And this

CHAPTER FOUR - Charity Begins At Home

It all started, naturally, with Maxwell C Wolf. He’d been the first to erode my life of single irresponsibility, the first to dictate that I work for him rather than simply for me, and somehow what started off as a simple bowl of chum had escalated to a Volvo with the contents of a lunchbox everywhere. Man’s best friend. Anyway, a friend came round for a chat . He’s working on a kids TV programme and it features a dog but the dog - Bentley - is a bit of a Joan Crawford, a bit of a prima donna. Won’t come out of his trailer if its too cold. The winalot’s the wrong shape... Method dog nonsense. So the friend told the story and looked at Maxwell and told the story and looked at Maxwell and... “So”, he says, “Can Maxwell act?”
What’s he got to do? He’s got to sit? Chase a ball? Bentley charges £250 a day. Can Maxwell act? Believe me, Maxwell can act. That was a month ago. Now Maxwell C Wolf is halfway through a course of ignatia, a homeopathic remedy designed to counter sadness and loss. He’s happy enough, but there’s something about his behaviour that seems, I don’t know, sad. Maybe it’s projection, but his ears are down, you know.. What happened? The day before shooting was to start Ð and Maxwell’s been up all night, sitting Ð we got a call from the production manager saying that Maxwell couldn’t do the job. Why not?
“He wasn’t in the union”, she said.
What do you mean?
“Sorry, he’s got to be in the union”.
Was Wapping for nothing? Basically the union story was a nonsense. Maxwell was stitched up. Nepotism is rife in the media, everyone knows that. A dog-owner eat dog-owner business. Sorry, he’s got to be in the union, said the production manager with a can of chum in her pocket.