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.'