Down at theTown Hall in Westphalia-on-Sea Dr Pangloss was in buoyant mood as he was expecting representatives from yet another firm of consultants.
'They're on their way up,' he said to his trusty deputy, Ahmad Hatter. 'Open the door and show them in.'
Hatter opened the door and ushered in the man and woman who were approaching.
'Sit down, sit down,' urged Pangloss. 'I'm in a bit of a hurry, so let's make this quick. I've got to go and look at Christmas fairy lights on people's houses in a minute. Now, what do you think we should do to regenerate the town centre?'
'Er, drastically lower the business rates to kick start things, and put in some public toilets at the Hold-on Centre?' said the man on the left.
'Brilliant! You people really have got your finger on the pulse, haven't you? Now what do you think of my plans for a new business park out at Edgycombe Lane?'
This time the woman on the right spoke: 'Not much - I think it will just be another sprawl eating into the green belt which will take more business away from the already deserted town centre.'
'Blimey, I hadn't thought of it like that - maybe we'll have a rethink on that one. You guys are razor sharp today. I'd better write this down. OK, one last question - how do we start bringing in more tourists?'
'Start with some market research,' they said, almost in harmony.
'Hmm, market research, said Pangloss. I've heard of that. Just remind me, what is it exactly?'
'You know, asking people who holiday in the UK what they look for in a destination, that sort of thing. So you can make some sensible decisions instead of just saying the first daft thing that comes into your head.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said Pangloss. 'It's all coming back to me now.' On the notepad in front of him he wrote in capitals 'DON'T SAY THE FIRST DAFT THING THAT COMES INTO YOUR HEAD'. 'Well, I suppose you people want paying. Well, I know you've only been here five minutes but that advice has been priceless. Hatter! Get the chequebook. Now what was it, fifty grand?'
'Fifty grand? said the man on the left. 'What for?'
'Your consultancy fee, of course.'
'We're not consultants,' said the man.
'Well who the bloody hell are you then?'
'Well, nobody really. We just came in to pay our council tax. We're just two ordinary locals. I'm Jack Muttock, and this is Irene Dalloway.'
'Local, eh? I wondered why you were speaking in that strange way,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, sir, local sir, not loike you.'
'Oh, I'm a local as well,' said Pangloss.
'Really? Well, you don't talk loike us, do 'ee?'
'No, I went away to school - to avoid people like you, and your strange vowels. Anyway, I'd love you to stay and chat, but you're obviously in the wrong place. Hang on though; if you're not consultants, where did you get all those brilliant ideas from?'
'Well, it's just common sense really. And you can read it in the paper on the letters page a lot of the time - there's plen'y o' folk with good ideas out there. Well, it's not rocket science, is it?'
'Isn't it? said Pangloss. 'OK, well, you can see yourself out, can't you?'
Pangloss suddenly wondered if he could save some money on consultancy fees if there were locals who could come up with ideas for free. Just as this thought was working its way through the grey matter in his head two smartly dressed men came through the door.
'Dr Pangloss, said the first one, taking his hand and shaking it vigorously, I'm Robert Hawayun and this is my colleague, Cedric Shight.'
'So you're HS consultants, based in Newcastle - Hawayun Shight?'
'At your service.'
'Do you know what, gents,' began Pangloss, thinking on his feet. 'There's been a bit of a mix up, and I don't think I need any more consultants just at the minute.'
'Oh, lots of folk say that, said Cedric, especially after they've just received our first invoice. But they are invariably wrong. Everybody needs consultants. You just might not be fully aware of the fact at the moment. For example, you're in a right old two and eight with your brand aren't you? You don't know if you're in the Cote de Westphalia, or English Phalia or just plain old Phalia, do you?'
'Well, I suppose we're in a bit of a mess with that at the moment' stammered Pangloss, but I'm sure we can sort that out for ourselves.'
'Sort it out yourselves? This is a brand we're talking about, not just a name, you know. And that brand is going to need developing and managing. I can assure you that it's much too big a job to tackle without consultants.'
'Oh, come on, you're not serious are you?'
'Not serious? I've never been more serious in my life. Don't underestimate the power of a brand. And don't underestimate what a consultant can do for you. You're not just paying for ideas - you're paying professionals who can dress up everyday ideas in consultant speak. It's a priceless commodity in your line of work, and it doesn't come cheap. You'd better ringfence a quarter of million for the next couple of years - this is not an overnight job - there's no quick fix to your brand problem.'
'A quarter of a million?! asked Pangloss in a rather high-pitched voice.
'Absolutely, interjected mr Hawayun. But don't worry, you'll get your money's worth. Rest assured that our team of highly trained research staff will quantify the proposition and interrogate the brief until it confesses it's strengths. This brand should fight with it's trousers down but at the same time put a reassuring arm around the consumer and lead him into the house for a nice cup of tea and a chocolate hobnob.
'Well, if you put it like that ... said Pangloss, I suppose I could find a quarter of a mil from somewhere.'
'Oh we do put it like that, Dr Pangloss, we do put it like that,' said Mr Hawayun. That's precisely why we can command fees that some people might consider, ... er, slightly above the average.'
'I see,' said Dr Pangloss. Glancing out of the window he saw Mr Muttock and Mrs Dalloway walking down the road. 'Exorbitant might be a better word.'
'Slightly above the average or exorbitant,' said Mr Hawayun. Let's not argue over the semantics when you're going to be getting so much added value.'
Chapter 32 In which Charlie Windsor has a moment of self-doubt
While Loretta Martin was enjoying tea and a chat with the logician, Charlie Windsor had arrived home and was just turning his computer on. He sat down with a sigh as the screen flicked into life. The last few days had shaken him, and now he was considering his strategy he was beginning to wonder if it was all really worth it. He thought about his position. Here he was trying to raise his profile, writing bloody letters about the EU to the paper and then waiting a couple of days to see them in print. And then he had to pick another topic and start again with another letter. Since Pangloss had been elected as mayor Charlie had practically been eclipsed. Yes, bloody Pangloss, who Charlie himself had helped reserve a seat in first class on the gravy train. Good God, how had this come about? He had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea in 2002 and spent every waking moment trying to get his face in the paper and to ingratiate himself with the locals, and now Pangloss was upstaging him at every turn. An estate agent after all, and to add insult to injury, all he had to do was fart, and he'd get a three-page spread in the Westphalia Express. There he was, safe in his job until 2011, while Charlie would have to face the electorate in 2010 or before. And what if he failed to get himself elected then? Would the party allow him a third attempt? He could just imagine the party's response: 'Damn good job you've done old boy, but maybe it's time to give a local man a chance.'
And who would that local man be? Why, none other than Dr Pangloss himself, he shouldn't wonder.
Charlie tried to put these depressing thoughts out of his mind and logged in to his blog. He checked how many people had voted in his 'days in prison without being charged' poll. The screen told him it was twenty-nine. It had been running for about two weeks.
'Twenty-fucking-nine!' said Charlie despondently under his breath.
'What's that darling?' came his wife's voice from the kitchen.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Charlie. He clicked onto the Piddlebackside blog - it was becoming something of an obsession. The bloggers had started another poll, and they had already had sixty-nine votes. Sixty-nine in two days, thought Charlie, and there'll be a few more this evening, no doubt. He began to consider whether in this case there was such a thing as bad publicity, contrary to the old advertisers' mantra. Was it better that he was often a key character on the Piddlebackside blog, or would it have been better to remain in the relative obscurity of his own little blog? Did he want to be known as the loyal supporter of Dr Pangloss, or would he prefer to just tap out postings for twenty-nine people to leisurely read over two weeks? Hmm, it was becoming rather philosophical, and he felt that he needed a drink. Scrolling down and reading the Piddlebackside blog, he noticed his character, Philip Eton, was just mixing himself a Gin Fizz; gin, lemon juice and a little sugar shaken over ice and topped up with soda water. Haven't had one of those in ages, thought Charlie. Maybe I'll have the same - no, wait a minute. This was ridiculous. He was actually being influenced by the blog. Wait, no he wasn't. He was just being paranoid. This was a pure coincidence; it had to be. Everyone's ready for a drink when they get home from work.
Charlie stared blankly at the computer screen, waiting for inspiration to strike and provide a topic to write about. Moan about Brian Localbloke? Hmm, probably have to lay off that for a while - negative campaigning and all that. 'Education?' he mumbled to himself. No, best stay away from that - he couldn't really remember if the Tories were currently in favour of grammar schools or against them after the last Cameron debacle. The war in Iraq? No, steer clear, they had definitely supported that fiasco. Oh well, he thought, as he began tapping lightly on the keys, might as well do the predictable thing and focus attention on dodgy donations to the Labour Party. At least the Tories were looking slightly less sleazy than Labour now. It wasn't much of a story, thought Charlie, but if only twenty-nine people are going to read it I suppose it doesn't really matter. Just then his wife appeared.
'What's up?' she said. 'You look all done in.'
'Oh, you know, just wondering if it's all worth it, that's all,' replied Charlie without turning round.
'Well maybe this'll cheer you up,' she said. She placed a tall glass next to his mouse pad and then began gently rubbing his shoulders.
'What's that?' he asked, nodding at the glass, still typing.
'Gin fizz,' she said, still rubbing. 'My, you do feel tense.'
And who would that local man be? Why, none other than Dr Pangloss himself, he shouldn't wonder.
Charlie tried to put these depressing thoughts out of his mind and logged in to his blog. He checked how many people had voted in his 'days in prison without being charged' poll. The screen told him it was twenty-nine. It had been running for about two weeks.
'Twenty-fucking-nine!' said Charlie despondently under his breath.
'What's that darling?' came his wife's voice from the kitchen.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Charlie. He clicked onto the Piddlebackside blog - it was becoming something of an obsession. The bloggers had started another poll, and they had already had sixty-nine votes. Sixty-nine in two days, thought Charlie, and there'll be a few more this evening, no doubt. He began to consider whether in this case there was such a thing as bad publicity, contrary to the old advertisers' mantra. Was it better that he was often a key character on the Piddlebackside blog, or would it have been better to remain in the relative obscurity of his own little blog? Did he want to be known as the loyal supporter of Dr Pangloss, or would he prefer to just tap out postings for twenty-nine people to leisurely read over two weeks? Hmm, it was becoming rather philosophical, and he felt that he needed a drink. Scrolling down and reading the Piddlebackside blog, he noticed his character, Philip Eton, was just mixing himself a Gin Fizz; gin, lemon juice and a little sugar shaken over ice and topped up with soda water. Haven't had one of those in ages, thought Charlie. Maybe I'll have the same - no, wait a minute. This was ridiculous. He was actually being influenced by the blog. Wait, no he wasn't. He was just being paranoid. This was a pure coincidence; it had to be. Everyone's ready for a drink when they get home from work.
Charlie stared blankly at the computer screen, waiting for inspiration to strike and provide a topic to write about. Moan about Brian Localbloke? Hmm, probably have to lay off that for a while - negative campaigning and all that. 'Education?' he mumbled to himself. No, best stay away from that - he couldn't really remember if the Tories were currently in favour of grammar schools or against them after the last Cameron debacle. The war in Iraq? No, steer clear, they had definitely supported that fiasco. Oh well, he thought, as he began tapping lightly on the keys, might as well do the predictable thing and focus attention on dodgy donations to the Labour Party. At least the Tories were looking slightly less sleazy than Labour now. It wasn't much of a story, thought Charlie, but if only twenty-nine people are going to read it I suppose it doesn't really matter. Just then his wife appeared.
'What's up?' she said. 'You look all done in.'
'Oh, you know, just wondering if it's all worth it, that's all,' replied Charlie without turning round.
'Well maybe this'll cheer you up,' she said. She placed a tall glass next to his mouse pad and then began gently rubbing his shoulders.
'What's that?' he asked, nodding at the glass, still typing.
'Gin fizz,' she said, still rubbing. 'My, you do feel tense.'
Chapter 31 In which the logician explains why a tactical vote for the Lib-Dems is essential
'So are you saying that the Piddlebackside blog is not just a bit of fun? That there's a serious side to it?' asked Loretta, her hands cupped around a mug of tea.
'Absolutely. The key here is the internet - it has given ordinary people a voice, enables like-minded people to connect with each other, and allows people to challenge the opinions of the mainstream media. For example, look at the last census in 2001. Out of 129,706 Westphalians 800 put their religion down as 'Jedi' after emails were circulated encouraging people to do so. I know 'Jedi' hasn't been listed as an official religion, but it demonstrates the power of mass communication.'
'I see. So you're saying the bloggers are trying to influence the way people think and vote?'
'Of course. First of all, in the realm of local government it allows for a much more balanced view of Dr Pangloss's actions. It may be my imagination, but there seems to have been a certain reduction in the number of his big ideas which have been publicized since the bloggers started. And secondly, where the next general election is concerned, it could have a real impact on the outcome of a key marginal like Westphalia-on-Sea if people realise that the only way to make their vote count in a first-past-the-post system is to vote tactically. But perhaps more importantly, the internet has provided the first step towards more independent thought. Here read this, particularly the last two sentences.'
He twisted the computer screen so Loretta could see it, and she silently read:
'Absolutely. The key here is the internet - it has given ordinary people a voice, enables like-minded people to connect with each other, and allows people to challenge the opinions of the mainstream media. For example, look at the last census in 2001. Out of 129,706 Westphalians 800 put their religion down as 'Jedi' after emails were circulated encouraging people to do so. I know 'Jedi' hasn't been listed as an official religion, but it demonstrates the power of mass communication.'
'I see. So you're saying the bloggers are trying to influence the way people think and vote?'
'Of course. First of all, in the realm of local government it allows for a much more balanced view of Dr Pangloss's actions. It may be my imagination, but there seems to have been a certain reduction in the number of his big ideas which have been publicized since the bloggers started. And secondly, where the next general election is concerned, it could have a real impact on the outcome of a key marginal like Westphalia-on-Sea if people realise that the only way to make their vote count in a first-past-the-post system is to vote tactically. But perhaps more importantly, the internet has provided the first step towards more independent thought. Here read this, particularly the last two sentences.'
He twisted the computer screen so Loretta could see it, and she silently read:
'Private capital tends to become concentrated in few hands, partly because of competition among the capitalists, and partly because technological development and the increasing division of labour encourage the formation of larger units of production at the expense of the smaller ones. The result of these developments is an oligarchy of private capital the enormous power of which cannot be effectively checked even by a democratically organised political society. This is true since the members of legislative bodies are selected by political parties, largely financed or otherwise influenced by private capitalists who, for all practical purposes, separate the electorate from the legislature. The consequence is that the representatives of the people do not in fact sufficiently protect the interests of the underprivileged sections of the population. Moreover, under existing conditions, private capitalists inevitably control, directly or indirectly, the main sources of information (press, radio, education). It is thus extremely difficult, and indeed in most cases quite impossible, for the individual citizen to come to objective conclusions and to make intelligent use of his political rights.'
When she had finished reading she looked at him and said: 'Yes, when I think of the influence of Rupert Murdoch, the big supermarkets, international oil barons and Lord Ashcroft bankrolling the Tory Party it all seems very apposite. Did you write it?'
'No I didn't, I'm afraid. Einstein wrote it back in 1949, but as you say, it all rings pretty true today.'
'Even so, what point are you making? That the internet will enable us to take on big business and the media corporations?'
'Not exactly, but used intelligently it has the potential to bring about victory on a much smaller scale - keeping the Tories out of Westphalia-on-Sea at the next election, for example. And don't forget Lao Tzu's famous quote: 'A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step'. Do you think when Swampy climbed his first tree and became an eco-warrior he ever would have thought that ten years later the Tories would be rushing to redesign their logo and tell everyone how much they cared about the environment?'
'Yes, I've often wondered if anyone is actually taken in by all this drivel about 'green this' and 'eco-friendly that',' said Loretta.
'I doubt it. Anyway, after stealing the Tories' clothes and sticking with a 'right-wing' agenda it would appear that Gordon Brown and New Labour are now presiding over an economic meltdown of their own making. However, the idea that a slightly different right-wing agenda under the leadership of old Etonians and ex-members of the Bullingdon club would be a better option is simply the stuff of nightmares, so anything these bloggers can do to avert that particular disaster is all right by me - and of course, if we get to send Charlie Windsor packing in the process, so much the better.'
'Ooh, absolutely, cooed Loretta. I'll certainly spread the word that anything other than a Lib-Dem vote is a wasted vote. So how will the establishment, or the Tories, react to the blog?'
'Remember the Gandhi quote? they've already tried to ignore it, and ridicule it, so presumably they will try to fight it as well - and then we'll win.'Chapter 30 In which Loretta Martin meets a Logician
While Charlie Windsor was busy explaining the earth shattering importance of Tory visitors to the Cote de Westphalia to bemused locals Loretta Martin was walking home through the town. Jumping smartly to one side to avoid being run over by the number 12 bus, she stepped onto the escalator which took her to the upper floor where you were safe from traffic and shoppers. Gazing in the windows of the deserted shops, her eye was caught by the bright colours of a small shopfront which she had not noticed before. On the window the word 'LOGICIAN' was painted in purple. 'Have you fortune told, love?' came a voice from behind her. 'Er, no thanks,' said Loretta, as she turned around. I don't really believe in all that stuff.'
'Well if not your fortune, how about the answers to any other questions you may have?'
'But I can get the answers to any questions from Google for free, can't I?'
'Not always. Why not try me? Eugene Adamov at your service.'
Loretta thought for a moment then produced a scrap of paper from her handbag. 'OK, she said, tell me what this means: On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Ah, the Piddlebackside blogger? You'd better come in.'
'Well, what does it mean,' she said, following him into the rather cluttered shop.
'It means you can't kill an idea with gun shots, or put it in handcuffs. It's a quote from Louise Michel - she was with the Communards in Paris.'
'What, the eighties band?'
'No, the Communards were a group which rebelled against the rule of Napoleon III and briefly ruled Paris in April and May 1871. In a couple of months they implemented all kinds of popular reforms, such as the separation of Church and State, votes for women, and so on.'
'So why are we reading quotes like that from a time so far in the past that it has no relevance today?'
'That's a very common mistake to make - to assume the past has no connection to the present. People do it all the time, largely through ignorance. If you don't know much about the past it is tempting to completely disregard it, particularly where politics is concerned.'
'How do you mean?' asked Loretta.
'Well, for example, many people assume that society and our present political system have always been the same and will always remain the same. Of course a quick look at recent history shows that this is absolute nonsense - we are living in a constantly changing society, and it is a fact that most change for the better is only brought about through political struggle. For example, go back ten years and there was no minimum wage. Go back thirty years and throwing bananas at black footballers was deemed acceptable by many people. Go back ninety years and women were not allowed to vote. Go back ninety-five years and only 58% of men could vote. People are always resistant to change, particularly those people who stand to have their power and wealth eroded by change, so they do their level best to deride any new ideas which might benefit the majority. Gandhi said: "First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win." Take my first example of the minimum wage - in 1997 the Tories were opposed to it, now the idea of abolishing it would be considered a terrible step backwards. Now think about so called long-haired left-wing hippy tree-huggers. They have been derided by the political mainstream since the 1960s, but suddenly politicians are falling over themselves in an effort to appear green, and with the continuing bloodshed in Iraq people are now saying 'what's so funny about peace love and understanding?' Still, I think it will be some time before we see a headline in the Daily Mail saying WE CONCEDE - LEFTY HIPPIES WERE RIGHT.'
'I see. So people that say things like 'I don't vote - politicians and parties are all the same' are a bit misguided?'
'Not so much misguided as downright stupid. People seem to believe that all parties have the same goals, and that changing the governing party will have no effect on society; clearly this is not true: just one event - the introduction of the minimum wage - has proved that. It's time for people to wake up to what politics is about. Anyone who fails to recognise that all the major advances in society over the last century have come about through political activism against the establishment, and in political terms 'the establishment' is the Tories, is quite mad. Shall I put the kettle on?'
'Well if not your fortune, how about the answers to any other questions you may have?'
'But I can get the answers to any questions from Google for free, can't I?'
'Not always. Why not try me? Eugene Adamov at your service.'
Loretta thought for a moment then produced a scrap of paper from her handbag. 'OK, she said, tell me what this means: On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Ah, the Piddlebackside blogger? You'd better come in.'
'Well, what does it mean,' she said, following him into the rather cluttered shop.
'It means you can't kill an idea with gun shots, or put it in handcuffs. It's a quote from Louise Michel - she was with the Communards in Paris.'
'What, the eighties band?'
'No, the Communards were a group which rebelled against the rule of Napoleon III and briefly ruled Paris in April and May 1871. In a couple of months they implemented all kinds of popular reforms, such as the separation of Church and State, votes for women, and so on.'
'So why are we reading quotes like that from a time so far in the past that it has no relevance today?'
'That's a very common mistake to make - to assume the past has no connection to the present. People do it all the time, largely through ignorance. If you don't know much about the past it is tempting to completely disregard it, particularly where politics is concerned.'
'How do you mean?' asked Loretta.
'Well, for example, many people assume that society and our present political system have always been the same and will always remain the same. Of course a quick look at recent history shows that this is absolute nonsense - we are living in a constantly changing society, and it is a fact that most change for the better is only brought about through political struggle. For example, go back ten years and there was no minimum wage. Go back thirty years and throwing bananas at black footballers was deemed acceptable by many people. Go back ninety years and women were not allowed to vote. Go back ninety-five years and only 58% of men could vote. People are always resistant to change, particularly those people who stand to have their power and wealth eroded by change, so they do their level best to deride any new ideas which might benefit the majority. Gandhi said: "First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win." Take my first example of the minimum wage - in 1997 the Tories were opposed to it, now the idea of abolishing it would be considered a terrible step backwards. Now think about so called long-haired left-wing hippy tree-huggers. They have been derided by the political mainstream since the 1960s, but suddenly politicians are falling over themselves in an effort to appear green, and with the continuing bloodshed in Iraq people are now saying 'what's so funny about peace love and understanding?' Still, I think it will be some time before we see a headline in the Daily Mail saying WE CONCEDE - LEFTY HIPPIES WERE RIGHT.'
'I see. So people that say things like 'I don't vote - politicians and parties are all the same' are a bit misguided?'
'Not so much misguided as downright stupid. People seem to believe that all parties have the same goals, and that changing the governing party will have no effect on society; clearly this is not true: just one event - the introduction of the minimum wage - has proved that. It's time for people to wake up to what politics is about. Anyone who fails to recognise that all the major advances in society over the last century have come about through political activism against the establishment, and in political terms 'the establishment' is the Tories, is quite mad. Shall I put the kettle on?'
Chapter 29 In which the Westphalians learn about the visits of Tory grandees
Charlie Windsor felt reinvigorated after deciding to strike out and make an impression on the voters of the Cote de Westphalia, or whatever Pangloss and his consultants were calling it at the moment. After all, Charlie himself was a management consultant, so if anyone could come up with top-notch ideas to focus people's attention on why they should vote Conservative it was him.
First of all he told people how two high profile Tory shadow ministers had visited Westphalia-on-Sea. He told everyone about Michael Gove's visit. And the Westphalians were both honoured and very excited, and said: 'Who?' And Charlie said: 'You know, that bloke who used to work for Rupert Murdoch at The Times and describes himself as a neo-Conservative.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oh, we can't stand him.' Then Charlie told them about Andrew Mitchell's visit, and the Westphalians were equally excited and said: 'Oo?' And Charlie said 'You know, the charming and intelligent Andrew Mitchell.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oo? Us 'uv never bleddy 'eard uv 'im.'
And Charlie said: 'for goodness sake, he's the shadow Secretary of State for International Development and he came to look at the proposals for a new library in Eastphalia. He obviously cares pasionately about the people of Eastphalia.'
And the people said: 'Are you sure it's not because the Tories desperately want to win this seat at the next election and want to give you some publicity?'
And Charlie Windsor said: 'Of course not, politics isn't like that. They came because they care about you as much as I do. That's why I uprooted my family and came to live among you straw-chewing yokels - it was a selfless act of love. If, in the process of caring, I happen to become an MP and draw a fat salary, it will be pure (yet happy) coincidence.'
Naturally this reassured most of the simple folk of the Cote de Westphalia, but one or two had lingering doubts. 'What's wrong with the MP we've got? they asked. He grew up here and understands us, and even supports Westphalia United.'
And Charlie said: 'Oh, for goodness sake, how many times do I have to tell you people? He's Brian Uselessbloke, he never has any big ideas, he's not a Conservative and worst of all he didn't support having an elected mayor. I, on the other hand, have gone on record as saying that Dr Pangloss is the best thing to happen to Westphalia-on-Sea in a generation, and so do a large and growing number of the people who live here.'
'And the Westphalians said: 'You what? Best thing in a generation? We think you bin out in the sun too long, buey.'
And then Charlie began to wish he hadn't supported Pangloss quite so vociferously in the past, and hoped that over time people would forget some of the things he had said and written, and really wished he hadn't brought all this up again because it probably wouldn't help his cause.
First of all he told people how two high profile Tory shadow ministers had visited Westphalia-on-Sea. He told everyone about Michael Gove's visit. And the Westphalians were both honoured and very excited, and said: 'Who?' And Charlie said: 'You know, that bloke who used to work for Rupert Murdoch at The Times and describes himself as a neo-Conservative.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oh, we can't stand him.' Then Charlie told them about Andrew Mitchell's visit, and the Westphalians were equally excited and said: 'Oo?' And Charlie said 'You know, the charming and intelligent Andrew Mitchell.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oo? Us 'uv never bleddy 'eard uv 'im.'
And Charlie said: 'for goodness sake, he's the shadow Secretary of State for International Development and he came to look at the proposals for a new library in Eastphalia. He obviously cares pasionately about the people of Eastphalia.'
And the people said: 'Are you sure it's not because the Tories desperately want to win this seat at the next election and want to give you some publicity?'
And Charlie Windsor said: 'Of course not, politics isn't like that. They came because they care about you as much as I do. That's why I uprooted my family and came to live among you straw-chewing yokels - it was a selfless act of love. If, in the process of caring, I happen to become an MP and draw a fat salary, it will be pure (yet happy) coincidence.'
Naturally this reassured most of the simple folk of the Cote de Westphalia, but one or two had lingering doubts. 'What's wrong with the MP we've got? they asked. He grew up here and understands us, and even supports Westphalia United.'
And Charlie said: 'Oh, for goodness sake, how many times do I have to tell you people? He's Brian Uselessbloke, he never has any big ideas, he's not a Conservative and worst of all he didn't support having an elected mayor. I, on the other hand, have gone on record as saying that Dr Pangloss is the best thing to happen to Westphalia-on-Sea in a generation, and so do a large and growing number of the people who live here.'
'And the Westphalians said: 'You what? Best thing in a generation? We think you bin out in the sun too long, buey.'
And then Charlie began to wish he hadn't supported Pangloss quite so vociferously in the past, and hoped that over time people would forget some of the things he had said and written, and really wished he hadn't brought all this up again because it probably wouldn't help his cause.
PLEASE NOTE
As the 17th November is a special feast day in Westphalia-on-Sea (the Day of San Pedro de Cocinero), commemorating its favourite son, there will be no more blog entries until Tuesday 20th November.
Chapter 28 In which Charlie realises that the problem with political jokes is that they get elected
Charlie Windsor woke up sweating. It was only a nightmare, but it was one he had had before. In it he was on the stump, doing what he did best - negative campaigning. As he came to the end of his sentence his voice began to rise as he uttered his rhetorical question: 'what have the Lib Dems and Labour ever done for us?' Instead of the applause he was expecting, a voice shouted out 'old age pensions!', then another shouted 'the National Health Service!' Pretty soon there were contributions from all around his audience: 'Unemployment benefit!' 'the minimum wage!' 'Windfall tax on privatised utilities after the Tories sold them off too cheaply! 'Votes for men!' 'Votes for women!' It was starting to sound like a bloody film script, but thankfully he woke up before it got any more depressing.
Charlie recalled the words of Martin Leyland, about having to distance himself from the lame duck mayor. Worryingly, at the moment he was playing second fiddle to the mayor, yet having to openly support his every idea, his every political move. This wasn't how it was supposed to have turned out. As he lay in bed he remembered when he had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea. He remembered how he had gradually raised his profile through a continual process of well-timed exposure in the media. He built himself up to be the voice of the Conservatives in the area, and now look at the situation. Dr Pangloss had come from the obscurity of estate agency to be at the top of the Tory heap, and Charlie Windsor, as his campaign manager, had helped put him there. Pangloss was in the paper every day, and now Charlie was having to work extra hard just to stand still in terms of self-publicity. The mayor had his own column in the paper, and so did Charlie's rival, Brian Localbloke. But what did Charlie himself have? A blog read by about twelve people, and the odd letter in the Westphalia Express, where he had to compete for space with people giving thanks to strangers for helping them after a fall in the local supermarket. And you couldn't just write letters out of thin air - they had to be linked to something. When there was nothing interesting locally to write about he couldn't just write 'Hey everybody, I'm still here you know, waiting for the election, don't forget about me.' No, at such times he was reduced to commenting on Gordon Brown's policy on the EU Treaty, or pointing out what a dead loss Gordon Brown was if you conveniently forgot that he had been Chancellor of the Exchequer for ten years and was now Prime Minister. The more Charlie considered his position the more disgruntled he became, especially when he remembered that in the good old days before elected mayors it was he, Charlie Windsor, who had been the undisputed ideas man when he rode into town...
... yes, it was the twenty-ninth of April 2003, but Charlie remembered it as if it was yesterday. Martin Aston was in the paper a lot, with his famous car number plate 8ULL 5H1T. Charlie had sat down with Martin and a few others and come up with some cracking ideas for the future. When the Westphalia Express saw fit to announce that some of the greatest minds on the Cote de Westphalia had been engaged in a little futuristic problem solving it referred to the participants as 'a think-tank group'. And it referred to his '20-20 vision' idea as a 'brainchild'. Yes, he, Charlie Windsor, had headed up a bloody think-tank and had given birth to a brainchild in the same afternoon. A tank full of thinkers and a diminutive cerubellum on legs. And now here he was, playing deputy to the mayor's sheriff. In fact he wasn't even that, because the mayor had a deputy. No, the Westphalia Express didn't come to him for a quote unless all the phones in the Town Hall were going straight to bloody voicemail. Yet back in 2003 it had all been so different. Back then he could suggest turning the clock back to the swinging sixties in Eastphalia to give it a retro look and feel. Yes, he said if you had lampposts and shopfronts from the 1960s visitors would flock into town - it would be shag-tastic, just like an Austin Powers movie. Yes, back then he could come up with an idea every bit as lame as any of Dr Pangloss's, and still get half a page in the Westphalia Express with a big photo as well. That journalist was right - he was going to have to start distancing himself from Pangloss, and start fighting - politics was a dirty business, he thought, but if you wanted an MP's salary you had to jolly well roll your sleeves up get stuck in. Feeling invigorated by this mental pep-talk he jumped out of bed, pulled his Union Jack dressing gown on and saluted the picture of Margaret Thatcher on the wall.
Charlie recalled the words of Martin Leyland, about having to distance himself from the lame duck mayor. Worryingly, at the moment he was playing second fiddle to the mayor, yet having to openly support his every idea, his every political move. This wasn't how it was supposed to have turned out. As he lay in bed he remembered when he had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea. He remembered how he had gradually raised his profile through a continual process of well-timed exposure in the media. He built himself up to be the voice of the Conservatives in the area, and now look at the situation. Dr Pangloss had come from the obscurity of estate agency to be at the top of the Tory heap, and Charlie Windsor, as his campaign manager, had helped put him there. Pangloss was in the paper every day, and now Charlie was having to work extra hard just to stand still in terms of self-publicity. The mayor had his own column in the paper, and so did Charlie's rival, Brian Localbloke. But what did Charlie himself have? A blog read by about twelve people, and the odd letter in the Westphalia Express, where he had to compete for space with people giving thanks to strangers for helping them after a fall in the local supermarket. And you couldn't just write letters out of thin air - they had to be linked to something. When there was nothing interesting locally to write about he couldn't just write 'Hey everybody, I'm still here you know, waiting for the election, don't forget about me.' No, at such times he was reduced to commenting on Gordon Brown's policy on the EU Treaty, or pointing out what a dead loss Gordon Brown was if you conveniently forgot that he had been Chancellor of the Exchequer for ten years and was now Prime Minister. The more Charlie considered his position the more disgruntled he became, especially when he remembered that in the good old days before elected mayors it was he, Charlie Windsor, who had been the undisputed ideas man when he rode into town...
... yes, it was the twenty-ninth of April 2003, but Charlie remembered it as if it was yesterday. Martin Aston was in the paper a lot, with his famous car number plate 8ULL 5H1T. Charlie had sat down with Martin and a few others and come up with some cracking ideas for the future. When the Westphalia Express saw fit to announce that some of the greatest minds on the Cote de Westphalia had been engaged in a little futuristic problem solving it referred to the participants as 'a think-tank group'. And it referred to his '20-20 vision' idea as a 'brainchild'. Yes, he, Charlie Windsor, had headed up a bloody think-tank and had given birth to a brainchild in the same afternoon. A tank full of thinkers and a diminutive cerubellum on legs. And now here he was, playing deputy to the mayor's sheriff. In fact he wasn't even that, because the mayor had a deputy. No, the Westphalia Express didn't come to him for a quote unless all the phones in the Town Hall were going straight to bloody voicemail. Yet back in 2003 it had all been so different. Back then he could suggest turning the clock back to the swinging sixties in Eastphalia to give it a retro look and feel. Yes, he said if you had lampposts and shopfronts from the 1960s visitors would flock into town - it would be shag-tastic, just like an Austin Powers movie. Yes, back then he could come up with an idea every bit as lame as any of Dr Pangloss's, and still get half a page in the Westphalia Express with a big photo as well. That journalist was right - he was going to have to start distancing himself from Pangloss, and start fighting - politics was a dirty business, he thought, but if you wanted an MP's salary you had to jolly well roll your sleeves up get stuck in. Feeling invigorated by this mental pep-talk he jumped out of bed, pulled his Union Jack dressing gown on and saluted the picture of Margaret Thatcher on the wall.
Chapter 27 In which we reflect on what has happened in one month in Westphalia-on-Sea
At this point in the saga some of the people in Westphalia-on-Sea began to take stock of what had been happening in their little town. Just four weeks earlier the first five chapters of the fledgling Piddlebackside blog had been pushed out of the nest and left to fend for themselves on the internet. The political musings of person or persons unknown, at a time when people were becoming increasingly disillusioned with the political process, they were surely not going to interest anyone; Allen Salkin, writing in the New York Times, said 'many blogs have a readership of one, -or at best, the writer, his mother and some guy from grade school who found him on Google'. It was even more bizarre then, that the Piddlebackside blog should buck the trend and develop a relatively large readership in a very short space of time, be featured on local radio and discussed by Members of Parliament. When commentators examined the reasons for its success they found that it appealed to a wide cross-section of society who all had two things in common. Firstly, they all hated their elected leader squandering huge amounts of their hard-earned cash on consultants when the answers to most questions were staring everyone in the face, and secondly, they were utterly fed up with the stream of drivel about grandiose schemes for future prosperity to which they were constantly subjected. It seemed that the people coming up with ideas such as high-speed ferries, brand name changes and turning towns into cities were on a different planet, and as time went on some of the Westphalians began to speculate about which planet it might be. It will probably come as no surprise to many readers to hear that the conclusion reached by most of these amateur astronomers was that this kind of talk could only come from Uranus.
Like any new TV show, film or book, the blog had its fans, but it also had its detractors. These were mainly the people who were deeply involved in peddling the fanciful stories about future prosperity, and selling off bits of Westphalia-on-Sea's beautiful coastline to developers. These were people like the mayor, Dr Pangloss, the Deputy Mayor, Ahmad Hatter, and Charlie Windsor, the Mayor's staunch ally, his campaign manager, and prospective MP. Since it would bore readers to keep reading this list of names we can use a more convenient 'umbrella term' and call them 'the Conservatives', and that way we can include all the people who thought the same way as those three. Now, before any accusations of political bias are made, at this point it should be remembered that all political parties have eye-wateringly stupid ideas from time to time. However, on the Cote de Westphalia it was this group which had an impressive history of repeatedly hiring expensive firms of consultants and then applauding every hare-brained scheme which was presented by them.
So it was then that some of these Conservatives said whoever's writing this blog 'is far too up himself', he's 'arrogant' and 'too clever by half', and that Piddlebackside was a 'little imaginary world'. Of course what they obviously hadn't realised was the reason the blog was so popular was not because Piddlebackside was a little imaginary world, but because it held a mirror up to the real world of Westphalia-on-Sea. From their comments it was also clear that the other thing that Conservatives didn't like was 'clever', especially when it came in quantities 50% bigger than normal. No, they didn't seem to like 'clever', or people that read books and thought for themselves, or people that applied simple logic to everyday life, or people that could string two words together and seemed to know what they were talking about. Conservatives were people who believed they lived in the best of all possible worlds, and if this required an unquestioning belief in all sorts of claptrap, then so be it. In fact in this respect they were not at all unlike the Queen in Through the Looking Glass. In that volume Alice points out that one can't believe impossible things, to which the Queen replies: "I daresay you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Claptrap, as intelligent readers are no doubt aware, can come in many forms: it could be the idea that there are thousands of wealthy visitors waiting to come to Westphalia-on-Sea if only the town had another casino, and fewer pensioners, chavs and young farmers. It could be something as simple as changing the name of a town, or it could be the complicated business of turning a town into a city. Now as most of this kind of claptrap was helpfully reported in the Westphalia Express, Westphalians had plenty of practice in believing it, but unlike the Queen in Carroll's masterpiece it seemed as though they were becoming increasingly unwilling to do so. Indeed, some Westphalians began to sense that there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air.
Like any new TV show, film or book, the blog had its fans, but it also had its detractors. These were mainly the people who were deeply involved in peddling the fanciful stories about future prosperity, and selling off bits of Westphalia-on-Sea's beautiful coastline to developers. These were people like the mayor, Dr Pangloss, the Deputy Mayor, Ahmad Hatter, and Charlie Windsor, the Mayor's staunch ally, his campaign manager, and prospective MP. Since it would bore readers to keep reading this list of names we can use a more convenient 'umbrella term' and call them 'the Conservatives', and that way we can include all the people who thought the same way as those three. Now, before any accusations of political bias are made, at this point it should be remembered that all political parties have eye-wateringly stupid ideas from time to time. However, on the Cote de Westphalia it was this group which had an impressive history of repeatedly hiring expensive firms of consultants and then applauding every hare-brained scheme which was presented by them.
So it was then that some of these Conservatives said whoever's writing this blog 'is far too up himself', he's 'arrogant' and 'too clever by half', and that Piddlebackside was a 'little imaginary world'. Of course what they obviously hadn't realised was the reason the blog was so popular was not because Piddlebackside was a little imaginary world, but because it held a mirror up to the real world of Westphalia-on-Sea. From their comments it was also clear that the other thing that Conservatives didn't like was 'clever', especially when it came in quantities 50% bigger than normal. No, they didn't seem to like 'clever', or people that read books and thought for themselves, or people that applied simple logic to everyday life, or people that could string two words together and seemed to know what they were talking about. Conservatives were people who believed they lived in the best of all possible worlds, and if this required an unquestioning belief in all sorts of claptrap, then so be it. In fact in this respect they were not at all unlike the Queen in Through the Looking Glass. In that volume Alice points out that one can't believe impossible things, to which the Queen replies: "I daresay you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Claptrap, as intelligent readers are no doubt aware, can come in many forms: it could be the idea that there are thousands of wealthy visitors waiting to come to Westphalia-on-Sea if only the town had another casino, and fewer pensioners, chavs and young farmers. It could be something as simple as changing the name of a town, or it could be the complicated business of turning a town into a city. Now as most of this kind of claptrap was helpfully reported in the Westphalia Express, Westphalians had plenty of practice in believing it, but unlike the Queen in Carroll's masterpiece it seemed as though they were becoming increasingly unwilling to do so. Indeed, some Westphalians began to sense that there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air.
Chapter 26 In which Charlie decides to try and outwit the bloggers
As Pangloss and his faithful sidekick Charlie left the Westphalia Express building there was a faint sound of the national anthem. Charlie took his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.
'Mr Windsor?' said the voice at the other end.
'Yes,' said Charlie.
'This is Martin Leyland; I'm a journalist. I wonder if I could have a few words with you - alone?'
'It's him!' hissed Charlie, covering the mouthpiece.
Half an hour later Charlie Windsor was sitting opposite Martin Leyland in the Westphalia-on-Sea Conservative Club.
'The people at the Westphalia Express are going mad looking for you,' said Charlie.
'Well, they only had to pick up the phone book and call me,' replied Leyland.
'Do you mean to say Martin Leyland is your real name?'
'Yeah, why wouldn't it be?'
'Well, I just thought ... you know, with the people at the newspaper not being able to find you ...'
'That lot? They couldn't find their arse in the dark with both hands.'
'Really? Now let me ask you directly: are you the Piddlebackside blogger?'
'No, I'm not, but I know who is.'
'Well, do you mind telling me his name then?'
'Their names. This is too big for just one person; it's a team of writers.'
'Oh. We were becoming convinced it was you.'
'Yes, that was the plan. The clue was in one of the early chapters where misdirection was mentioned. A lot of careful groundwork was laid down in advance - I had to be in on it because I agreed to be the front man. Radio Heaven almost caught me on the hop when they phoned for an interview, but luckily I stalled for time and was able to call the people behind it to see how they wanted to play it.'
'Oh, I didn't realise ...'
'I don't think anybody did. I even told my parents that I was behind it. Telling my mother is an extremely efficient way of disseminating rumour and hearsay around Westphalia-on-Sea, and she's been around a lot longer than the internet, so it would have been foolish not to use such a useful resource.'
'I see; so they still think ...'
'... it's me. Yes,' finished Leyland. Look, everyone is starting to think it's me now, so the radio and the papers will soon lose interest and you'll never find out who's really behind it. The internet allows people to create multiple blogs and personalities under assumed names, and then hide behind the word 'anonymous' to make comments. Nothing is really what it seems. What's important is not who's writing it, but what they're writing. And in your case, how much damage it can do.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right there.'
'Now, the reason I asked to meet you alone was to ask you this - what do you plan to do about your relationship with Pangloss?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, weren't you his campaign manager during the election?'
'Yes.'
'And haven't you been very supportive of all his big ideas?'
'Well, yes. Actually I've had a few big ideas of my own, you know.'
'Yes, I know, said Leyland. We'll come to those all in good time. But for now, you do realise that you have to start distancing yourself from Pangloss, don't you?'
'Do I? Why?'
'Because he's a lame duck mayor, of course. If you keep on supporting him over the next two years your support will slowly ebb away, and with it your dream of becoming an MP - that's a given.'
'Blimey, I hadn't really thought of it in those terms.'
Well, maybe you'd better start thinking in those terms. With hindsight, a Conservative mayor was probably the last thing you needed.'
'Hmm, I really need to think hard about all of what you've told me. I was wondering, do you think I could start a blog that satirized the Piddlebackside blog? Would that work?'
'I doubt it. I mean, who would read it? The real one is heading for 8,000 hits. It's a nice idea, and I'm sure they'd be flattered, but realistically you're not in their league, are you? I mean, what would you say on it?'
'Oh, I'd say I know who they are.'
'And ...?'
'Well, that's it.'
'Hmm, it's a bit lame, if you ask me. What would you call yourself?'
'Something similar to the blogger. I know - Voltaire.'
'Hmm, not very original is it? People will probably just think it's the bloggers throwing out more red herrings and not you being clever, and then you'd have gone to all that trouble for nothing.'
'Well, it's up to you. Good luck with your Piddlebackside.blogspot, and thanks for talking to me.'
'Mr Windsor?' said the voice at the other end.
'Yes,' said Charlie.
'This is Martin Leyland; I'm a journalist. I wonder if I could have a few words with you - alone?'
'It's him!' hissed Charlie, covering the mouthpiece.
Half an hour later Charlie Windsor was sitting opposite Martin Leyland in the Westphalia-on-Sea Conservative Club.
'The people at the Westphalia Express are going mad looking for you,' said Charlie.
'Well, they only had to pick up the phone book and call me,' replied Leyland.
'Do you mean to say Martin Leyland is your real name?'
'Yeah, why wouldn't it be?'
'Well, I just thought ... you know, with the people at the newspaper not being able to find you ...'
'That lot? They couldn't find their arse in the dark with both hands.'
'Really? Now let me ask you directly: are you the Piddlebackside blogger?'
'No, I'm not, but I know who is.'
'Well, do you mind telling me his name then?'
'Their names. This is too big for just one person; it's a team of writers.'
'Oh. We were becoming convinced it was you.'
'Yes, that was the plan. The clue was in one of the early chapters where misdirection was mentioned. A lot of careful groundwork was laid down in advance - I had to be in on it because I agreed to be the front man. Radio Heaven almost caught me on the hop when they phoned for an interview, but luckily I stalled for time and was able to call the people behind it to see how they wanted to play it.'
'Oh, I didn't realise ...'
'I don't think anybody did. I even told my parents that I was behind it. Telling my mother is an extremely efficient way of disseminating rumour and hearsay around Westphalia-on-Sea, and she's been around a lot longer than the internet, so it would have been foolish not to use such a useful resource.'
'I see; so they still think ...'
'... it's me. Yes,' finished Leyland. Look, everyone is starting to think it's me now, so the radio and the papers will soon lose interest and you'll never find out who's really behind it. The internet allows people to create multiple blogs and personalities under assumed names, and then hide behind the word 'anonymous' to make comments. Nothing is really what it seems. What's important is not who's writing it, but what they're writing. And in your case, how much damage it can do.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right there.'
'Now, the reason I asked to meet you alone was to ask you this - what do you plan to do about your relationship with Pangloss?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, weren't you his campaign manager during the election?'
'Yes.'
'And haven't you been very supportive of all his big ideas?'
'Well, yes. Actually I've had a few big ideas of my own, you know.'
'Yes, I know, said Leyland. We'll come to those all in good time. But for now, you do realise that you have to start distancing yourself from Pangloss, don't you?'
'Do I? Why?'
'Because he's a lame duck mayor, of course. If you keep on supporting him over the next two years your support will slowly ebb away, and with it your dream of becoming an MP - that's a given.'
'Blimey, I hadn't really thought of it in those terms.'
Well, maybe you'd better start thinking in those terms. With hindsight, a Conservative mayor was probably the last thing you needed.'
'Hmm, I really need to think hard about all of what you've told me. I was wondering, do you think I could start a blog that satirized the Piddlebackside blog? Would that work?'
'I doubt it. I mean, who would read it? The real one is heading for 8,000 hits. It's a nice idea, and I'm sure they'd be flattered, but realistically you're not in their league, are you? I mean, what would you say on it?'
'Oh, I'd say I know who they are.'
'And ...?'
'Well, that's it.'
'Hmm, it's a bit lame, if you ask me. What would you call yourself?'
'Something similar to the blogger. I know - Voltaire.'
'Hmm, not very original is it? People will probably just think it's the bloggers throwing out more red herrings and not you being clever, and then you'd have gone to all that trouble for nothing.'
'Well, it's up to you. Good luck with your Piddlebackside.blogspot, and thanks for talking to me.'
Chapter 25 In which Pangloss and Charlie visit the offices of the Westphalia Express
'This discussion about education and money is getting us nowhere fast, said Pangloss with a sigh. I want to know who this blogging bloke is, and to put it bluntly, I want his bloody blogging blocked.'
'Well, what have we got? said Charlie. He knows a bit of French, and appears to be in his forties from the description the barman at the Conservative Club gave us. That's about it, isn't it?'
'Not quite, Charlie old boy, not quite. He started the Piddlebackside blog to poke fun at you and me, but then there was the other website, the newspaper spoof. And I'm forgetting that bloody journo who came and interviewed me - he was the one who warned me about the space time continuum and all that bloody nonsense. What was name? Leyland, I think. His line of questioning wasn't exactly what you'd call sympathetic - I'm sure he knows a lot more than he was letting on.'
'Did he work for the Westphalia Express?' asked Charlie.
'No, as I recall he said he was freelance. Charlie, I think it's time we started fighting back. Let's pay our friend the editor at the Westphalia Express a visit. I bet he'll be able to shed some light on this mystery hack.'
When Pangloss and Charlie Windsor arrived at the reception of the Westphalia Express it was business as usual. The working environment at the paper had the feel of a 19th-century cotton mill combined with all the fun of a slave ship when supplies are running low. Journalism seemed to be a trade which had been completed by-passed by all the recent advances in legislation related to the workplace. As the internet had eaten into newspaper circulation and advertising revenue there had been savage staffing cuts. Those that were 'lucky' to still be in a job after the axe had fallen had more and more work to do. They were always chasing what seemed like impossible deadlines. There was no going out for a lunch break - you grabbed a sandwich in front of the PC, and if you wanted a coffee you combined it with a trip to the loo - that was time management Westphalia Express-style. No-one wanted to be seen to be clock-watching and knocking off before their colleagues for fear of being the firing line the next time there was any 'rationalisation' to be done. Just to cap it all off, there was the reassuring knowledge that the same company, Southcliffe Newspapers, owned just about every other local newspaper in the area, so the chances of getting another job in the industry were virtually zero. If you took out the classified ads, the readers' letters and the bits and pieces of parish news provided cheaply by local people there was very little in it the paper; if you then took out the pictures of the mayor you were left with barely enough to wrap some chips in.
'So you think this blogger is someone close to a journalist, eh?' asked the editor, once they were in his office.
'Or maybe it is a journalist,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, said the editor. I've had my suspicions as well. Must be someone who's used to working quickly, used to proof reading and meeting tight deadlines. Leyland, you say his name was? It doesn't ring any bells, but maybe that's a pseudonym. Even though it's going to be part of a shiny new city Westphalia-on-Sea is still a small town, and everybody knows everybody else's business.'
The editor picked up the phone and said: 'Anja, send in Mr Staedtler.'
There weren't many hacks on the Cote de Westphalia that Deputy Editor John Staedtler hadn't come across.
'Staedtler, know any hacks by the name Leyland?'
'No guv. Probably not his real name, anyway.'
'That's what I thought. Right, get on the internet and search for freelance journalists in the area - let's see if that throws up anything connected to the name Leyland. And get on that blog and check the times of the postings and comments, then talk to technical support and see if anything matches up time-wise with email traffic out of this place; I'm still not convinced it's not one of our own.'
'Maybe someone with an axe to grind, guv?'
'Well, that doesn't exactly narrow it down, does it John? While you're at it, get the techies to deny access to that blog - maybe that'll flush 'em out. And check who's had time off recently - they may have been doing it from home.'
'Goodness, said Pangloss. You seem even keener to find this character than I am.'
'Too right, replied the editor. If this goes on for much longer and one of the nationals picks it up there's going to be hell to pay. Who's to say Private Eye won't do a feature in their Street of Shame column? It's already been on the local radio, for Christ's sake. This guy'd better not be an insider, that's all I can say.'
Just as the editor was finishing his sentence the door burst open. 'Guv, said the breathless reporter, got something big - the boys in blue have just seized fifty grand's worth of coke in an armed raid.'
'Bingo! said the editor. Right, that's the front page - move that bollocks about the college being a university to page two. Dr Pangloss, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bump you off the front page as well. John, where can we put the mayor today?'
'I've got the back page guv, and the inside back page - two big photo ops.'
'I haven't got to go back to the football ground, have I?' asked Pangloss, looking worried.
'No, no, said Staedtler. It's just archery over at Fishhole. We'll get you over there with a photographer. I'm not sure about that turtleneck sweater with a sports jacket, though; is that your idea of 'casual', Mr Mayor?'
'Yes, it is, replied the mayor. Don't you like it?'
'Well, what have we got? said Charlie. He knows a bit of French, and appears to be in his forties from the description the barman at the Conservative Club gave us. That's about it, isn't it?'
'Not quite, Charlie old boy, not quite. He started the Piddlebackside blog to poke fun at you and me, but then there was the other website, the newspaper spoof. And I'm forgetting that bloody journo who came and interviewed me - he was the one who warned me about the space time continuum and all that bloody nonsense. What was name? Leyland, I think. His line of questioning wasn't exactly what you'd call sympathetic - I'm sure he knows a lot more than he was letting on.'
'Did he work for the Westphalia Express?' asked Charlie.
'No, as I recall he said he was freelance. Charlie, I think it's time we started fighting back. Let's pay our friend the editor at the Westphalia Express a visit. I bet he'll be able to shed some light on this mystery hack.'
When Pangloss and Charlie Windsor arrived at the reception of the Westphalia Express it was business as usual. The working environment at the paper had the feel of a 19th-century cotton mill combined with all the fun of a slave ship when supplies are running low. Journalism seemed to be a trade which had been completed by-passed by all the recent advances in legislation related to the workplace. As the internet had eaten into newspaper circulation and advertising revenue there had been savage staffing cuts. Those that were 'lucky' to still be in a job after the axe had fallen had more and more work to do. They were always chasing what seemed like impossible deadlines. There was no going out for a lunch break - you grabbed a sandwich in front of the PC, and if you wanted a coffee you combined it with a trip to the loo - that was time management Westphalia Express-style. No-one wanted to be seen to be clock-watching and knocking off before their colleagues for fear of being the firing line the next time there was any 'rationalisation' to be done. Just to cap it all off, there was the reassuring knowledge that the same company, Southcliffe Newspapers, owned just about every other local newspaper in the area, so the chances of getting another job in the industry were virtually zero. If you took out the classified ads, the readers' letters and the bits and pieces of parish news provided cheaply by local people there was very little in it the paper; if you then took out the pictures of the mayor you were left with barely enough to wrap some chips in.
'So you think this blogger is someone close to a journalist, eh?' asked the editor, once they were in his office.
'Or maybe it is a journalist,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, said the editor. I've had my suspicions as well. Must be someone who's used to working quickly, used to proof reading and meeting tight deadlines. Leyland, you say his name was? It doesn't ring any bells, but maybe that's a pseudonym. Even though it's going to be part of a shiny new city Westphalia-on-Sea is still a small town, and everybody knows everybody else's business.'
The editor picked up the phone and said: 'Anja, send in Mr Staedtler.'
There weren't many hacks on the Cote de Westphalia that Deputy Editor John Staedtler hadn't come across.
'Staedtler, know any hacks by the name Leyland?'
'No guv. Probably not his real name, anyway.'
'That's what I thought. Right, get on the internet and search for freelance journalists in the area - let's see if that throws up anything connected to the name Leyland. And get on that blog and check the times of the postings and comments, then talk to technical support and see if anything matches up time-wise with email traffic out of this place; I'm still not convinced it's not one of our own.'
'Maybe someone with an axe to grind, guv?'
'Well, that doesn't exactly narrow it down, does it John? While you're at it, get the techies to deny access to that blog - maybe that'll flush 'em out. And check who's had time off recently - they may have been doing it from home.'
'Goodness, said Pangloss. You seem even keener to find this character than I am.'
'Too right, replied the editor. If this goes on for much longer and one of the nationals picks it up there's going to be hell to pay. Who's to say Private Eye won't do a feature in their Street of Shame column? It's already been on the local radio, for Christ's sake. This guy'd better not be an insider, that's all I can say.'
Just as the editor was finishing his sentence the door burst open. 'Guv, said the breathless reporter, got something big - the boys in blue have just seized fifty grand's worth of coke in an armed raid.'
'Bingo! said the editor. Right, that's the front page - move that bollocks about the college being a university to page two. Dr Pangloss, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bump you off the front page as well. John, where can we put the mayor today?'
'I've got the back page guv, and the inside back page - two big photo ops.'
'I haven't got to go back to the football ground, have I?' asked Pangloss, looking worried.
'No, no, said Staedtler. It's just archery over at Fishhole. We'll get you over there with a photographer. I'm not sure about that turtleneck sweater with a sports jacket, though; is that your idea of 'casual', Mr Mayor?'
'Yes, it is, replied the mayor. Don't you like it?'
Chapter 24 In which Charlie Windsor explains the idea of choice in education
'Do you know Charlie, began Pangloss, as they returned to their seats with their drinks, sometimes I feel like a character in a bloody soap opera.'
'Really? said Charlie. Why's that then?'
'Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's this place.'
They were sitting in the bar of the Sailor's Return, a notorious watering hole on the harbour of Westphalia-on-Sea. Everyone thought they had seen the last of the landlord, Martin Aston, when he went bankrupt and lost all his businesses, but he had come back from the dead and was the new licensee at the Sailor's.
'Do you think it's because Martin shaves his beard a bit like that character Bepe from Eastenders?' suggested Charlie.
'Possibly. Or maybe its because a lot of my big ideas sound like the ridiculous plot lines of TV soaps.'
'Yes, that might be it, agreed Charlie. God, that would be horrible wouldn't it? Having the spotlight on you a few time times a week, everyone knowing exactly what you were doing and thinking. I certainly hope that bastard who's writing the Piddlebackside blog doesn't get any ideas, or the next thing we'll hear is that we're in a spoof show called Westenders.'
'Hmm, a long saga with no end in sight - that would be all I need, said Pangloss. Well, now you've brought up this author of dubious parentage, what do we know about him?'
'Well, since his mysterious appearance at the Eastphalia Conservative Club it seems he knows a bit of French.'
'French, eh? Didn't that use to be compulsory at school?'
'That's right, but the government has started phasing out learning GCSE French at school. Apparently it's all part of their new language learning strategy, although some cynics might say the reason was to improve league table results.'
'Look Charlie, state education's not really my thing. Just remind me, where did league tables come from and what are they for?'
'Oh, that's easy Pangloss, said Charlie. They were created by John Major's Conservative government in 1992 as part of the Citizens' Charter. The stated aim was to give parents the consumer information they needed to create a free market in school choice.'
'Golly, a free market in school choice? That sounds absolutely wizard. I bet it improved things no end. So everybody can choose which school they send their kids to now?'
'Goodness me yes, old boy, everything's about choice these days, and rightly so. For example, if people pay for exam coaching, and move to a better catchment area, and pretend to be religious long enough for the local vicar to write them a letter, why they've all got a fantastic choice.'
'And what about the people who can't afford to move house or hire an exam coach, or don't want to suddenly start going to church, what choice have they got?'
'Well, they've got a special choice called Hobson's choice. I'm not entirely sure how that works, because it doesn't really affect Conservative voters, but you see Pangloss, everyone is a winner. It's a wonderful system of equal opportunities whether you're rich or poor, and it was all put in place by John Major. I must confess I am a little puzzled though; I mean, when you have a choice, wouldn't everyone choose the best school? And then who would go the rubbish schools? I don't know, but New Labour are always talking about choice now, and David Cameron is always going on about choice, so the system must work, mustn't it? Education is so important for our young people, I just can't wait for David Cameron and his shadow cabinet colleagues to take charge of the country. I mean, who better to advise on state education than people who haven't had the misfortune to experience it? I expect when David Cameron takes over there will be so much choice that everyone will be able to go to Eton and then Oxford, and even join the Bullingdon Club if they want to.'
'Oh, goodness me, yes, said Pangloss, it certainly will be the best of all possible worlds when the Eton boys take over. I think they understand the lives of the ordinary man in the street so well.'
'Oh absolutely, agreed Charlie, and after all, there is a certain degree of intelligence that come with wealth.'
'Why, it's funny you should mention that, said Pangloss, because I can actually feel myself becoming more intelligent by the week, and do you know what I think it is? I think it's because every week I become a thousand pounds richer - it's cause and effect. Good grief, by the time my term in office comes to an end I'll be a quarter of million pounds more intelligent.'
'Really? said Charlie. Why's that then?'
'Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's this place.'
They were sitting in the bar of the Sailor's Return, a notorious watering hole on the harbour of Westphalia-on-Sea. Everyone thought they had seen the last of the landlord, Martin Aston, when he went bankrupt and lost all his businesses, but he had come back from the dead and was the new licensee at the Sailor's.
'Do you think it's because Martin shaves his beard a bit like that character Bepe from Eastenders?' suggested Charlie.
'Possibly. Or maybe its because a lot of my big ideas sound like the ridiculous plot lines of TV soaps.'
'Yes, that might be it, agreed Charlie. God, that would be horrible wouldn't it? Having the spotlight on you a few time times a week, everyone knowing exactly what you were doing and thinking. I certainly hope that bastard who's writing the Piddlebackside blog doesn't get any ideas, or the next thing we'll hear is that we're in a spoof show called Westenders.'
'Hmm, a long saga with no end in sight - that would be all I need, said Pangloss. Well, now you've brought up this author of dubious parentage, what do we know about him?'
'Well, since his mysterious appearance at the Eastphalia Conservative Club it seems he knows a bit of French.'
'French, eh? Didn't that use to be compulsory at school?'
'That's right, but the government has started phasing out learning GCSE French at school. Apparently it's all part of their new language learning strategy, although some cynics might say the reason was to improve league table results.'
'Look Charlie, state education's not really my thing. Just remind me, where did league tables come from and what are they for?'
'Oh, that's easy Pangloss, said Charlie. They were created by John Major's Conservative government in 1992 as part of the Citizens' Charter. The stated aim was to give parents the consumer information they needed to create a free market in school choice.'
'Golly, a free market in school choice? That sounds absolutely wizard. I bet it improved things no end. So everybody can choose which school they send their kids to now?'
'Goodness me yes, old boy, everything's about choice these days, and rightly so. For example, if people pay for exam coaching, and move to a better catchment area, and pretend to be religious long enough for the local vicar to write them a letter, why they've all got a fantastic choice.'
'And what about the people who can't afford to move house or hire an exam coach, or don't want to suddenly start going to church, what choice have they got?'
'Well, they've got a special choice called Hobson's choice. I'm not entirely sure how that works, because it doesn't really affect Conservative voters, but you see Pangloss, everyone is a winner. It's a wonderful system of equal opportunities whether you're rich or poor, and it was all put in place by John Major. I must confess I am a little puzzled though; I mean, when you have a choice, wouldn't everyone choose the best school? And then who would go the rubbish schools? I don't know, but New Labour are always talking about choice now, and David Cameron is always going on about choice, so the system must work, mustn't it? Education is so important for our young people, I just can't wait for David Cameron and his shadow cabinet colleagues to take charge of the country. I mean, who better to advise on state education than people who haven't had the misfortune to experience it? I expect when David Cameron takes over there will be so much choice that everyone will be able to go to Eton and then Oxford, and even join the Bullingdon Club if they want to.'
'Oh, goodness me, yes, said Pangloss, it certainly will be the best of all possible worlds when the Eton boys take over. I think they understand the lives of the ordinary man in the street so well.'
'Oh absolutely, agreed Charlie, and after all, there is a certain degree of intelligence that come with wealth.'
'Why, it's funny you should mention that, said Pangloss, because I can actually feel myself becoming more intelligent by the week, and do you know what I think it is? I think it's because every week I become a thousand pounds richer - it's cause and effect. Good grief, by the time my term in office comes to an end I'll be a quarter of million pounds more intelligent.'
Chapter 23 In which the man with no name rides into the Conservative Club
Down at the Conservative Club in Eastphalia very few people had turned up for the Halloween fancy dress party, and many of the regulars hadn't bothered to dress up. In one of the armchairs near the fire a copy of the Westphalia Express began to shake. It was being held by Bernard Fotherington-Smythe, and the reason for the shaking was his slowly building laughter. As his humour increased his jowly face began to move up and down, and he produced a laugh-come-cough which suggest the movement in his upper body had dislodged a certain amount of phlegm in his throat. 'Ha ha ha! That'll bloody show 'em! Agree with every word. Work shy buggers - take 'em out and flog 'em, I say.'
'What's that you're reading?' enquired the young councillor sitting at the bar. He was wearing a pin-stripe suit and some plastic devil's horns, and had come as a merchant banker. (In some parts of London that would have been Cockney rhyming slang, but as they were in Eastphalia it wasn't.)
'This letter of Charlie Windsor's about all these layabouts who won't work. He says we should refuse to pay their benefits when there are vacant jobs available - hit the bloody nail on the head, I say.'
'Oh, absolutely, replied the young councillor. We obviously have a lot in common. Let me introduce myself - Bob Hunt.'
'Pleased to meet you.'
'How would that work exactly?' asked a quiet, rather gravelly voice. Both men looked up. The man who had spoken was unknown to them. He was wearing a cowboy hat and poncho, had dark stubble on his chin and a cheroot in his mouth.
'Can't you read? shouted the barman, pointing to the no smoking sign.
'It's not lit, replied the stranger, without raising his voice.
'How would what work?' asked Bernard.
'I mean how would the 'not paying benefits system' work. replied the stranger. Presumably you'd stop housing benefit and any other handouts at the same time?'
Bob Hunt walked across the room, putting himself between the stranger and Bernard, saying: 'Let me handle this, old man.'
'Before we debate this point, how did you get in here? It's members only, and any guests have to be signed in. The club steward is very particular about that.'
The stranger placed an old-fashioned gold watch on the table next to him. When he opened it, it began playing a tune. 'Steward? Is that like a sheriff?' he asked.
'Well, yes, I suppose so.'
'Well, maybe you need a new steward,' said the stranger, still maintained his quiet tone of voice.
'Look, you can't just march in here and disagree with us. Who the ruddy hell are you?'
The stranger smiled. 'Let's just say I'm mid-forties, a graduate, local football fan, politics left of centre but not a member of any political party.'
'Oh, I see, said Hunt. Well, I happen to agree with Charlie Windsor. All benefits should be stopped.'
'Hmm, very easy to say, but not very practical - in fact I'd say impossible to implement. Just a headline grabber really. You'd create lots of homeless hungry people, wouldn't you? I mean what would you do, build workhouses and transport everyone back to the Victorian Age?'
'Well, maybe Charlie hasn't thought through the practicalities of the whole policy, but we've got this brilliant minimum wage now ...'
'Ah, yes, is that the minimum wage that the Tories were against? Didn't they say paying people a decent wage would bring down the economy?'
The barman was nervously polishing glasses. 'Look mister, he shouted over, we don't want no trouble here. We just want to discuss politics in our own particular fashion, if you get my meaning. We ain't doing no-one no harm. It ain't none of your business.'
'Well, friend, when people keep writing letters full o' horseshit to the local paper, I kinda think it is my business.'
'Look, you have absolutely no right ...,' began Hunt.
'Let me ask you this, said the stranger. If you have a benefits system which has created this situation, isn't it the system which is the problem?'
'Well, yes.'
'So why demonise the people? They're at the bottom of the food chain of your capitalist system. In that system there will always be losers. Your man Windsor is just scoring cheap political points. And why is it that some jobs pay so much more than others? Maybe he'd be better focusing on the obscene wealth at the other end of the system. If your binmen went on strike, there'd be chaos after a week. But what if estate agents went on strike? Or mayors? Or consultants? Do you think anyone would miss them if they stopped pitching in for work? No, this 'layabout rant' is fine for getting old Tories frothing at the mouth, but when you think about it sensibly it's just the same old horseshit.'
At that point the music stopped, and in a flash the stranger moved his hand towards his pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Hunt. If you ever need a new steward, or if your town ever gets taken over by bandits, just give me a call.'
'Bandits? said Hunt staring at the small print on the card. That's highly unlikely. And we already have a mayor, thank you very much, so I don't think you'll be needed ... '
As he looked up from the card his voice trailed off. Both the stranger and the watch were gone.
'Well, spluttered Bernard Fotherington-Smythe, the damned impudence of the fellow. I'd like to horsewhip the blackguard. I'm going to see to it that his membership is cancelled.'
'He's not a member, you silly old sod,' said Hunt.
'Well who is he? What does it say on the card?'
'It doesn't have a name, it's just a sentence - in French.'
'French! French!' exploded Bernard. He speaks French? Good God! Isn't that an offence?'
'Not at the moment. Anyway, it says 'On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Well what does it mean?'
'How should I know? - My world stops at Dover as well. I'm just as bigoted and narrow-minded as you.'
'What's that you're reading?' enquired the young councillor sitting at the bar. He was wearing a pin-stripe suit and some plastic devil's horns, and had come as a merchant banker. (In some parts of London that would have been Cockney rhyming slang, but as they were in Eastphalia it wasn't.)
'This letter of Charlie Windsor's about all these layabouts who won't work. He says we should refuse to pay their benefits when there are vacant jobs available - hit the bloody nail on the head, I say.'
'Oh, absolutely, replied the young councillor. We obviously have a lot in common. Let me introduce myself - Bob Hunt.'
'Pleased to meet you.'
'How would that work exactly?' asked a quiet, rather gravelly voice. Both men looked up. The man who had spoken was unknown to them. He was wearing a cowboy hat and poncho, had dark stubble on his chin and a cheroot in his mouth.
'Can't you read? shouted the barman, pointing to the no smoking sign.
'It's not lit, replied the stranger, without raising his voice.
'How would what work?' asked Bernard.
'I mean how would the 'not paying benefits system' work. replied the stranger. Presumably you'd stop housing benefit and any other handouts at the same time?'
Bob Hunt walked across the room, putting himself between the stranger and Bernard, saying: 'Let me handle this, old man.'
'Before we debate this point, how did you get in here? It's members only, and any guests have to be signed in. The club steward is very particular about that.'
The stranger placed an old-fashioned gold watch on the table next to him. When he opened it, it began playing a tune. 'Steward? Is that like a sheriff?' he asked.
'Well, yes, I suppose so.'
'Well, maybe you need a new steward,' said the stranger, still maintained his quiet tone of voice.
'Look, you can't just march in here and disagree with us. Who the ruddy hell are you?'
The stranger smiled. 'Let's just say I'm mid-forties, a graduate, local football fan, politics left of centre but not a member of any political party.'
'Oh, I see, said Hunt. Well, I happen to agree with Charlie Windsor. All benefits should be stopped.'
'Hmm, very easy to say, but not very practical - in fact I'd say impossible to implement. Just a headline grabber really. You'd create lots of homeless hungry people, wouldn't you? I mean what would you do, build workhouses and transport everyone back to the Victorian Age?'
'Well, maybe Charlie hasn't thought through the practicalities of the whole policy, but we've got this brilliant minimum wage now ...'
'Ah, yes, is that the minimum wage that the Tories were against? Didn't they say paying people a decent wage would bring down the economy?'
The barman was nervously polishing glasses. 'Look mister, he shouted over, we don't want no trouble here. We just want to discuss politics in our own particular fashion, if you get my meaning. We ain't doing no-one no harm. It ain't none of your business.'
'Well, friend, when people keep writing letters full o' horseshit to the local paper, I kinda think it is my business.'
'Look, you have absolutely no right ...,' began Hunt.
'Let me ask you this, said the stranger. If you have a benefits system which has created this situation, isn't it the system which is the problem?'
'Well, yes.'
'So why demonise the people? They're at the bottom of the food chain of your capitalist system. In that system there will always be losers. Your man Windsor is just scoring cheap political points. And why is it that some jobs pay so much more than others? Maybe he'd be better focusing on the obscene wealth at the other end of the system. If your binmen went on strike, there'd be chaos after a week. But what if estate agents went on strike? Or mayors? Or consultants? Do you think anyone would miss them if they stopped pitching in for work? No, this 'layabout rant' is fine for getting old Tories frothing at the mouth, but when you think about it sensibly it's just the same old horseshit.'
At that point the music stopped, and in a flash the stranger moved his hand towards his pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Hunt. If you ever need a new steward, or if your town ever gets taken over by bandits, just give me a call.'
'Bandits? said Hunt staring at the small print on the card. That's highly unlikely. And we already have a mayor, thank you very much, so I don't think you'll be needed ... '
As he looked up from the card his voice trailed off. Both the stranger and the watch were gone.
'Well, spluttered Bernard Fotherington-Smythe, the damned impudence of the fellow. I'd like to horsewhip the blackguard. I'm going to see to it that his membership is cancelled.'
'He's not a member, you silly old sod,' said Hunt.
'Well who is he? What does it say on the card?'
'It doesn't have a name, it's just a sentence - in French.'
'French! French!' exploded Bernard. He speaks French? Good God! Isn't that an offence?'
'Not at the moment. Anyway, it says 'On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Well what does it mean?'
'How should I know? - My world stops at Dover as well. I'm just as bigoted and narrow-minded as you.'
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