Typewriter Timmy had done it. He had secured an interview with a BBC production executive to sell him his script for a brilliant new soap opera, "Ophelia O'Reilly", the tale of a brilliant authoress achieving fame and fortune.
             "You see it's like this," said Timmy, leaning forward in his chair,"The family is poor in terms of money, but uses rich language, full of metaphor, with wit and subtlety. The husband is a would be rock singer and they have beautiful, articulate, energetic teenage children."
             "And who's going to identify with that?" asked Graham Grabbit, as politely as he could under the circumstances. His eyes strayed to the football results in the folded newspaper as he waited for an answer.
             "Well...er...um..."
             Graham rose and walked to a window, turning his back to Timmy to hide his yawn. He opened the window, waiting for Timmy to make his comeback. At that moment, a jackdaw came in through the window, picked up the package and flew out again. The jackdaw could not hold the weight for long. It fell into a UPS skip seventeen floors below. Typewriter Timmy never saw his script again.
             Some weeks later, the package turned up on the desk of Dan DuEmall, the high powered Hollywood producer. During a rare five minute break, he glimpsed through the first twenty pages and muttered, "Damned Brits. Don't know how to write anything." He called his secretary on the intercom,"Here, Betty, take this crap down to the synopsis department to see if they can do anything with it."
             Johnny Jerkov returned with the revised synopsis the next day. "This is what I reckon chief. Look,this Ophelia woman, all she's good at is writing. That don't interest no one. Let's make her a businesswoman, so she's good at something which interests everyone -money."
             "I'm listening," said DuEmall.
             "Now, let's make the husband a middle aged arthritic halfwit, who used to be a rock star..."
             "And the kids are complete dorks, right?"
             "Right boss."
             "I'm starting to like this, Jerkov. Now about the brave struggle against poverty and the rich quality of language..."
             "No,no, no boss. What we do is give them too much money, but make them share one adjective."
             "Man, you've sold me on this. Now we've done Irish names before. I say they should come from some hick little backwater of Britain - got it?"
             "What about Birmingham?"
             "What that place where they talk like a cat with chewing gum stuck between its teeth?"
             "That's the one boss."
             "This is class. Now what are were gonna call them...Oswald, Osbert, Osbald, Osbore...."