The Big YS Sell-Off

Your Sinclair gets sold to Future Publishing - here's how...

Matt Bielby So why has Your Sinclair moved? And, more importantly, will it stay as skill as it was when it was based in London? Well, the answer to the second question is, of course, 'yes'. YS has always been skill, and it will remain skill until the sun turns super-nova and engulfs the inner part of the solar system, killing everything on the planet. But what about the first question though? Well, basically, your favourite Speccy mag has been bought. It's been 'purchased', lock, stock and barrel. It used to belong to Dennis Publishing in London, but now it belongs to Future Publishing in Bath. So how did this all come about then? It's a long story, so make sure you're sitting comfortably...      SCENE 1: The Phone Call. Basically the Your Sinclair Sell-Off is all down to the chairman of Future Publishing accidentally dialling a wrong number. He'd seen an advert in Exchange And Mart for a second-hand Sinclair C5 and wanted one for his new company car - given the climate of ecological awareness etc... So he rang the number, cocked it up a bit, and, by a trillion-to-one chance, got through to the chairman of Dennis Publishing instead. Here's how the historic conversation went...     Future: Hello?     Dennis: Hello.     Future: Ah. I'm interested in buying your Sinclair.     Dennis: Really? Fair enough. Um, how does £500,000 sound?     Future: Erm - it sounds like quite a lot of money for an electric tricycle actually.     Dennis: I'd hardly describe it as an electric tricycle. Okay then, I'm prepared to knock off eight percent.     Future: £460,000? Well, that still sounds like quite a lot of money. I was thinking more along the lines of about a hundred quid or something.     Dennis: (After much thought) Mmmmmm. Tell you what - 200 quid including the Editor.     Future: 150!     Dennis: 175!     Future: Done.     Dennis: Pleasure doing business with you. I'll deliver it for an extra fiver.     Future: I'll send a cheque. Bye bye.     So there you have it. Future Publishing thought they were getting a second-hand Sinclair C5 (with an editor, whatever that was) and then suddenly we all turned up on their doorstep. Everybody was totally bemused, but it was too late for them to change their minds, because Dennis Publishing had already received, cashed (and spent) the cheque.      SCENE TWO: The Shed. So there we were. Temporarily homeless. Dennis Publishing didn't want us any more, and Future Publishing were only putting up with our presence because they'd forked out 180 quid. Then came the matter of office space. The Future Garden Shed was quickly cleared of lawnmowers, gardening implements and a rather spooky damp and lumpy sack (that nobody dared open). The roof was mended, the walls were given a quick lick of paint and then a sign was hung on the door. 'Your Sinclair' it said. Um, our new office in other words. A shed. We were here to stay. But what about office equipment?     "You've cost us enough already," we were told.     "But we haven't got any Speccies or anything," moaned Matt.     "Tough!" came the curt reply. "You'll have to sort it out yourselves - we're off down the pub." (And off they went.) So out came the YS Emergency Petty Cash Box. And out came the YS Emergency Petty Cash Box key. The box was opened. Was it brimming with gold, diamonds and silver dubloons? No, as you've probably guessed, it was totally empty. Oh dear, skint in Bath with no equipment. What was a poor computer mag team to do...?      SCENE 3: The Problem. Imagine the sorry sight. A slightly rotten garden shed in the back-yard of the Future Publishing building. Inside, the dejected crew of Britain's best-selling Spec mag. The problem - no desks, no chairs, no Speccies, no monitors, no kettles, no nothing. The solution - um...     Andy: Hey, what about all the equipment we left at Castle Rathbone?     Matt: I know, I know - but we haven't got any money, so you can't hire a van.     David: Let the train take the strain then - bring the stuff down ourselves, make some sort of stretcher device or something. We'd be able to transfer everything from London in one trip!     Matt: Money for the train, clot?     David: Erm. Oh... Um...     Andy: Street Theatre!     Matt: You what??!?!?     Andy: Street Theatre. It's simple - we busk for the money! Let's find the trendiest part of town and lay on a show - we could probably earn a hundred quid. Maybe two hundred. Easy! Sean could juggle some spoons.     Matt: Don't be stupid. Anyway, nobody's going to give us any money if they spot Dunc.     Sean: Let's hitch then. Stick the old thumbs out. Flag down some Yorkie eaters!     Matt: No! It's dangerous to accept lifts from strangers. We might get killed, bundled into bin-bags and left in a lay-by somewhere. Has anybody got a better idea? Dunc?     Dunc: Eh? Er, what? Sorry, I wasn't listening. Er, what's the problem?     Matt: Never mind.     The matter was eventually settled by David, who brought up trains again and suggested that the only suggestion was a fair-dodging session courtesy of British Rail. Matt, honest to the core, agreed, but said that he'd send a cheque to BR once the YS kitty was full again. Everyone told him he was a prat.      SCENE 4: The Journey. The fearless five crept through the barriers of Bath British Rail station. Nobody challenged us - which wasn't actually surprising, as we were all wearing British Rail driver uniforms (which Sean knocked together in the shed, using his previously unrecognised needlesmith talents). After an anxious 20-minute wait on platform three the 10.40 Paddington train duly arrived.     "Don't forget the plan," whispered Matt as we took our seats. "Pretend to be asleep. If the guard wakes you up, pretend to be Swedish."     So, for the next hour and a half, five rather dubious-looking British Rail drivers sat huddled together, snoring heartily and trying to remember what Scandinavian accents sounded like. Time passed extremely slowly, but eventually, and with more than one sigh of relief, we reached Paddington. The guard had been fooled. We marched through the ticket barrier, headed straight for the underground, and very soon we were back at Castle Rathbone. All our equipment was there - tables, chairs, Speccies, monitors, the kettle, the microwave - and loads more. It was a lot to carry though, and took two hours to haul back to Paddington, but we got there, which was the important thing. The Bath-bound train was at the platform and ready to go.      SCENE 5: The Return. Thirty minutes out of Paddington. Only one hour to Bath. There we were - five 'sleeping' British Rail drivers. Three snoozing away on one side of the carriage, two pushing their Z's out from the other. Between them, blocking the aisle, a one-ton pile of furniture and electrical goods. Standing next to the pile of furniture and electrical goods, a real British Rail guard (oh dear)...     Guard: Oi! Wake up!     Matt: (Opening one eye) Mmmmmm?     Guard: What's all this then? The... 'Ere, you ain't drivers!     Matt: (Nudging Andy and sitting upright) Mmmmmmm?     Guard: Wake up the lot of you! What's going on? Where's your tickets?     Andy: (Suddenly) Flurgen wurgen yurgen plurgen!     Guard: Eh?     Matt: Yes. Glurgen flurgen swurgen klurgen!     Guard: You what?     David: Borgen worgen splurgen flurgen norgen...     Sean: Flurgy wurgy!     Dunc: Plooky flooky plinzken winken!     Guard: I see. So you're all foreign are you?     Matt: Bloogen? Noogen speaken English floogen!     Guard: And I suppose you haven't got any tickets or money either?     Matt: Klurgen wurgen? Noogen speaken English floogen.     Guard: I see.      SCENE 6: Bath Police Station. Matt: Klurgen sploogen fleegen murgen.     Andy: Bloogen poogen.     PC 1: Look, you're not fooling anybody. Don't you think it's about time you dropped this ridiculous Scandinavian train driver routine?     PC 2: He's not kidding you know. He's going to keep you all here until you drop your act and tell him who youre really are. He'll keep you for a month if necessary - and believe me, he can get nasty sometimes.     Matt: Blurgen wurgen sploogen.     PC 1: Look, I warned you...     Matt: Um, er, um. My name is Matt Bielby. I'm Editor of Your Sinclair magazine. We had to get our equipment. I... I was going to pay the money back later.     PC 1: Yeah, and I'm the King of Spain.     Dunc: Really?? Blimey!! Welcome to our country, your majesty.      SCENE 7: Back in the Shed. It took ages, but eventually the confusion was all sorted out ad the old bill let us go. There was cause for celebration - we had actually got all our equipment down to Bath. We could, at last, get to work on this issue (ie the one you're reading now, cloth-head). We couldn't quite get all the desks inside the shed though, so we made a sort of bivouac out of a massive piece of polythene that Sean found, and stuck the ones remaining under that. We've taken to tossing coins every morning to see which staff members do the 'outside' shift. Mind you, it'll be nice in summer - everyone will want to work in the bivouac. In fact, we might even move all the desks out of the shed and onto the lawn - if the weather's really fine. Hmmmm. It's been a bit of an upheaval, but everything's settled again now. Bath's quite nice, the shed's not that bad and we're all bursting with the joys of spring. Long live Your Sinclair! Even though we're now nearer Cornwall!!

Published in the April 1990 issue of Your Sinclair

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