William Donaldson's Week: How to tell if you've been had

HONEST John has got it wrong again, the upshot being that clients of the Frankie Fraser Debt Collection Agency (directors, Mr William Donaldson and Mr 'Mad' Frankie Fraser) are obliged to sit on orange boxes rather than on stuff by Sir Terence Conran.

I was driving with him to Habitat on Monday when he asked me out of the blue where I stood on invasion of privacy and so forth.

'What if a journalist were to ask me whether I'm gay,' said Honest John. 'Should I admit it?'

'Certainly not,' I said. 'You should tell him that it's no more his business than where you bank.'

Later, at Habitat, a crisp young credit control manageress asked us where we banked, whereupon Honest John blew his top.

'Mind your tongue, madam,' he stormed. 'That's no more your business than the fact that I'm gay' - which is why the offices of the Frankie Fraser Debt Collection Agency are, for the moment, furnished with orange boxes.

In spite of this, business booms - and thanks, I imagine, more to my partner's reputation than to mine. True, I was loosely associated with the Countess of Darboigne's team of shoppies in the Sixties - bullet-headed business girls who took orders door to door, thereafter king-punching personnel in Oxford Street and returning within an hour or two with designer clothes, carpets, grand pianos, anything you'd asked for - but that was just a front for a model agency that I happened to be running at the time.

These days, my pal Frankie Fraser wouldn't hurt a fly, but it has been said that when he joined the Richardsons it was like China getting the atom bomb, and it's certainly the case that from the moment I announced the incorporation of our enterprise, debtors I didn't know I had - the VAT Inspector, a man from the Revenue offering a rebate, a stone-bald Yardie claiming that he'd done me up six years ago in Ladbroke Grove - crawled out of the woodwork with pounds 50 notes stuffed in every pocket.

That said, it would have been a mistake, when Mr Fraser worked with the Richardsons, to have complained to him that Charlie or Eddie owed you money. All the more surprising, then, that old Mrs Matthews, aged 96, did something of the sort on Tuesday.

'I'm not sure about the orange boxes,' she said.

'Never mind about the orange boxes,' I said. 'How can we help?'

'I'm owed a very considerable sum of money,' she said.

'Really? By whom?'

'By you,' she said. 'Last week I asked you to pick up my winnings from the betting shop and I haven't seen you since.'

Oh dear oh dear. 'Give her a clump, Frankie,' I said.

I'm joking, of course. Frankie doesn't clump women - indeed he doesn't these days clump anyone at all, unless they're out of order, that is.

Mr Fraser escorted Mrs Matthews into his inner office, leaving me to wonder how she could have so misunderstood the nature of my partner's code of honour, the single organising principle of his life - which is that you go to the last yard in support of your associates; to wonder, indeed, how readers of the Independent could have so misunderstood it, too.

One expects Independent readers, like Marine commandoes wearing the latest in night-sighted yomping boots, to be able to pick their way through the minefield of a covert argument, not least when no argument is offered. All the more disappointing, then, that most of my correspondents, after last week's column, asked indignantly how I could condone Mr Fraser's behaviour down the years.

I didn't condone it, as it happens. I did show some sympathy, perhaps, with his disapproval of authority, but had I ever seen him exercising his form of authority I'd have been as sickened as anyone else, no doubt.

The problem is, I haven't seen it, whereas I have witnessed cruel, pig-ignorant women from the shires rattling handcuffs at the Tory Party conference and baying for the return of the noose and leg-irons. If the erstwhile antics of my pal Frankie are more disturbing to your peace of mind, well, good luck to you.

I was thinking thus when Mr Fraser came out of his office with a protective arm around Mrs Matthews. She'd have got a telling off at worst, a sharp lesson in loyalty to the firm and so forth.

'Right,' he said. 'In full settlement of your debt to Mrs Matthews, it has been agreed that I'll collaborate with her on her excellent book, How To Tell If Your Children Aren't On Drugs.'

I was thunderstruck. 'That's my idea,' I said.

'Be sensible,' said Mr Fraser. 'Was your idea. We've been working on some new entries. Here's one. 'They think a popper is a Viennese philosopher'.'

'Excuse me while I split my sides,' I said.

'And here's another,' said Mr Fraser. ' 'They put oranges in their mouths to eat them, and use plastic bags to do the shopping'.'

'How about this?' said Mrs Matthews. ' 'They get rat-arsed once a week and leave the bathroom as if a horse had been the last to use it. They buy the Oldie, watch repeats of Casablanca, and stick up pictures of sordid Swedish film stars instead of Rachel Garley'.'

'I think I'll crack a rib,' I said.

Mr Fraser wouldn't give up. ' 'They offer wine bar badinage as if participating in a comedy drama by Mr Mortimer. 'Long time no see, Hugo]' 'You're looking dead sexy, Vanessa]' 'Flattery will get you everywhere]' 'To the victor the spoils]' 'Touche]' Do something about these orange boxes, would you?'

Nuts to loyalty. Send in your entries (name and address withheld in case of bother later on) and

we'll have a proposal on Methuen's desk before Mrs Matthews and my pal Frankie are out of the traps.