The group at the table glanced round as Riddle Rankine arrived at Jinglin Geordie's the higher of the two adjacent pubs in Fleshmarket Close and as he took his seat and gratefully picked up the pint of 80/- which Bunty O'Hooligan slid in front of him, he said: "what I've got is a serendipitous paragnosis, a pure fluke, so if you'd vare to pop these bluetooth earpieces in, I'll play the recording; oh, the first voice is my Boss, who you all know, and the other is his Dutch Uncle, Martinus Scriblerus. . . . ." and Jock Linkumdoddie interjected: "a collector of filthy lucre and matchboxes among other things; just for the information of those of you fortunate enough to have never come across him – he holds the World Rights to the use in any medium of the word Brexit and the Royalties keep rolling in!" and Lady Boyars asked Rankine: "an article in The National said that the BBC pay a Million quid a month, is that right, Riddle?" and the Chief Clerk blushed slightly – this wasn't the reason he had called a meeting of The Justice League, and he replied, rather shortly: "that covers it's use by all the Corporation's Services, in every language they use, and all their Channels – Radio and Television, and Social Media too . . . . ." and Angus Og chipped in: "so when Ah made a joke aboot Brexit on Radio Stornoway last month, yer maun got peyed?" and Rankine nodded, then said: "it's a fixed fee, actually the Beeb pay less than the Murdoch's companies; old Rupert thought he'd pulled a fast one on Elginbrod, a very small unit payment for every use of the word, which unlike the BBC varies from month to month, but unlike the BBC, it's never less than a Million, and usually between a Million and a half, and two Million; I wouldn't normally speak kindly of Martin Elginbrod, but on that occasion he shafted Murdoch good and proper!" and Jock said, "we have the idea, now let's not say more until we hear what Riddle's brought us," and the group went silent as everyone heard the Morningside tones of Elginbrod and the more guttural speech of his Uncle; then came a boation from Lord Samarkand, the third of the three Court of Session Judges in the League, evidently forgetting that he was wearing an earpiece, as were all the others, he roared: "fuck the gobshite! he needs pasted!" which was when he was suddenly aware that all eyes in the pub were on him, so he gave apologetic shrugs and pointed to the bluetooth device in his ear and, still louder than necessary, for the benefit of the bar staff and other customers: "the referee just awarded St Mirren a Penalty against Partick Thistle! outrageous!" and after a burst of raucous laughter, the patrons of this pub for serious drinkers, returned it to it's normal, library-like Hush!