Chardonnay turned upon Garth and began to set about him something wicked. Garth responded by butting her fiercely in the head.

Rude crew pigs trotted forward and hustled Chardonnay and Garth from the stage.

Miss Muffett arose from her Tuffet. She straightened down parts of her frock that really didn't need straightening down and approached Jack and Eddie upon her preposterous heels.

'You two,' she said, when she had approached sufficiently. 'You two have chatted throughout my first quarter. Are you both mad or just plain stupid?'

Jack gawped at Miss Muffett. 'We're...' he managed to say.

'Yes, you gormster, what?'

'We're really enjoying the show,' said Jack.

'But you feel the need to talk all through it?'

'Very sorry,' said Jack.

'Just shut it,' said Miss Muffett. 'Shut your stupid ignorant mouths. I'm a star. A big star. A famous star. You, you're ' nothing. Do you understand? Less than nothing. Nobodies. Nonsuches. Nonentities. You just do what you're told to. Laugh in the right places. Applaud in the right places. Then get out. Get out and go back to your meaningless little lives. Do you hear what I'm saying?'

'All too loudly,' said Jack.

'What?'

'We hear you, yes.'

'Then shut up.' Miss Muffett's wonderfully wowser blue eyes glared pointy daggers at Jack.

'Very sorry,' said Jack once more. 'We'll be quiet. We were over-excited. That's all.'

'Yes, well, see that you do. Stupid trash.' Miss Muffed; turned upon her pointy heels and stalked back to the stage.

Jack looked at Eddie.

And Eddie looked at Jack.

'What a most unwowserly woman,' said Jack.

Eddie said nothing at all.

Then.

'Three, two, one,' bawled the controller, variously.

The clockwork orchestra struck up once again.

And part two of the show was on the go.

Chardonnay and Garth were back on stage, but this time each was restrained within straitjackets. Various dubious-looking types, a rusty clockwork fireman, a manky straw dog and some barely dressed dollies were hustled into the spotlight to tell their tales of drunkenness and debauchery, point accusing fingers and paws. They soon took to striking one another.

At length these too were hustled away, leaving Miss Muffett alone.

'Trash,' whispered Jack. 'It's all trash.'

'Ladies and gentlemen,' husked Missy, 'dollies and gollies, clockworkers, woodeners, and all otherwises, it is now my very great pleasure to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine: a star amongst stars, making one of his rare live appearances right here on my little show. I am honoured to welcome the supper singer himself, your own, your very own, Little Tommy Tucker.'

And the clockwork orchestra struck up once again, again.

The controller did further bawlings for applause and for complicated lighting-work, but his bawlings were swallowed up by the orchestra's stirring rendition of the Little Tommy Tucker theme and the audience's obvious adulation.

The applause was such as to have Eddie's growler vibrating.

'Grrrrrrrr,' went Eddie. 'Pardon me.'

And then He walked out onto the stage.

He had the look of one who had partaken of the pleasures of the flesh in a manner that lacked for moderation or temperance. He had really partaken of them.

He was indeed Toy City's most perfectly wasted man.

Jack ducked this way and that as clockwork cameramen once more got in his way, but when he finally spied Little Tommy, Jack felt cause to whistle.

'No one can be that thin,' Jack said to Eddie.

But Little Tommy could.

There was very little of Little Tommy. He had the big face of the famous, but the little body was oh-so-little that it was a cause of pain to gaze upon. It was next to nothing. It was a wisp. A wistful whisper.

A willowy wistful whisper.

What little there was of it was encased in a truly spiffing triple-breasted blue silk Oh Boy! suit of the high fashion persuasion. He wore dapper little hyper-exclusive foolish-boy-skin shoes upon his dinky little feet. A nattily knotted pink velvet tie was threaded beneath the high collars of a pale lemon satin shirt. He had the remains of some very big hair piled high upon his head. A studio tan coloured his gauntly-featured face. His eyes were of the palest blue; his lips of the lushest red.

'Hi there,' crooned little Tommy, raising skeletal hands.

The audience cheered and those amongst them possessed of hands clapped these wildly together.

'Thank you, thank you, thank you.' Little Tommy beamed all around and about. He exchanged air kisses with Little Miss Muffett and bowed several times to the audience. He stepped up to a microphone before the clockwork orchestra. 'I'd like to sing a song that I know will be very lucky for me,' he said into it. 'Another chart topper.'

Further wild applause issued from the audience.

'Is he really that good?’ Jack shouted into Eddie's ear.

'No, he's rubbish, and there's no need to shout. We bears are greatly admired for our aural capacities.'

'LJrgh,' went Jack.

Eddie rolled his button eyes. 'Aural,' he said. 'Oh, never mind.'

'This song,' continued Little Tommy, 'is dedicated to a very dear friend of mine. I cannot speak his name aloud, but He knows who He is. The song is called "You're a God to me, buddy". It goes something like this.' Little Tommy beamed over his slender shoulder towards the clockwork orchestra. 'Gentlemen, please, if you will.'

The clockwork conductor one two three'd it with his baton; the orchestra launched into the number.

Jack's head ducked this way and that, but the cameramen obscured his view. He could however hear the song. And as Jack listened to it, his jaw dropped low once more.

It was...

'Awful,' whispered Jack to Eddie. 'The song's awful and he can't even sing.'

'It is my belief,' Eddie whispered back, 'that when Wheatley Porterman penned the original nursery rhyme that made Little Tommy famous, it was intended as a satire upon the poor quality of Toy City nightclub entertainers, Little Tommy in particular: that all his singing was worth was some brown bread and butter. Ironic the way things turned out, eh?'

Jack nodded thoughtfully, curled his lip, screwed up his eyes and thrust his hands over his ears. 'Tell me when he's finished,' he said to Eddie.

Eddie did not reply to this. His paws were already over his ears.

It did have to be said that even if Little Tommy wasn't much of a singer, which indeed he was not, he did put his heart and indeed his very soul into his performance. Veins stood out upon his scrawny neck and upon his ample forehead. Tears sprang into his eyes. His spindly arms crooked themselves into all manner of unlikely positions; his long fingers snatched at the air as if clawing at the very ether. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face, joining his tears to stripe his studio tan.

The song itself was of the ballad persuasion, which, given Little Tommy's rendition in the manner that made it all his own, had about it a quality which raised excruciation to an art form. Little Tommy trembled on his toes. At every high note, his lips quivered and his mouth became so wide that those in the upper seats who had particularly good eyesight were afforded a clear view right down his scrawny throat to see what he'd had for breakfast.

The deafening applause that greeted the song's conclusion was sufficient to arouse Jack and Eddie from the foetal positions they had adopted. Eddie put his paws together. 'Bravo,' he called.

'Irony?’ Jack asked.

'Absolutely,' said Eddie.

'Bravo,' called Jack, clapping too. 'More. More.'

'Let's not overdo it.'

'Quite so.’ Jack ceased his clapping.

'What can I say?' Little Miss Muffett rose from her central tuffet, clapping lightly and professionally. 'One of the greats. If not the great. Join me up here, Little Tommy, come and sit with me please.'