James Peabody had never meant to bring down a councillor. Honestly, James barely meant to do anything at all. His blog, The Misanthrope’s Gazette, was just an outlet for grumbling—usually about dog mess, shrieking children, or the black-hearted misanthropes driving the Number 37 bus.
“Someone needs to say it,” he told his mother over tea one Sunday. “You could say it with fewer swear words,” she replied, dabbing at the corners of her mouth. “And maybe smile more.”
He had precisely twelve regular readers, one of whom was his mother, and another he suspected was a bot from Estonia.
Then came Tuesday evening.
After two and a half pints of bitter and a portion of fish and chips with the texture of an old shower curtain, James sat down to blog.
“Ponsomby,” he muttered, crumbs scattering across the keyboard. “You smug little toad.” He typed furiously.
“If you believe Councillor Derek Ponsomby is filling in potholes for the good of the people, you probably also believe your printer’s ‘low ink’ warning is sincere. It’s time we asked serious questions about his links to the totally-not-made-up company Ponsomby’s Luxury Craters Ltd.”
He chuckled to himself. “That’ll raise a smirk or two.”
By Wednesday morning, he was famous. Or infamous. Mostly confused.
His phone buzzed.
“Have you seen The Woking Gazette?” his mother barked. “You’re on the front page!”
“Oh God,” James whispered. “What does it say?”
“‘COUNCILLOR IN POTHOLE PROFITEERING SCANDAL?’” she read. “They even printed your blog name. You should really change that, by the way—it sounds like you wear a cape and spit on orphans.”
That was just the beginning.
A right-wing tabloid called the affair “a shocking abuse of power.” A left-wing broadsheet called it “a poignant metaphor for Britain’s crumbling civic trust.” Even the BBC aired a panel debate.
“It is technically plausible,” said one expert, “to monetise a pothole.”
“What does that even mean?” James groaned, clutching his head.
Meanwhile, Councillor Ponsomby was having a breakdown in beige.
“I have never,” he stammered at a press conference, “owned a pothole. Nor have I sold one. I wouldn’t even know where to get one wholesale!”
The statement only made things worse.
“Typical politician!” someone shouted. “Where’s the receipt, Derek?” another yelled. “Fill ’em up, Ponsomby!” chanted a growing mob outside the council offices.
By lunchtime, James was in full panic.
“I have to fix this,” he muttered, hammering out a new post: FOR GOD’S SAKE, IT WAS A JOKE.
Nobody cared.
Instead, his inbox lit up.
“James,” read one email, “love your work. You’re a hero. Let’s get you on Britain Speaks! to tell your truth.”
Another read: “Don’t back down, comrade. Ponsomby’s corruption runs deep. Would you like some fair-trade Guatemalan roast as a thank-you?”
By Thursday, James had crawled under his kitchen table.
“They’re going to kill me with coffee or television,” he mumbled. A news van idled outside. His phone pinged again.
One tweet read: “James Peabody for Prime Minister!” Another: “Hang him. Upside down. With potholes.”
Then, at 2:15 PM precisely, deliverance arrived—wearing sensible shoes and a fierce expression.
Margaret Ponsomby, the councillor’s wife, marched into the council offices like a one-woman cavalry. She grabbed a microphone.
“For the love of God,” she bellowed, “Derek’s too useless to run a bloody pothole company! He can’t even hang a picture without ending up in A&E!”
There was a silence. Then a snort. Then laughter.
The mob dispersed. Journalists packed up. Even Twitter quieted down, like a pub after closing time.
James exhaled.
He deleted the blog. Bought yarn. Took up knitting.
Three weeks later, the council approved a motion to fix every pothole in the borough.
James Peabody’s name was never spoken again—except, now and then, in The Woking Gazette, where he was described as “a local menace with a surprising flair for knitwear.”