Dr Pangloss idly sucked the end of his pencil and stared out of the window, searching for inspiration. He was trying to write his next 'Best of All Possible Worlds' column for the Westphalia Express, and he wanted this one to carry a little extra punch, seeing as it would be his first column of 2008, but the words just didn't seem to come. Well, it wasn't that the words wouldn't come exactly, it was just that when they did they didn't seem to be related by any obvious logic.
First there was the ongoing story about the town centre. One day he said the town was going to rack and ruin, filled with discount stores, then he said it would all be fantastic because it would soon be a thriving city. Then he said the discount stores were a good thing, because he imagined if you were a nasty local chav family with loads of screaming snotty-nosed kids you would have to get everything from Poundland anyway, and how did anyone expect the town centre to improve if the local economy was a mess? And then there were the buses. They were good because they were full of shoppers, but they were bad because they nearly ran people over on a daily basis. Of course the people who nearly got run over were usually chavs, children, hen parties or pensioners, and none of these were in the high-spending bracket that Pangloss wanted in his new city, so maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing if there was a bit of 'natural wastage'.
It wasn't Pangloss's fault that the road actually looked like a pedestrianised area, or that the fat chavs were too busy staring at shop windows full of pies and pasties to notice a bloody great bus heading towards them. Anyway, he wasn't going to waste good money just to make the road look like a road and the pavement look like a pavement when just around the corner most of the seafront was almost derelict.
On reflection Pangloss thought it best not to mention the town centre for a while. Or the seafront. No, people wanted to read about upbeat things, like rubbing shoulders with celebrities once Pierre de Saveloy had built his mini-resort, and climate change had transformed the pebbly cove into a long stretch of white Caribbean sand just like the consultants said it would. Well, maybe not rubbing shoulders exactly, but perhaps catching a glimpse through the telescope at the top of the cliff. He made a note to include that in his column.
Now what about the parking meters? They hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms by the usual miserable letter-writers and phone-in callers. Pangloss thought it a bit rich - they would be a marvellous symbol of progress, after all. When Brunel came to the south-west with his hare-brained railway schemes people started putting up statues in his likeness and naming roads after him. Now when Dr Pangloss suggested a modern metal monument around the bay's roads to bring in some much-needed revenue no-one seemed very enthusiastic. Still, he wouldn't be put off by the fact that pretty much every Westphalian was against the idea - he had been elected by about 7% of the people, and if the other 93% didn't like the parking meter idea it was tough luck - that was democracy. Pangloss wrote 'Parking meters?' because he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to mention them. Maybe he would point out it was one of those difficult decisions that brave leaders had to take once in a while, a bit like Churchill planning D-Day, or Bomber Harris sending the RAF boys off to Dresden.
Pangloss looked down at the page in front of him, which was still mostly blank. His heart just didn't seem to be in it anymore. He had spun so many stories from so many angles he hardly knew what to believe himself anymore. He was beginning to wonder if spending £740,000 on consultants in the last twelve months had been wise. And what if he spent that kind of money in the next twelve months? Would he still be popular with the Westphalians? Would they start shouting 'STOP WASTING OUR MONEY ON CONSULTANTS'? Oh no, he thought, I mustn't think like that, self-doubt is my enemy, I must maintain a positive mental attitude. After all, whatever happens, I'm safe here in my bunker with my fat mayoral salary, and if I need to pop down to Oxfam for a second-hand book I can do it in the mayoral limo, and I won't even have to pay to park. This thought put a smile on his face. He screwed the almost blank sheet of paper into a ball and threw if for his cat to play with. As Chairman Miaow chased the paper ball between the legs of the table Pangloss said to himself: 'Sod it. That column can wait -let's have drink; it is New Year's Eve after all, and whatever happens in 2008 I'm sure I will still be laughing at the end of it.'
Dear Readers ...
as Westphalia-on-Sea's economy slowly spirals down the toilet it has become necessary for some of the blog's editorial team to fake their own deaths so that insurance claims can be made, etc. For this reason it has been deemed wise to cease all blog activities until some time after Christmas.
We sincerely hope that this will not spoil your enjoyment of the festive period.
We sincerely hope that this will not spoil your enjoyment of the festive period.
Chapter 34 In which we are given a glimpse of the future
It was a bright warm day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Pierre de Saveloy, his hand held up to his forehead in an effort to shield his face from the fierce heat of the sun's rays, slipped quickly through the smoked glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a Polish chambermaid entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of coconut oil and beach mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for an indoor display had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-seven, with gold-rimmed spectacles and ruggedly handsome features.
Mr de Saveloy entered the glass lift, which silently and effortlessly transported him towards his penthouse office suite. On each landing opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. DR PANGLOSS MADE ALL THIS POSSIBLE, the caption beneath it ran.
Looking out of the smoked glass window he spent a few idle minutes watching the activity on the number of luxury yachts which were moored in the bay. On the largest boat he could just make out Mr Abramovich, who still looked good for his fifty-nine years. On a slightly smaller vessel the elderly Richard Branson appeared to be tucking into a hearty breakfast. He wasn't sure who owned the third boat, but the three semi-naked women on board were already attracting the attention of the paparazzi, who were pointing telephoto lenses at them from their vantage point high on the cliffs above. It was a laborious job hanging around in the bushes all day, but the money they could get from the tabloids for one good snap of a celebrity would be enough to pay for a couple of days' parking on the meters which ran along the clifftop, so it was well worth the inconvenience. Just then Victoria Beckham came into view on the sun terrace. Pierre de Saveloy opened the French window onto the terrace and went outside to greet her.
'Good morning,' he shouted. 'All ready for the big event?'
'We're getting there,' replied Victoria. 'Everything will be ready for the second of May. This will be the biggest fiftieth birthday party ever - David is really looking forward to it.'
'Well, I'm just glad that you chose to celebrate it here,' replied de Saveloy.
'Oh, we wouldn't go anywhere else. To tell you the truth, Dubai and the Maldives have had their day, and of course all the chic Mediterranean resorts are just too hot now.'
'Yes, well, we were lucky enough to have consultants tell us that eighteen years ago. Of course, the usual naysayers said they were talking out of their arse and just padding out a lame presentation with a lot of scientific claptrap, but those High Priests and Priestesses of Negativity have all been proved wrong.'
'Oh, don't you just hate negative people?' said Victoria. 'I had exactly the same experience with people saying I was utterly talentless and couldn't sing, but I showed them.'
With that a siren began wailing.
'What's that?' asked Victoria.
'Oh, probably some pleb has got lost and wandered up to the entrance,' said de Saveloy. 'Nothing to worry about.'
'Oh, right. Well, I'd better be going, because we're off down to that new casino again today. It's absolutely fantastic - have you been?'
'Of course I have; it's the jewel in the crown, what wealthy people come to Westphalia-on-Sea for.'
Down at the heavily guarded entrance a man had indeed tried to gain access to the complex.
'What do you want?' asked one of the security guards in a gruff voice.
'I just wanted to come in and have a drink and have a look round. I heard this was the place where that murder happened; you know, the man they couldn't hang.'
'How did you get here?'
'I walked down the path.'
'Hmm, I'm not sure that's allowed. We're really only open to people who arrive in yachts or very expensive cars. I'll have to radio through for clearance.'
After a short conversation on his walkie-talkie the security guard waved the man through, with the words 'OK one drink, and my colleague will escort you to make sure you keep to the designated areas.'
As they walked into the complex the man said 'My grandmother told me the story. Apparently this place used to be really picturesque, with trees and stuff.'
'Yeah, well that's was then and this is now,' said the guard. 'If people had wanted picturesque or quaint they would have said so a long time ago when all this was at the planning stage. Anyway, trees are just a bloody nuisance. Look at it now - concrete, tarmac, and everything nice and new. And look at the people - no riff-raff, as it should be. You want to stop thinking about how things were in the past and start living in the present; and the future.'
The man went up to the bar and ordered a coffee and a muffin. The barman placed it in front of him, and in heavily accented English said: 'Zat vill be nineteen eighty-four. No vait, I make mistake - tventy tventy-five.'
The hallway smelt of coconut oil and beach mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for an indoor display had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-seven, with gold-rimmed spectacles and ruggedly handsome features.
Mr de Saveloy entered the glass lift, which silently and effortlessly transported him towards his penthouse office suite. On each landing opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. DR PANGLOSS MADE ALL THIS POSSIBLE, the caption beneath it ran.
Looking out of the smoked glass window he spent a few idle minutes watching the activity on the number of luxury yachts which were moored in the bay. On the largest boat he could just make out Mr Abramovich, who still looked good for his fifty-nine years. On a slightly smaller vessel the elderly Richard Branson appeared to be tucking into a hearty breakfast. He wasn't sure who owned the third boat, but the three semi-naked women on board were already attracting the attention of the paparazzi, who were pointing telephoto lenses at them from their vantage point high on the cliffs above. It was a laborious job hanging around in the bushes all day, but the money they could get from the tabloids for one good snap of a celebrity would be enough to pay for a couple of days' parking on the meters which ran along the clifftop, so it was well worth the inconvenience. Just then Victoria Beckham came into view on the sun terrace. Pierre de Saveloy opened the French window onto the terrace and went outside to greet her.
'Good morning,' he shouted. 'All ready for the big event?'
'We're getting there,' replied Victoria. 'Everything will be ready for the second of May. This will be the biggest fiftieth birthday party ever - David is really looking forward to it.'
'Well, I'm just glad that you chose to celebrate it here,' replied de Saveloy.
'Oh, we wouldn't go anywhere else. To tell you the truth, Dubai and the Maldives have had their day, and of course all the chic Mediterranean resorts are just too hot now.'
'Yes, well, we were lucky enough to have consultants tell us that eighteen years ago. Of course, the usual naysayers said they were talking out of their arse and just padding out a lame presentation with a lot of scientific claptrap, but those High Priests and Priestesses of Negativity have all been proved wrong.'
'Oh, don't you just hate negative people?' said Victoria. 'I had exactly the same experience with people saying I was utterly talentless and couldn't sing, but I showed them.'
With that a siren began wailing.
'What's that?' asked Victoria.
'Oh, probably some pleb has got lost and wandered up to the entrance,' said de Saveloy. 'Nothing to worry about.'
'Oh, right. Well, I'd better be going, because we're off down to that new casino again today. It's absolutely fantastic - have you been?'
'Of course I have; it's the jewel in the crown, what wealthy people come to Westphalia-on-Sea for.'
Down at the heavily guarded entrance a man had indeed tried to gain access to the complex.
'What do you want?' asked one of the security guards in a gruff voice.
'I just wanted to come in and have a drink and have a look round. I heard this was the place where that murder happened; you know, the man they couldn't hang.'
'How did you get here?'
'I walked down the path.'
'Hmm, I'm not sure that's allowed. We're really only open to people who arrive in yachts or very expensive cars. I'll have to radio through for clearance.'
After a short conversation on his walkie-talkie the security guard waved the man through, with the words 'OK one drink, and my colleague will escort you to make sure you keep to the designated areas.'
As they walked into the complex the man said 'My grandmother told me the story. Apparently this place used to be really picturesque, with trees and stuff.'
'Yeah, well that's was then and this is now,' said the guard. 'If people had wanted picturesque or quaint they would have said so a long time ago when all this was at the planning stage. Anyway, trees are just a bloody nuisance. Look at it now - concrete, tarmac, and everything nice and new. And look at the people - no riff-raff, as it should be. You want to stop thinking about how things were in the past and start living in the present; and the future.'
The man went up to the bar and ordered a coffee and a muffin. The barman placed it in front of him, and in heavily accented English said: 'Zat vill be nineteen eighty-four. No vait, I make mistake - tventy tventy-five.'
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