A man wearing a little green hat was rootling about the tip making shrill snorting noises. He was sifting through piles of waste with quick nervous gestures, tossing it in every direction like a demented digger. As Tancredi focussed on his face he was surprised to see a flat nose with wide nostrils, large protruding ears and small beady eyes. He appeared to have the DNA of a pig. Oddly, a large pannier was strapped to his backside.

The refuse rifler continued with his labours, ignoring Tancredi.

‘Excuse me,’ shouted Tancredi, starting to climb back up. ‘What planet is this?’

The man-pig looked up with a jolt, and scrutinized Tancredi’s face.

‘Scoop,’ he replied matter-of-factly. Then he bent back to his task, strewing a bag of debris over Tancredi’s feet. ‘Now buzz off, I’m busy with this rubbish.’

‘What are you looking for?’

The man-pig sighed, detached his pannier, and sat down on a pile of newspapers. As his legs twitched with an anxious tic, Tancredi’s eyes were drawn to cloven feet.

‘A scoop, of course.’

He lent back on his makeshift seat and surveyed the rubbish tip like an emperor. He produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped away a bead of sweat with a trotter. A look of weary resignation swept over his porcine face.

‘I love a good scoop,’ he volunteered, ‘but this is a bad news day.’

Tancredi kicked over a discarded crate to make a seat and sat down.

‘So what’s a good news day?’

The man-pig looked wistful; he seemed to be casting his mind back to ages past.

‘I’ll always remember when I started,’ he snorted. ‘I was an apprentice, you know. My editor was a genial chap. He used to say “mek the news yung mun.” Then he’d slap me on the back and add, “Politicians, laddy, they’re always up to summut.”’

Tancredi nodded in encouragement.

One day I took off to our capital, Read All About It, in search of my first scoop. Arriving at our Parliament, everything was a paradise of propriety. There were strategically placed disabled signs; a notice board containing helpful information starting at A and ending at Z; a warning to coffee machine users to beware of hot water. This was no school for scandal. I put my hands in my pockets and slunk out of the building.

‘I stood on the sidewalk wondering what to do next, looking up at the massive masonry of the façade of government. What secrets lay within, I wondered? What cancer oozed through its marble floors? I decided to go to the back of the building to look for clues.’

‘Moving down an alleyway I felt a glimmer of hope. The long arm of health and safety hadn’t yet extended to its immediate vicinity. The further down the alley I went, the filthier it became. My nostrils twitched like a pig on the scent of a truffle. At last I arrived at the destination I had anticipated – the Parliamentary refuse area – the Gomorrah of civic activity.’