Chapter 14 In which Pangloss remembers the good old days

Henry Charles Albert David Pangloss jumped out of bed with exceptional gusto. Today was the day of the big meeting with all the councillors and local bigwigs, where the consultants would present the next big idea, and after the success of the last meeting he was looking forward to it with relish. The only lingering doubt was whose idea would they actually say it was? Was it the consultants' idea, so that was why they were presenting it, or would they say it was actually the Mayor's idea? Hmm, tricky; people might say 'but if it's the Mayor's idea, why are we paying for consultants?' Yes, and knowing what a bunch of miserable, whining, po-faced, overly-critical and downright ungrateful malcontents the majority of Westphalians had turned out to be he could just see that happening. Yes, they'd be scrabbling for their pens and paper before the end of the presentation. Some of them wrote to the newspaper so often with their bloody lefty agenda that he almost knew their names. What was that old twat who really got under his skin called? Ditchling? Ditchlow? Scratchlow? Oh, he couldn't remember. It didn't matter; he'd get his comeuppance along with the rest of them, after this. Whichever way they presented it, it would sound impressive. It would be a new ... what was the word? Outlook. No, that didn't sound quite right. Perspective? No, too arty-farty. View? No, too mundane, and too short. Vision? Hmm, possible. Hang on though, weren't visions things that people had when they were going a bit loopy? He didn't want his term in office shortened prematurely by someone coming round and quoting the Mental Health Act at him. Probably best to leave the final decision to the consultants.

Pangloss decided he wasn't going to let these minor concerns spoil his big day. He would be as proud as he was when he received his degree from that seat of great learning all those years ago. He could hear the words of the Australian Vice-Chancellor ringing in his ears as if it were yesterday: 'By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Universita Committeeatum E Pluribus Unum, I hereby confer upon you the honorary degree of Th.D. - Doctor of Thinkology.' A proud moment indeed. For a moment he was lost in a reverie of his student days, when, being something of a movie buff, he had been president of the film society. Pangloss glanced in the mirror. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days but still looked pretty good for his age. In fact the stubble gave him that mean chiselled look that had earned him his nickname at university - 'Dirty Harry'.
He put on his best gravelly voice and snarled at his reflection: 'I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?'
'Ahh, the good old days,' Pangloss sighed to himself. Thinking of that degree ceremony, he wondered what that smart arse from the Biology department was doing now? He used to keep Pangloss up half the night playing Bruce bloody Springsteen. Something insignificant, no doubt. And he'd probably lost most of his hair. One thing was for certain - he wouldn't have risen to the lofty position of Mayor, oh no. Wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't hack life in the UK and had had to emigrate to some colonial backwater. Yes, he'd like to see him at a reunion, sidle up to him and say something like 'So Griffiths, what are you up to these days? I'm the Mayor of Westphalia-on-Sea, you know, giving something back to society. And where did all that biology get you? Don't suppose you've found a cure for cancer, have you?'
Yes, that would take the old slaphead down a peg or two, he chuckled to himself.