment would have filtered him out before he’d even made it through the door. Any ranking system would have ranked him bottom of the whole human race – and quite well down a list of orang-utans.”

Now this clearly was an insult. Wasn’t it? Another calming gulp of Stallion was in order.

The programme’s presenter returned. “Of course, it is well known how Flint Dugdale made it onto the mission.” The screen showed archive footage of Dugdale celebrating his win on British reality show Who wants to go to Mars? “The British public, perhaps through an act of collective mischief, voted for him in their millions. NAFA were not so keen.”

The screen cut back to Jeremy Franklin. “Our contract with the major sponsors, Stallion Lager Ltd, obliged us to include him. There was nothing we could do. It’s not that we were slow to spot his complete unsuitability. We did what we could: counselling, elocution lessons, you name it.”

Sarah Wright took up the story. “We sent him to London’s top anger management school. They lost patience with him after two days. He failed the final assessment, of course. Lowest mark they’d ever had. But never in our worst nightmares did we think he’d become commander!”

Dugdale was grinning to himself. “Stupid twonks.”

“Dudgale’s unplanned and unexpected rise to power was, of course, the result of a tragedy,” the presenter was saying. “A power surge in the urine extractor led to Commander Chad Lionheart sustaining a fatal injury. And, suddenly, the mission was without a leader. Yet NAFA’s orders for the captaincy to pass to the senior lieutenant were not followed. Why? And was it a coincidence that around that time all sound and vision from Mayflower III was lost? Just how did Dugdale assume control and install himself in Lionheart’s cabin?”

“Yorkshire grit.”

The screen showed a man dressed in military regalia, Mission Director Montgomery Johnston. “Should never have been Dugdale. Never. Perfect replacement already on board. Lieutenant Zak Johnston. End of.’”

The screen cut from Zak Johnston’s father, back to the presenter. “So, what is Flint Dugdale really like?”

“Friggin’ gorgeous.”

“Who better to ask than the people who know him best? His friends. His family. The people he grew up with. Katie Pipperton is live in Huddersfield – Commander Dugdale’s home town. Hello, Katie.” The picture cut to a night-time street scene. At the centre stood a nervous-looking female reporter, large microphone in hand, with an unruly, and clearly very inebriated, mob behind her. In the background was a seedy-looking pub.

Dugdale leaned forward for a closer look. “Well, I’ll go to foot of our stairs! That’s t’Muck’n’Shovel!” A huge smile opened on his podgy face.

The crowd were chanting, “Dugdale, Dugdale”. Many were waving crude, homemade banners and placards peppered with appalling spelling mistakes. “Yorkshires Fist Man on Mar’s”, “Dugdale the Heroe” and “Flint dose us proud!”

“Hello,” said the pretty reporter, forcing a smile and looking completely out of place amidst some of the ugliest specimens of the human race. Boozy, beery yobs, drunken old sots, slutty-looking females with thicker limbs than the males, all threatened to engulf her.

A tear came to Flint’s eye as waves of nostalgia washed over him. These were his people; his tribe. Snatches of remembered yobbish cries involuntarily issued from his mouth and, as he recognised old mates, he shouted their nicknames – Scudder, Banyard, Mugger – each conjuring treasured memories of shared youthful violence.

“Eeee, thems wer’t days,” he muttered, rubbing the tear aside and taking another swig of ale.

“Welcome to Huddersfield,” Katie continued, struggling to make herself heard above the general din. “Home of Flint Dugdale. Soon to be the first human being to walk on the surface of Mars.”

There was a rowdy cheer, which mutated into some coarse songs and raucous bellowing. Katie tried to maintain her professional demeanour and polar white smile as the crowd behind her fought for camera attention.

“Tonight, on the eve of the historic transfer to the Red Planet, we meet some of Commander Dugdale’s friends and family who would like to relay their own special messages.”

Dugdale echoed some of the rowdy chants and choruses, taking swigs of his ale in between and partying along with his people.

Katie turned to an elderly, bespectacled man with large ears who was kneeling down and removing a pair of bicycle clips from his ankles.

“We’re thrilled to have Commander Dugdale’s old English teacher from Grimley Comprehensive School...” She leaned down to hold the microphone close to the man’s lips.

There was a dull groan from the audience, echoed by an even duller groan from Flint. “Oh, for frack’s sake! Not ‘im,” he moaned. “Of all’t chuffin’ people, they go ’n pick that big-eared numpty, Flappers.”

“Mr Potter, as Flint’s former teacher, perhaps you could give the world an insight into what he was like as a student?”

The old man creakily raised himself from his knees and put his mouth very close to the microphone. “You wanna know about Dugdale? I’ll tell yer summat about him. He was a worthless lump of shit. A bone idle little fu….” Katie shot a hand up to her earpiece and winced in pain at her director’s yelled instructions. She whipped the microphone away from Mr Potter and swung it toward a wrinkly, white-haired old lady dressed in a shiny pink tracksuit. It had ‘Dugdale’ emblazoned in sequins across her ample chest.

“Now, beside me,” said Katie with a nervous grimace, “I have Flint’s gran who, I know, has something she would like to say to her grandson.”

Flint’s gran grinned a toothless grin, staring at the camera. “Am I on’t telly?”

“You are. And the whole world is watching. You must be terribly proud of your grandson.”

Gran continued to stare directly at the camera.

“Mrs Arkwright,” prompted Katie.

“Miss.”

“Sorry ... Miss Arkwright, could you share some of your fond memories of Commander Dugdale?”

“Eeeee, Flint were a bonny babby. He ’ad such a lovely smile. Oh, wait. ’Appen that were his ‘alf brother, Leroy, wi’t smile. Now I remember, Flint were t’ugly bugger. He were forever bawlin’ ’bout summat.”

Katie put her hand to her earpiece again.

“Message?” she said quickly. “What’s your message to your grandson?”

“Fetch us twenty Lambert and Butler, Flint, luv. I’m gaggin’ for a ciggie.” She cackled a toothless laugh at the camera.

Katie fiddled with her earpiece to reduce the volume of her director’s shrill screams. She glanced behind at the huge scrum of people eager for their moment of fame.

Next up was Scudder, eyes glazed, standing far too close to Katie for her liking and swaying alarmingly.

“Ayeup, Fluggdale, mate,” he said, rubbing himself up against the immaculate trouser suit of the aghast reporter. “I chuffin’ well love yer, man. Listen, listen, mate…” Scudder’s drunken eyes tried to focus on the camera. “… Seriously, man, I gotta tell yer summat real important.”

Scudder pushed himself away from Katie, straightened up as though to deliver a heartfelt message, and let out the loudest belch he could muster before collapsing to his knees in raucous laughter. There was laughter from the crowd surrounding the now terror-stricken Katie, and even Flint Dugdale nearly choked on a mouthful of pie as he watched his friend’s performance.

Katie backed away from the mob and, sensing the kill, they lifted the volume up a notch.

“Er, perhaps this young lady has a message?” she asked in desperation, swinging the mike to a woman on her right, all bulging boobs, tattoos, piercings, short skirt, high heels and tarty make-up.

Aleesha was hardly young and most definitely not a lady. She puffed herself up as the camera turned towards her. “Yeah, I do,” she said, grabbing the microphone and holding it up against her heavily lip-sticked mouth. “I got a message for yer, Flinty Fredstone. Remember that night in’t big metal wheely bin at back ert chippy, Mr Loverman?”

Flint’s eyes widened as he watched his ex-girlfriend, a lustful smile playing about his lips. He still had feelings for her – at least, in certain parts of his anatomy. He cast his mind back to that night. It had been their last night together, just before she’d dumped him on account of him shagging her mum. That night, he’d made a real effort. The choice of location might not have been the most romantic, but at least the municipal waste container had been fairly empty and not too smelly. Flint had attentively arranged a bed of bin bags containing soft waste to make sure Aleesha would be comfortable. The pitter-patter of rain drops, dancing on the closed metal lid above them, had added to the atmosphere. He’d even brought along a couple of candles because Scudder had told him ‘Birds luv that sort of shit’. It hadn’t been his fault that someone had chosen to lob their half-eaten doner kebab into the bin at the critical moment.

On screen, Aleesha was holding up a squirming, filthy-faced urchin. “Meet t’sprog yer left me saddled with, yer bastard. Go on Tyrone, say summat to yer friggin’ dad.”

The kid’s top teeth hooked over its bottom lip. “Fu ...” he started, but never got to finish his message.

Behind him a drunken chorus had erupted. “One Flint Dugdale, There’s only one Flint Dugdale, One Flint Dugdale, There’s only one Flint Dugdale,” and so it continued, ever more hoarsely and tunelessly.

Flint clicked the PAUSE button on the remote control and fumbled through his pockets for his mobile phone. With a few finger-strokes he took a photo of the still image on screen. He saved it as a file called Tyrone.jpg and then moved it to a directory marked ‘Sprogs’.

“Cute kid,” he muttered to himself.