Pangloss checked his watch; it was 11.59. He began singing the chorus of the old song of the same name to himself as he flicked his radio on ... 'It's eleven fifty-nine and I wanna stay alive ...'. He always made a point of listening to the phone-in on Radio Heaven. The presenter, Dustin Dee was just introducing the first topic for discussion: 'Heather Mills-McCartney has been asking people to boycott tabloid newspapers, so we just wondered if you have any strong views on the subject. Can you believe what you read, or are they just a bit of fun? Our first caller on the line is Richard in Plymhole. Hello Richard, what's the point you'd like to make?'
'Well, it's more of a question really - what's got three legs and lives on a farm?'
'I don't know,' replied Dustin.
'The McCartneys! Ha ha ha ha!'
'Hmm, yes, very funny, but that's a bit out of date now isn't it? Couldn't you have changed it to 'what's got three legs and hangs around a divorce court'?'
'Oh, I never thought of that. Well it still made I laff, anyway.'
'OK, well thank you for kicking off the show on that lighthearted note Richard. Now Mr Candide is on line 2.'
'Hello Dustin. I just wanted to make the point that our local paper is part of the newsgroup that owns the Daily Mail, so we don't really have a choice of whose opinion we read on local affairs. The Westphalia Express is always printing stories about big initiatives and plans the Mayor is having, but they never amount to anything. I don't know what to believe. The latest one is about turning the town into a city. Now is that going to happen, and is it his idea or his consultants'? And how much is he paying the consultants?'
'A good question. Actually we had Dr Pangloss in here a few weeks ago and he said the problem is the way the newspaper reports what he says.'
Pangloss's ears pricked up. Was this a coincidence that he was being discussed on the radio? Oh, he was just being paranoid, he thought. After all he was the Mayor. As he was thinking all this they began talking about a different topic.
'David in Exhole, what point would you like to make?'
'Hello Dustin. Well I sent off for my TV licence the other day during the postal strike and it took three weeks for them to ...'
'Yes, I'm losing the will to live here, David. Didn't you phone in about this tedious topic last week?'
'Well, yes, but you asked me to update you, and now they've debited the money from my account so ...'
'David, you didn't believe me, did you? I only said that to fill up some air time. Do you think anyone out there really gives a tuppenny toss about your frigging TV licence? Personally I'd rather push my testicles through a rusty mangle than listen to another syllable on the subject of your poxy TV licence. With any luck you'll be dead before the TV detector van gets to your house anyway. Right, Christine from Eastphalia is one line 7, go ahead Christine.'
'Yes, well it's about this change over to being a city. What I'd like to know is will we have to move house, or will they just give us a new postcode?'
'Oh, no, neither. It's just a renaming thing.'
'And will we still be able to get Freeview?'
'Yes, yes.'
'Well how will it affect us then?'
'Well it won't really. I doubt if anything will come of it any time soon, so don't worry. Now Mike is a keen indoor bowler from Newton Bumpkin - Mike?'
' 'Ello Dustin. Yes, well on the subject of Westphalia-on-Sea becoming a city, I was thinking this: that there Manchester is a city and they got one of they, whad'yacallits, er ... Gay Village, eb'n 'em? Well, will we 'ev one of they down 'ere too? My mate Terry, ... no, not like that, Dustin, I'm a married man; ... well, he says it would be a good idea cuz them there gays, they got loads of money to spend, but the only things is it's different, see. 'E 'eard it on the wireless. Turns out they got pink pounds. Well, 'ev you ever 'eard that? What would you do if you got give one of 'em in your change? I'm not sure I'd like that. Well, you dunno where they've bin, do 'ee?'
'Well, Mike it's like this: the pink pound is just a term ... oh, no, this'll be quicker. Look Mike, if anyone does give you a pink pound just take it to the post office and they'll change it for you, or you could save them up and spend them the next time you're in Manchester.'
'Right you are, Dustin. Thank you very much.'
'OK, Wilf on line 3 thinks Ken Dodd should be given a knighthood. And apparently you've organised an online petition on your website; is that right?'
'That's correct, yes, Dustin.'
'And what's this website called? No, let me guess, is it 'irritating old twat dot com'? 'Utterly pointless use of the internet dot com'?'
'No, it's knighthood for Knotty Ash dot com.'
'Yes, we'll I don't think this conversation can go much further without one of us screaming, so lets go to line 4.'
Pangloss's phone rang before he had time to catch the next topic of conversation. He heard the rather breathless voice of Charlie Windsor at the other end.
'Pangloss, I've just heard him on the radio.'
'Heard who?'
'The bloke who's writing the Piddlebackside blog.'
'Steady on, said Pangloss. I heard that too, but how do you know it's him?'
'Because on his blog this morning he left a message saying he'd be on it.'
'Oh, Christ, said Pangloss. It's bloody happening. Just like that journalist said it would. It's the space-time continuum thingy. I think he's messing with our mojo, Charlie.'
'Right that does it. As soon as my blood stops boiling about the EU treaty I'm going to leave a message on his bloody blog.'
'Yes, a dose of his own medicine. That'll teach him.'
'By the way Pangloss; would you like me to explain Gordon Brown's position on the EU treaty and opt-out clauses using the convoluted analogy of tie-wearing at a golf club?'
'Maybe another time, Charlie, maybe another time.'
Chapter 21 In which Leyland warns of the excesses of a state-controlled media
'Back in the dark days of communism in Eastern Europe life for the people of Romania under the dictatorship of Nikolae Ceausescu was particularly grim,' began Leyland.
'Look do we really have time for this? interrupted Pangloss. You just told me the time-space continuum has been interefered with and events are hurtling through space towards me. I thought I detected a note of urgency in your voice.'
'Yes, you did, but don't worry. This is just a device to build tension; they do it all the time in films. We've got plenty of time.'
'Oh, right. Well, in that case, shall I ask Jenny to bring in some tea?'
'Er, no, I'm fine thanks. Anyway, poverty was rife, food was scarce, abortion was made illegal, and divorce was pretty much impossible. Practically the only thing to brighten this existence were a few western television programmes; two favourites were, strangely enough, the films of Norman Wisdom and the BBC series The Onedin Line. However, after visiting North Korea Ceausescu decided that his people were having far too much fun and being corrupted by western decadence; the transmission of TV programmes was greatly reduced, and at the same time popular prime time broadcasts were replaced by images of military parades accompanied by patriotic music. This was not to most Romanians' taste, so people in parts of the country where Hungarian TV channels could be received began learning Hungarian, and others tuned their radios to stations like Radio Free Europe and the Voice of America, effectively by-passing the state-controlled media. The result of this was that years later, when there were small uprisings against the dictatorship, the news travelled around the country like wildfire, even though it was not reported by Romanian TV or radio.'
'Yes, yes, a very interesting history lesson, I'm sure, said Pangloss impatiently, but what has all that got to do with this blog?'
'I'm merely pointing out that where the ruling party or person monopolises the media, constantly spinning stories that everything is wonderful, the people will simply look for other ways of getting unbiased information. The Piddlebackside blog may have started as a lighthearted joke, but the speed with which it has gained a dedicated following suggests that you are only fooling a very small section of the people now. You can have your photo taken all over town and talk about a garden city and roads with new trees planted alongside and a new name and all the other tosh, but who do you honestly think believes you? The people want a town centre where they can shop, a decent bus service, somewhere for the kids to play, all the things that make a place worth living in. They're not fooled by grand initiatives and slick presentations, and they certainly don't want to see their hard earned cash going into the pockets of consultants.'
''An impassioned speech, Mr Leyland. I trust none of that will find its way on to the Piddlebackside blog?'
'Of course not, you have my word as a journalist. Anyway, to finish my story, it's a strange coincidence that the defining moment in the Romanian revolution was when Ceausescu and his wife were spontaneously booed by a crowd in Revolution Square in Bucharest.'
'Yes, well, after those moaning Romanian Victor Meldrew-types had got it off their chest with a little booing I'm sure they all went home and forgot all about it,' said Pangloss.
'Not exactly. Once the Ceausescus were captured they had a brief trial on Xmas Day and were then taken outside and shot.'
'That could never happen here though, could it?' said Pangloss.
'Of course not. You'd be hard pushed to get so much as a pint of milk round here on Xmas Day; I really can't see anyone organising a firing squad.'
'Well, that's a relief. I was planning on spending Xmas at mother's. Her roast potatoes are to die for. She par boils them and then fluffs them up with a fork before putting them in the oven.'
'Crispy, I'll bet.'
'Absolutely.'
'Well, anyway, I didn't come here to swap recipes. I just want to point out that if you have a stranglehold over the newspapers people will begin to move away to the internet, where news travels so much faster, especially bad news. Your critics may even begin to use radio phone-ins to air their complaints. The presenter on Radio Heaven is always trying to fill the two-hour slot on his midday show.'
'So what do you suggest I do?'
'It's not my job to give you answers. I'm a journalist. I just write down the facts in a way that my editor thinks the owner of the newspaper would like to read them. Now, I've got to go. Thanks for the interview - your answers were very, er, ... enlightening. Don't forget to listen to the radio.'
'Look do we really have time for this? interrupted Pangloss. You just told me the time-space continuum has been interefered with and events are hurtling through space towards me. I thought I detected a note of urgency in your voice.'
'Yes, you did, but don't worry. This is just a device to build tension; they do it all the time in films. We've got plenty of time.'
'Oh, right. Well, in that case, shall I ask Jenny to bring in some tea?'
'Er, no, I'm fine thanks. Anyway, poverty was rife, food was scarce, abortion was made illegal, and divorce was pretty much impossible. Practically the only thing to brighten this existence were a few western television programmes; two favourites were, strangely enough, the films of Norman Wisdom and the BBC series The Onedin Line. However, after visiting North Korea Ceausescu decided that his people were having far too much fun and being corrupted by western decadence; the transmission of TV programmes was greatly reduced, and at the same time popular prime time broadcasts were replaced by images of military parades accompanied by patriotic music. This was not to most Romanians' taste, so people in parts of the country where Hungarian TV channels could be received began learning Hungarian, and others tuned their radios to stations like Radio Free Europe and the Voice of America, effectively by-passing the state-controlled media. The result of this was that years later, when there were small uprisings against the dictatorship, the news travelled around the country like wildfire, even though it was not reported by Romanian TV or radio.'
'Yes, yes, a very interesting history lesson, I'm sure, said Pangloss impatiently, but what has all that got to do with this blog?'
'I'm merely pointing out that where the ruling party or person monopolises the media, constantly spinning stories that everything is wonderful, the people will simply look for other ways of getting unbiased information. The Piddlebackside blog may have started as a lighthearted joke, but the speed with which it has gained a dedicated following suggests that you are only fooling a very small section of the people now. You can have your photo taken all over town and talk about a garden city and roads with new trees planted alongside and a new name and all the other tosh, but who do you honestly think believes you? The people want a town centre where they can shop, a decent bus service, somewhere for the kids to play, all the things that make a place worth living in. They're not fooled by grand initiatives and slick presentations, and they certainly don't want to see their hard earned cash going into the pockets of consultants.'
''An impassioned speech, Mr Leyland. I trust none of that will find its way on to the Piddlebackside blog?'
'Of course not, you have my word as a journalist. Anyway, to finish my story, it's a strange coincidence that the defining moment in the Romanian revolution was when Ceausescu and his wife were spontaneously booed by a crowd in Revolution Square in Bucharest.'
'Yes, well, after those moaning Romanian Victor Meldrew-types had got it off their chest with a little booing I'm sure they all went home and forgot all about it,' said Pangloss.
'Not exactly. Once the Ceausescus were captured they had a brief trial on Xmas Day and were then taken outside and shot.'
'That could never happen here though, could it?' said Pangloss.
'Of course not. You'd be hard pushed to get so much as a pint of milk round here on Xmas Day; I really can't see anyone organising a firing squad.'
'Well, that's a relief. I was planning on spending Xmas at mother's. Her roast potatoes are to die for. She par boils them and then fluffs them up with a fork before putting them in the oven.'
'Crispy, I'll bet.'
'Absolutely.'
'Well, anyway, I didn't come here to swap recipes. I just want to point out that if you have a stranglehold over the newspapers people will begin to move away to the internet, where news travels so much faster, especially bad news. Your critics may even begin to use radio phone-ins to air their complaints. The presenter on Radio Heaven is always trying to fill the two-hour slot on his midday show.'
'So what do you suggest I do?'
'It's not my job to give you answers. I'm a journalist. I just write down the facts in a way that my editor thinks the owner of the newspaper would like to read them. Now, I've got to go. Thanks for the interview - your answers were very, er, ... enlightening. Don't forget to listen to the radio.'
Chapter 20 In which Martin Leyland interviews Pangloss
Dr Pangloss was reclining in his sumptuous office chair with the blinds closed when his intercom buzzer sounded. He leaned forward and said: 'I thought I said no calls Jenny?'
'Yes, I know his secretary replied. But this caller is very persistent, and you have been in there for two hours now.'
'Good God, so I have, said Pangloss, eyeing the clock. OK, I'll take the call.'
'Dr Pangloss, said the voice at the other end of the line, thank you for taking the time to speak to me. My name is Martin Leyland. I'm a freelance journalist, and I've just come across this bizarre story of the Piddlebackside blog on the internet - it contains some striking similarities to Westphalia-on-Sea, and one of the characters, a Mr Reinhard Longpass, bears more than a passing resemblance to yourself. Are you familiar with the blog?'
'Well, I've heard about it, but I haven't actually read any of it. You must understand that as mayor I don't get a great deal of time to devote to such trivia. As you may be aware I am in the middle of building a city here - Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.'
'I fully understand, Your Worshipfulness. It must be be a stressful and sometimes thankless task leading a town, or city, with such courage.'
'Why yes, it is as a matter of fact, that's very insightful Mr Leyland, you have a way with words.'
'Thank you, your Holiness. Actually I'm a city boy myself, grew up in Birminghole, and I do miss things like wide boulevards with street performers and an edgy bohemian art scene terribly, so I fully understand what you're trying to do here.'
'Goodness, a sympathetic voice in the wilderness.'
'Thank you, your Majesty. Look, I'm going to write a short piece about this blog which may be syndicated around a few local papers. How about we meet up and I give you the chance to give your side of the story, set the record straight, etcetera? Fifteen minutes of your time for a quick interview?'
'Well, I'm fairly busy tomorrow, I think I'm seeing ...'
'Are you doing anything now?'
'Well not really.'
'OK, that's settled; I'll pop down if you're free. Strike while the iron's hot, and all that.'
In what seemed like minutes, Martin Leyland was sitting opposite Pangloss. The office was rather dark as the blinds were still closed. Leyland was looking intently at his mobile when Pangloss broke the silence: 'Are you going to use your dictaphone?' he asked.
'No, I'll use my finger, replied the journalist. Oh sorry, I see what you mean. Yes I've got a tape recorder in my bag.'
Leyland tested his tape recorder and then asked his first question.
'OK, let's get started; what's your favourite colour?'
'Blue.'
'Do you like puppies?'
'Oh, yes.' Pangloss smiled for the first time in ages; this was going rather well.
'Right. Now you were booed by the whole crowd at Westphalia United at the weekend, is that correct?'
'Well ..., err ...., yes, in a manner of speaking.'
'So would it be fair to say you are deeply unpopular with a large cross-section of the town?'
'I'm not sure 'deeply' is the right adjective,' objected Pangloss.
'Really? You were voted in with the support of just seven per cent of the electorate, and since then you have courted controversy with a number of bizarre high profile strategies and been booed at a local football match. What adjective do you think would be more fitting than 'deeply', then?'
'Er, I'm not really sure,' said Pangloss.
'How much support do you think you'd have if there was an election tomorrow?'
'I'm not sure.'
'More or less than seven per cent?'
'I don't know.'
'Would you want to do this job if you felt you didn't have the support of the people?'
'I'm not really sure,' stammered Pangloss.
'OK, let's move on. Now, according to the Westphalia-on-Sea Council Constitution, the residents of this town are stuck with you until May 2011. Now, if it became clear that you had utterly lost the support of the people, would you do the honourable thing and stand down before then, or at least call another election?'
'Now, hang on a minute ...'
'You enjoy unparalleled support from the local paper, and have a regular column in it, so why do you think you are such an unpopular figure?'
'Well, look, I'm not sure that's wholly ...'
'How much have you spent on the services of consultants, and how much more do you intend to spend?'
'Well, that's very difficult to say at this precise moment in time. Two heads are better than one, and I'm not a man with two brains. The whole process of urban regeneration and the ideas that drive it is, by it's very nature, ipso facto coitus interruptus, extremely expensive.'
'OK, moving on: you've heard about this blog; what's your take on it?'
'Oh, it sounds like a bit of harmless fun. I'm sure whoever's writing it will soon run out of steam, and if not steam, then ideas.'
'So you're not unduly worried about the rather bizarre way that time is related between Piddlebackside and Westphalia-on-Sea, then?'
'What exactly do you mean? I don't understand. Like I said, I haven't read it first hand.'
'Well, let me explain. It begins with the mayoral election in Piddlebackside, which to everyone's horror is won by Reinhard Longpass, a rather clueless bumbling Conservative with no real life experience. It then covers a period of approximately two years, in which Longpass makes a number of catastrophically brainless decisions. Through a series of flashbacks it is revealed that as a child Longpass had an accident which resulted in a serious cranial trauma. He survived, but during the life-saving surgery at an underfunded hospital the neurosurgeon was forced to cut a three-inch hole in the top of his skull, scoop his brains out with a rusty spoon and fill the resulting cavity with porridge. It soon becomes clear that this procedure in childhood strongly influences much of his day-to-day decision-making. There is one other very far-fetched storyline in which a committed group of Piddlebackside atheists are promised absolutely nothing in the afterlife, but nevertheless selflessly volunteer for a suicide mission to take out the Mayor while he is judging a novelty cake competition at the Women's Guild. Apart from these rather silly scenes events in Piddlebackside closely mimic what has been happening in Westphalia-on-Sea.'
'I see. Does the Mayor suggest any rebranding and renaming of Piddlebackside?'
'Absolutely. A very convincing argument is made for taking the 'Piddle' out, and then, strangely enough, it is mysteriously put back in.'
'I see. Well, I can see certain parallels with some of the bold and innovative moves I have been making in Westphalia-on-Sea, but I still don't see any great problem.'
'The problem, Dr Pangloss is simply this: the time difference between the events in the fictitious Piddlebackside and the events in the very real Westphalia-on-Sea is growing ever smaller as we speak. The embarrassing booing at Piddlebackside Rovers came two weeks after the real event at Westphalia United. Now look at this.'
With a flourish he pulled out a copy of the Westphalia Express and turned to Pangloss's column.
'In this column on 26 October you compared the moaning residents of Westphalia-on-Sea to Victor Meldrew. In the blog about Piddlebackside the Victor Meldrew reference appeared the day after, on 27 October.'
'I still don't see the point.'
'The point is, Dr Pangloss, that the space-time continuum is being interfered with. The lampooning versions of events in Piddlebackside are travelling too fast over the internet, zooming towards your real pronouncements in Westphalia-on-Sea in the print media. If they are allowed to collide, and they are surely on course to do that over the next few days, then the atomic particles of the two events will be forever fused together. The result? In the future everyone will know you are talking bollocks, simply because your lips are moving.'
Pangloss was white. 'Oh my God, he said. Then they have to be stopped. Whoever's writing this blog about Piddlebackside must be stopped. Who's writing it? Get them on the phone and let's start negotiating, but let's not rule out breaking all their fingers.'
'There are two problems with that plan, Dr Pangloss, said Leyland. The first is that the blog is anonymous, so you don't know who's behind it. And the second is that even if you did know the author's identity, there would be a debate to be had about the freedom of speech. Now, before you do something you'll regret, let me tell you a cautionary tale about prohibiting the dissemination of information ...'
'Yes, I know his secretary replied. But this caller is very persistent, and you have been in there for two hours now.'
'Good God, so I have, said Pangloss, eyeing the clock. OK, I'll take the call.'
'Dr Pangloss, said the voice at the other end of the line, thank you for taking the time to speak to me. My name is Martin Leyland. I'm a freelance journalist, and I've just come across this bizarre story of the Piddlebackside blog on the internet - it contains some striking similarities to Westphalia-on-Sea, and one of the characters, a Mr Reinhard Longpass, bears more than a passing resemblance to yourself. Are you familiar with the blog?'
'Well, I've heard about it, but I haven't actually read any of it. You must understand that as mayor I don't get a great deal of time to devote to such trivia. As you may be aware I am in the middle of building a city here - Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.'
'I fully understand, Your Worshipfulness. It must be be a stressful and sometimes thankless task leading a town, or city, with such courage.'
'Why yes, it is as a matter of fact, that's very insightful Mr Leyland, you have a way with words.'
'Thank you, your Holiness. Actually I'm a city boy myself, grew up in Birminghole, and I do miss things like wide boulevards with street performers and an edgy bohemian art scene terribly, so I fully understand what you're trying to do here.'
'Goodness, a sympathetic voice in the wilderness.'
'Thank you, your Majesty. Look, I'm going to write a short piece about this blog which may be syndicated around a few local papers. How about we meet up and I give you the chance to give your side of the story, set the record straight, etcetera? Fifteen minutes of your time for a quick interview?'
'Well, I'm fairly busy tomorrow, I think I'm seeing ...'
'Are you doing anything now?'
'Well not really.'
'OK, that's settled; I'll pop down if you're free. Strike while the iron's hot, and all that.'
In what seemed like minutes, Martin Leyland was sitting opposite Pangloss. The office was rather dark as the blinds were still closed. Leyland was looking intently at his mobile when Pangloss broke the silence: 'Are you going to use your dictaphone?' he asked.
'No, I'll use my finger, replied the journalist. Oh sorry, I see what you mean. Yes I've got a tape recorder in my bag.'
Leyland tested his tape recorder and then asked his first question.
'OK, let's get started; what's your favourite colour?'
'Blue.'
'Do you like puppies?'
'Oh, yes.' Pangloss smiled for the first time in ages; this was going rather well.
'Right. Now you were booed by the whole crowd at Westphalia United at the weekend, is that correct?'
'Well ..., err ...., yes, in a manner of speaking.'
'So would it be fair to say you are deeply unpopular with a large cross-section of the town?'
'I'm not sure 'deeply' is the right adjective,' objected Pangloss.
'Really? You were voted in with the support of just seven per cent of the electorate, and since then you have courted controversy with a number of bizarre high profile strategies and been booed at a local football match. What adjective do you think would be more fitting than 'deeply', then?'
'Er, I'm not really sure,' said Pangloss.
'How much support do you think you'd have if there was an election tomorrow?'
'I'm not sure.'
'More or less than seven per cent?'
'I don't know.'
'Would you want to do this job if you felt you didn't have the support of the people?'
'I'm not really sure,' stammered Pangloss.
'OK, let's move on. Now, according to the Westphalia-on-Sea Council Constitution, the residents of this town are stuck with you until May 2011. Now, if it became clear that you had utterly lost the support of the people, would you do the honourable thing and stand down before then, or at least call another election?'
'Now, hang on a minute ...'
'You enjoy unparalleled support from the local paper, and have a regular column in it, so why do you think you are such an unpopular figure?'
'Well, look, I'm not sure that's wholly ...'
'How much have you spent on the services of consultants, and how much more do you intend to spend?'
'Well, that's very difficult to say at this precise moment in time. Two heads are better than one, and I'm not a man with two brains. The whole process of urban regeneration and the ideas that drive it is, by it's very nature, ipso facto coitus interruptus, extremely expensive.'
'OK, moving on: you've heard about this blog; what's your take on it?'
'Oh, it sounds like a bit of harmless fun. I'm sure whoever's writing it will soon run out of steam, and if not steam, then ideas.'
'So you're not unduly worried about the rather bizarre way that time is related between Piddlebackside and Westphalia-on-Sea, then?'
'What exactly do you mean? I don't understand. Like I said, I haven't read it first hand.'
'Well, let me explain. It begins with the mayoral election in Piddlebackside, which to everyone's horror is won by Reinhard Longpass, a rather clueless bumbling Conservative with no real life experience. It then covers a period of approximately two years, in which Longpass makes a number of catastrophically brainless decisions. Through a series of flashbacks it is revealed that as a child Longpass had an accident which resulted in a serious cranial trauma. He survived, but during the life-saving surgery at an underfunded hospital the neurosurgeon was forced to cut a three-inch hole in the top of his skull, scoop his brains out with a rusty spoon and fill the resulting cavity with porridge. It soon becomes clear that this procedure in childhood strongly influences much of his day-to-day decision-making. There is one other very far-fetched storyline in which a committed group of Piddlebackside atheists are promised absolutely nothing in the afterlife, but nevertheless selflessly volunteer for a suicide mission to take out the Mayor while he is judging a novelty cake competition at the Women's Guild. Apart from these rather silly scenes events in Piddlebackside closely mimic what has been happening in Westphalia-on-Sea.'
'I see. Does the Mayor suggest any rebranding and renaming of Piddlebackside?'
'Absolutely. A very convincing argument is made for taking the 'Piddle' out, and then, strangely enough, it is mysteriously put back in.'
'I see. Well, I can see certain parallels with some of the bold and innovative moves I have been making in Westphalia-on-Sea, but I still don't see any great problem.'
'The problem, Dr Pangloss is simply this: the time difference between the events in the fictitious Piddlebackside and the events in the very real Westphalia-on-Sea is growing ever smaller as we speak. The embarrassing booing at Piddlebackside Rovers came two weeks after the real event at Westphalia United. Now look at this.'
With a flourish he pulled out a copy of the Westphalia Express and turned to Pangloss's column.
'In this column on 26 October you compared the moaning residents of Westphalia-on-Sea to Victor Meldrew. In the blog about Piddlebackside the Victor Meldrew reference appeared the day after, on 27 October.'
'I still don't see the point.'
'The point is, Dr Pangloss, that the space-time continuum is being interfered with. The lampooning versions of events in Piddlebackside are travelling too fast over the internet, zooming towards your real pronouncements in Westphalia-on-Sea in the print media. If they are allowed to collide, and they are surely on course to do that over the next few days, then the atomic particles of the two events will be forever fused together. The result? In the future everyone will know you are talking bollocks, simply because your lips are moving.'
Pangloss was white. 'Oh my God, he said. Then they have to be stopped. Whoever's writing this blog about Piddlebackside must be stopped. Who's writing it? Get them on the phone and let's start negotiating, but let's not rule out breaking all their fingers.'
'There are two problems with that plan, Dr Pangloss, said Leyland. The first is that the blog is anonymous, so you don't know who's behind it. And the second is that even if you did know the author's identity, there would be a debate to be had about the freedom of speech. Now, before you do something you'll regret, let me tell you a cautionary tale about prohibiting the dissemination of information ...'
(to be continued ...)
Chapter 19 In which Charlie Windsor gives Pangloss some bad news
Following the 'incident' at the football match, Pangloss was feeling rather down in the dumps, and was reluctant to pick up the ringing phone in his office in case it was more bad news. He let it ring at least twelve times, but eventually succumbed.
'Hello, Pangloss here,' he said wearily.
'Morning Pangloss, how was your weekend?' Pangloss sighed audibly with relief; it was Charlie Windsor, one of his few political allies.
'Hmm, I've had better, said Pangloss, feeling his cheeks redden slightly as he momentarily relived his time on the pitch at Westphalia United. Anyway, what do you want?'
'Sorry to hear that, old man. Well, if you're not in a good mood, what I've got to say isn't going to make you feel any better.'
'Oh Christ, what now?'
'Well, you know I have a blog ...'
'No, I didn't. I don't even know what a blog is.'
'Oh, get with it Pangloss. A blog is like an online diary, where you can record your every thought.'
'It sounds great. and you have one?'
'Yes. http://www.charliewindsor.blogspot.com/. All my political pearls of wisdom are recorded there, accessible to millions of people.'
'Brilliant! How many people read it then?'
'Well, judging by my online EU treaty poll, I'd say, oh, somewhere in the region of ... five.'
'Five million!?'
'No, five.'
'Five? Isn't the whole thing a bit of a waste of time then? Doesn't that mean that no-one is remotely interested in anything you've got to say?'
'Well, yes ... no, look, that's not the point. The point is after I posted my thoughts on the EU Treaty I had a message from David Cameron.'
'That's great - if he's one of your five readers I take it all back.'
'Of course he isn't - it's someone messing about. But whoever it was left the address of another blog, which I read out of curiosity.'
'And ...?'
'Well, this other blog is actually a story set in the fictitious town of Piddlebackside, but it appears to be about you ... and me.'
'Fame at last! Can I read it?'
'Well yes, but it's not what you'd call ... supportive. It takes a rather more, how shall I put this? Critical angle on what you've been up to. In fact it goes further than that - it blows the lid right off your big ideas strategy, the consultants, everything.'
'Christ on a bike! It doesn't mention the name change does it?'
'Which one?'
'Both. Either.'
' 'Fraid so.'
'Selling off the pub on the beach to the property developer?'
'Yep.'
'The high-speed ferry?'
'The whole bloody shooting match, I'm afraid, old man.'
Pangloss felt his legs go to jelly. All that stuff should have been forgotten about ages ago.
'Doesn't mention the football match, does it?'
'Yes, now that was quite funny, actually ...'
Pangloss could still hear Charlie in full flow as he hung up the phone. He buzzed through to his secretary and said: 'No calls for the next hour please Jenny; I'm feeling unwell.'
'Hello, Pangloss here,' he said wearily.
'Morning Pangloss, how was your weekend?' Pangloss sighed audibly with relief; it was Charlie Windsor, one of his few political allies.
'Hmm, I've had better, said Pangloss, feeling his cheeks redden slightly as he momentarily relived his time on the pitch at Westphalia United. Anyway, what do you want?'
'Sorry to hear that, old man. Well, if you're not in a good mood, what I've got to say isn't going to make you feel any better.'
'Oh Christ, what now?'
'Well, you know I have a blog ...'
'No, I didn't. I don't even know what a blog is.'
'Oh, get with it Pangloss. A blog is like an online diary, where you can record your every thought.'
'It sounds great. and you have one?'
'Yes. http://www.charliewindsor.blogspot.com/. All my political pearls of wisdom are recorded there, accessible to millions of people.'
'Brilliant! How many people read it then?'
'Well, judging by my online EU treaty poll, I'd say, oh, somewhere in the region of ... five.'
'Five million!?'
'No, five.'
'Five? Isn't the whole thing a bit of a waste of time then? Doesn't that mean that no-one is remotely interested in anything you've got to say?'
'Well, yes ... no, look, that's not the point. The point is after I posted my thoughts on the EU Treaty I had a message from David Cameron.'
'That's great - if he's one of your five readers I take it all back.'
'Of course he isn't - it's someone messing about. But whoever it was left the address of another blog, which I read out of curiosity.'
'And ...?'
'Well, this other blog is actually a story set in the fictitious town of Piddlebackside, but it appears to be about you ... and me.'
'Fame at last! Can I read it?'
'Well yes, but it's not what you'd call ... supportive. It takes a rather more, how shall I put this? Critical angle on what you've been up to. In fact it goes further than that - it blows the lid right off your big ideas strategy, the consultants, everything.'
'Christ on a bike! It doesn't mention the name change does it?'
'Which one?'
'Both. Either.'
' 'Fraid so.'
'Selling off the pub on the beach to the property developer?'
'Yep.'
'The high-speed ferry?'
'The whole bloody shooting match, I'm afraid, old man.'
Pangloss felt his legs go to jelly. All that stuff should have been forgotten about ages ago.
'Doesn't mention the football match, does it?'
'Yes, now that was quite funny, actually ...'
Pangloss could still hear Charlie in full flow as he hung up the phone. He buzzed through to his secretary and said: 'No calls for the next hour please Jenny; I'm feeling unwell.'
Chapter 18 In which Charlie Windsor arrives in town
Charlie Windsor arrived in Wesphalia-on-Sea in 2002, a fast-track candidate who could depend on the support of the big guns in the Conservative Party. As he looked out of the window at, ... well, he wasn't sure where it was exactly that he was looking at, but as he looked out of the window at it he said to himself: 'This is my Holy Grail; one day all of this will be mine.'
'What, the curtains?' Asked his wife, who had just come into the room.
'No, not the bloody curtains. this place. West or Eastphalia, or Fishhole, whatever it is that we can see out of the window.'
'Oh, I see.'
'Do you know, darling, I feel as though I'm on a mission. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. I think I'll paraphrase Jonathan Aitken in my first speech to the local party members. He cleared his throat and began: 'If it falls to me to start a fight to cut out the yellow cancer of Liberal-Democracy in Westphalia-on-Sea with the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of British fair play, so be it.'
'Very impressive, darling, I'm sure. Now I'm just popping out to the shops. Oh, but maybe that Aitken fellow isn't such a good role model; didn't he commit perjury and end up in the nick? Bye!'
'Yes, bye, darling.'
Charlie's brief from Conservative Central Office had been simple. Get yourself settled in, then start getting yourself known. Write to the local paper, and then try and get your face in the rag as often as possible. People needed to know who he was and what he stood for. When he asked them what they did stand for they weren't quite sure, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. It seemed straightforward enough, but there was a slight problem - attacking Labour, as the party leadership did day-in, day-out, wasn't going to get him very far, because Westphalia-on-Sea didn't have, in fact, had never had, a Labour MP, and was very unlikely to have one any time soon. No, our Charlie was going to have to attack the Lib-Dem MP, Brian Localbloke. Of course, the only problem with this was that Brian seemed to be fairly well liked in the town - he had grown up in Eastphalia, went to school in Westphalia-on-Sea and was an avid fan of Westphalia United, getting to as many games as his Westminster commitments would allow. No, Charlie had to play this one very carefully, or the whole plan might blow up in his face. Charlie discussed the conundrum with party officials, and they advised having a go at the local Lib-Dem council. Local councillors were often unpopular, so if he could build up a bit of momentum against them, some of the shit might just stick to Localbloke.
Charlie set about his task with gusto. He had to phrase his letters very carefully at first, because in the early days, being an outsider, he didn't know shit from shite where local politics and the local area were concerned. A few locals rumbled him straightaway, but his letters were so tediously dull that most people just ignored him and hoped he'd just go away. As the months turned to years he became bolder, and began referring to 'the many years of Lib-Dem mismanagement', implying that he had lived in Westphalia-on-Sea a lot longer than he actually had. He lost the 2005 election, but he decided to stick around and have one more go at getting on the Westminster gravy train. Yes, he could spend another couple of years telling any Westphalian that would listen how Baghdad was better than this place; his only fear was that as he ran the place down no-one would ask him the really tricky question, namely 'why had he moved to this dismal shithole in the first place?'
So dear readers, this explains why our intrepid Mayor, Dr Pangloss, had such a vocal supporter in Charlie Windsor.
'What, the curtains?' Asked his wife, who had just come into the room.
'No, not the bloody curtains. this place. West or Eastphalia, or Fishhole, whatever it is that we can see out of the window.'
'Oh, I see.'
'Do you know, darling, I feel as though I'm on a mission. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. I think I'll paraphrase Jonathan Aitken in my first speech to the local party members. He cleared his throat and began: 'If it falls to me to start a fight to cut out the yellow cancer of Liberal-Democracy in Westphalia-on-Sea with the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of British fair play, so be it.'
'Very impressive, darling, I'm sure. Now I'm just popping out to the shops. Oh, but maybe that Aitken fellow isn't such a good role model; didn't he commit perjury and end up in the nick? Bye!'
'Yes, bye, darling.'
Charlie's brief from Conservative Central Office had been simple. Get yourself settled in, then start getting yourself known. Write to the local paper, and then try and get your face in the rag as often as possible. People needed to know who he was and what he stood for. When he asked them what they did stand for they weren't quite sure, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. It seemed straightforward enough, but there was a slight problem - attacking Labour, as the party leadership did day-in, day-out, wasn't going to get him very far, because Westphalia-on-Sea didn't have, in fact, had never had, a Labour MP, and was very unlikely to have one any time soon. No, our Charlie was going to have to attack the Lib-Dem MP, Brian Localbloke. Of course, the only problem with this was that Brian seemed to be fairly well liked in the town - he had grown up in Eastphalia, went to school in Westphalia-on-Sea and was an avid fan of Westphalia United, getting to as many games as his Westminster commitments would allow. No, Charlie had to play this one very carefully, or the whole plan might blow up in his face. Charlie discussed the conundrum with party officials, and they advised having a go at the local Lib-Dem council. Local councillors were often unpopular, so if he could build up a bit of momentum against them, some of the shit might just stick to Localbloke.
Charlie set about his task with gusto. He had to phrase his letters very carefully at first, because in the early days, being an outsider, he didn't know shit from shite where local politics and the local area were concerned. A few locals rumbled him straightaway, but his letters were so tediously dull that most people just ignored him and hoped he'd just go away. As the months turned to years he became bolder, and began referring to 'the many years of Lib-Dem mismanagement', implying that he had lived in Westphalia-on-Sea a lot longer than he actually had. He lost the 2005 election, but he decided to stick around and have one more go at getting on the Westminster gravy train. Yes, he could spend another couple of years telling any Westphalian that would listen how Baghdad was better than this place; his only fear was that as he ran the place down no-one would ask him the really tricky question, namely 'why had he moved to this dismal shithole in the first place?'
So dear readers, this explains why our intrepid Mayor, Dr Pangloss, had such a vocal supporter in Charlie Windsor.
Chapter 17 In which we learn the political history of Westphalia-on-Sea
Some readers may now be wondering how the character of Charlie Windsor suddenly came to appear in Westphalia-on-Sea. 'Where did he come from and why is he here?' I hear you ask. All valid questions which will be answered in good time, but first a little political history is necessary.
Once upon a time back in the sixties and seventies the people of Westphalia-on-Sea lived in a glorious socio-economic bubble. There were fish in the sea, tourists aplenty, and work for all who wanted it. There were no ethnic minorities, and no-one had to go down a mine or work in the steel industry, or make cars on a production-line, or inhale cotton dust for eight hours a day. Indeed, if Pangloss had been around at the time he would certainly have called it the best of all possible worlds. One consequence of this blissful paradise was that the people of Westphalia-on-Sea became very Conservative, with a big 'C'. In a nutshell, the vast majority believed that politics was best left to people with sensible haircuts who had been to private schools and said 'lavatory' instead of 'toilet'. To make it easier for voters to make a sensible choice, these people were also given knighthoods, so it was clear where you should put your cross on the ballot paper. So it was then, that the MP for Westphalia-on-Sea for many years was Sir Bufton Tufton.
Even as council tax riots began breaking out around the country, and Britain became a kind of off-shore American nuclear base, Westphalia-on-Sea remained a glorious shade of blue. Eventually Sir Bufton Tufton retired, and was replaced by the dashing James Rupertson. He was a real jet-setter, too suave and sophisticated for Westphalia-on-Sea really, so he could hardly be blamed for spending very little time there. He also found the Westphalians a rather disagreeable bunch, so he spent most of his time writing spy stories instead of dealing with their problems. He was probably not the most conscientious of MPs, but he looked rather dashing and spoke very nicely, so the Westphalians were more than grateful - after all, they reasoned, in some parts of the country the people were represented by men with beards and northern accents. When Mrs Thatcher stockpiled imported coal and then began closing most of the north of England, and then began selling off every asset the country had, some people thought the Westphalians would finally take the hint, but no; it was beginning to look as if a bladder on a stick would be returned to Parliament with the best wishes of the people of Westphalia-on-Sea as long as it was sporting a blue rosette. In fact it was only after the Tories lost an estimated £3.4 billion of everybody's money on Black Wednesday that the Westphalians began to think it might just be time to stop voting for them.
At long last the Tory stranglehold over Westphalia-on-Sea was broken in 1997 when James Rupertson was defeated by his Lib-Dem rival, Brian Localbloke. The Tories were mortified, especially as they were beaten by just 12 votes. This was the absolute beauty of democracy in action. The Tories could understand losing marginal seats in the Midlands, but Westphalia-on-Sea? - it was unthinkable. Oh well, it was just a blip, and they would win the seat back at the next election. In the meantime Brian Localbloke duly went about his business at Westminster, held regular surgeries around the Cote de Westphalia and dealt with the problems of his constituents as quickly and efficiently as possible. At the next election in 2001 the Tories put up their own local man, but the people of Westphalia-on-Sea were having none of it - Brian Localbloke saw his majority go up to about 6,000. Now the Tories were heading for meltdown - their slapheaded baby-faced leader resigned the next day before most people had had their breakfast.
A new slaphead was drafted in to lead the Tories. There could be no room for complacency now; they must be focused. Westphalia-on-Sea was a target seat for the next election, but the local Conservatives couldn't produce anyone who could walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone win an election. Their only viable tactic was to parachute in a candidate from elsewhere, and that man was Charlie Windsor.
Once upon a time back in the sixties and seventies the people of Westphalia-on-Sea lived in a glorious socio-economic bubble. There were fish in the sea, tourists aplenty, and work for all who wanted it. There were no ethnic minorities, and no-one had to go down a mine or work in the steel industry, or make cars on a production-line, or inhale cotton dust for eight hours a day. Indeed, if Pangloss had been around at the time he would certainly have called it the best of all possible worlds. One consequence of this blissful paradise was that the people of Westphalia-on-Sea became very Conservative, with a big 'C'. In a nutshell, the vast majority believed that politics was best left to people with sensible haircuts who had been to private schools and said 'lavatory' instead of 'toilet'. To make it easier for voters to make a sensible choice, these people were also given knighthoods, so it was clear where you should put your cross on the ballot paper. So it was then, that the MP for Westphalia-on-Sea for many years was Sir Bufton Tufton.
Even as council tax riots began breaking out around the country, and Britain became a kind of off-shore American nuclear base, Westphalia-on-Sea remained a glorious shade of blue. Eventually Sir Bufton Tufton retired, and was replaced by the dashing James Rupertson. He was a real jet-setter, too suave and sophisticated for Westphalia-on-Sea really, so he could hardly be blamed for spending very little time there. He also found the Westphalians a rather disagreeable bunch, so he spent most of his time writing spy stories instead of dealing with their problems. He was probably not the most conscientious of MPs, but he looked rather dashing and spoke very nicely, so the Westphalians were more than grateful - after all, they reasoned, in some parts of the country the people were represented by men with beards and northern accents. When Mrs Thatcher stockpiled imported coal and then began closing most of the north of England, and then began selling off every asset the country had, some people thought the Westphalians would finally take the hint, but no; it was beginning to look as if a bladder on a stick would be returned to Parliament with the best wishes of the people of Westphalia-on-Sea as long as it was sporting a blue rosette. In fact it was only after the Tories lost an estimated £3.4 billion of everybody's money on Black Wednesday that the Westphalians began to think it might just be time to stop voting for them.
At long last the Tory stranglehold over Westphalia-on-Sea was broken in 1997 when James Rupertson was defeated by his Lib-Dem rival, Brian Localbloke. The Tories were mortified, especially as they were beaten by just 12 votes. This was the absolute beauty of democracy in action. The Tories could understand losing marginal seats in the Midlands, but Westphalia-on-Sea? - it was unthinkable. Oh well, it was just a blip, and they would win the seat back at the next election. In the meantime Brian Localbloke duly went about his business at Westminster, held regular surgeries around the Cote de Westphalia and dealt with the problems of his constituents as quickly and efficiently as possible. At the next election in 2001 the Tories put up their own local man, but the people of Westphalia-on-Sea were having none of it - Brian Localbloke saw his majority go up to about 6,000. Now the Tories were heading for meltdown - their slapheaded baby-faced leader resigned the next day before most people had had their breakfast.
A new slaphead was drafted in to lead the Tories. There could be no room for complacency now; they must be focused. Westphalia-on-Sea was a target seat for the next election, but the local Conservatives couldn't produce anyone who could walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone win an election. Their only viable tactic was to parachute in a candidate from elsewhere, and that man was Charlie Windsor.
Chapter 16 In which Pangloss gets a somewhat mixed reception at Westphalia United
Reading the paper over the next few days after the big presentation it appeared that Pangloss's worst fears were being realised. The Westphalia Express had devoted several pages to the 'city' idea, but the key phrases, now reported in black and white without the high-tech light show, all seemed utterly bonkers. The worst thing about it though, was that it was so obviously a lot of nonsense interwoven with overblown phrases which stated what was already common knowledge. Each day there was another letter from outraged locals who were sick to death of their money being wasted on such a grand scale. Pangloss's mood was getting blacker by the hour. He decided to call Charlie Windsor; he had been so upbeat the last time Pangloss had seen him he might be able to cheer him up now.
'Oh, for goodness sake, said Charlie, after listening to Pangloss's tale of woe, buck up old man. Let's get some perspective on this. How many letters are there in the paper about this? About two a day. The rest of the Letters' Page is taken up with the usual moans about Europe, thanks for those who gave so generously to the latest charity appeal and thanks to the person who helped the old lady when she dropped her purse in Sainsburys. These letter-writing lefties might have a bee in their collective bonnet, but they've got no real power. Two small letters buried on page six does not a revolution make, my friend. Now look at the positives: you have a fortnightly column with your picture at the top, your picture is always on at least two different pages and you can issue a press release and it's headline news. No, old Trotsky in the Kremlin up on Shagwell Hill and his mates haven't got a prayer. It's time for a bit of PMA, old boy.'
'Pre-Menstrual Activity?' Pangloss asked.
'Positive Mental Attitude. Think like a winner, and you'll be a winner.
Pangloss put the phone down and considered what Charlie had said. Yes, it did seem to make sense - he was the mayor, and he held all the cards. After all, no-one had really batted an eyelid when he hired those consultants. And let's not forget, he had been voted in. The people of Westphalia-on-Sea had asked him to represent them. All right, as percentages go, seven wasn't great, but he wasn't going to be meek. He would go on a charm offensive, get out and mingle with the great unwashed. But where would he start? Walking through the town? No that would be no good - just a few fat chavs waddling in and out of mobile phone shops. And then people would accost him with tedious stories about traffic wardens and rubbish, and why are there buses driving through a pedestrianised area? No, the town wasn't a good idea. He folded the paper and was about to put it down when he noticed the back page. Pangloss wasn't a football fan, but according to the article it seemed that Westphalia United were doing rather well. Maybe this was just the opportunity Pangloss was looking for. The chance to associate himself with something positive happening in the town, and meet a large group of locals all at once. Yes, he would phone them straight away.
'Hello, Westphalia United? This is the Mayor. Could I speak to the manager please.'
'OK, I'll put you through.'
'Hello, Ron Truckle,' said a rather gruff voice at the end of the line.
'Mr Truckle, it's Dr Pangloss, the Mayor. I have a space in my diary this afternoon, so thought I'd offer you my services and come and present the cup at the match this afternoon.'
'What cup?'
'Aren't you playing for a cup?'
'No, it's a league game against Steeple Bumstead.'
'Well, what do you win at the end of that?'
'Three points, if we're lucky.'
'Well, I'll present those then.'
'You don't present points. Oh, look, this is a wind up isn't? Is that you Colin?' said Truckle, starting to laugh.
'I assure you I'm serious Mr Truckle. Could I come and shoot a goal then, or meet the players? Maybe I could bully-off?'
'Look, we won't really have time for that.'
'I am the Mayor, you know.'
'Now listen here. I don't care if you're the Queen of bloody Sheba. You're not interfering with my pre-match preparations.'
'Is there perhaps someone else there I could talk to?' asked Pangloss, changing his tone a little.
After further discussion with a nice girl in the office it was agreed that Pangloss would pick the winning raffle ticket in the half-time draw. Pangloss arrived promptly and was greatly interested by all that went on, particularly the singing. Apparently the cafe had run out of pies, and one section of the crowd wanted to know where they had gone. They seemed to suspect a large steward had eaten them. As kick-off time approached the announcer read out the Westphalia United team: 'In goal, Tom Pearce. At the back Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney and Peter Davey. In midfield Daniel Whiddon, Harry Hawk and Tom Cobley. Up front, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub. On the bench, Williams, Burfitt, Courtenay and Phillips. After each player's name was read out the crowd gave an appreciative cheer. Yes, thought Pangloss, that's what I need, a little public show of affection, something to give me a boost, and demonstrate that there are plenty of people out there who agree with what I'm doing and like the way I'm doing it. These people may be revolting foul-mouthed working class football oiks, but at least they're not bloody lefties and moaning Victor Meldrew types. Feelgood factor, here we come at last.
Pangloss had to admit the match was quite exciting. He wasn't sure who was running towards each goal, but by half-time the lady next to him assured him that Westphalia were winning. Perfect thought Pangloss. I'll just pop down and get my standing ovation as the town's elected civic leader, and he made his way down on to the pitch.
The young lady from the club office shouted into the microphone: 'And here to pick the winning ticket and present the prize money is your mayor, Dr Pangloss!' Her voice rose at the end, which was a subtle hint for the crowd to cheer.
'Boo! boo! The crowd shouted with one voice. Boo! BOO!'
Pangloss's face took on the colour of a slapped arse, and he smiled the uncomfortable smile of someone trying to ignore three and a half-thousand people booing them. The Steeple Bumstead fans must have thought it was hilarious.
'Goodness me, he said to the girl afterwards. Football fans, eh? They do have a jolly sense of humour.'
'Yes, agreed the girl. we haven't had that kind of reaction since the last owner was here. And you probably need the skin of a rhino in your job - what did you say you do again?'
'Oh, it doesn't matter, said Pangloss, it's really not that important now.'
'OK, said the girl. See you next time, then?'
'Hmm, yes, maybe.' replied Pangloss.
'Oh, for goodness sake, said Charlie, after listening to Pangloss's tale of woe, buck up old man. Let's get some perspective on this. How many letters are there in the paper about this? About two a day. The rest of the Letters' Page is taken up with the usual moans about Europe, thanks for those who gave so generously to the latest charity appeal and thanks to the person who helped the old lady when she dropped her purse in Sainsburys. These letter-writing lefties might have a bee in their collective bonnet, but they've got no real power. Two small letters buried on page six does not a revolution make, my friend. Now look at the positives: you have a fortnightly column with your picture at the top, your picture is always on at least two different pages and you can issue a press release and it's headline news. No, old Trotsky in the Kremlin up on Shagwell Hill and his mates haven't got a prayer. It's time for a bit of PMA, old boy.'
'Pre-Menstrual Activity?' Pangloss asked.
'Positive Mental Attitude. Think like a winner, and you'll be a winner.
Pangloss put the phone down and considered what Charlie had said. Yes, it did seem to make sense - he was the mayor, and he held all the cards. After all, no-one had really batted an eyelid when he hired those consultants. And let's not forget, he had been voted in. The people of Westphalia-on-Sea had asked him to represent them. All right, as percentages go, seven wasn't great, but he wasn't going to be meek. He would go on a charm offensive, get out and mingle with the great unwashed. But where would he start? Walking through the town? No that would be no good - just a few fat chavs waddling in and out of mobile phone shops. And then people would accost him with tedious stories about traffic wardens and rubbish, and why are there buses driving through a pedestrianised area? No, the town wasn't a good idea. He folded the paper and was about to put it down when he noticed the back page. Pangloss wasn't a football fan, but according to the article it seemed that Westphalia United were doing rather well. Maybe this was just the opportunity Pangloss was looking for. The chance to associate himself with something positive happening in the town, and meet a large group of locals all at once. Yes, he would phone them straight away.
'Hello, Westphalia United? This is the Mayor. Could I speak to the manager please.'
'OK, I'll put you through.'
'Hello, Ron Truckle,' said a rather gruff voice at the end of the line.
'Mr Truckle, it's Dr Pangloss, the Mayor. I have a space in my diary this afternoon, so thought I'd offer you my services and come and present the cup at the match this afternoon.'
'What cup?'
'Aren't you playing for a cup?'
'No, it's a league game against Steeple Bumstead.'
'Well, what do you win at the end of that?'
'Three points, if we're lucky.'
'Well, I'll present those then.'
'You don't present points. Oh, look, this is a wind up isn't? Is that you Colin?' said Truckle, starting to laugh.
'I assure you I'm serious Mr Truckle. Could I come and shoot a goal then, or meet the players? Maybe I could bully-off?'
'Look, we won't really have time for that.'
'I am the Mayor, you know.'
'Now listen here. I don't care if you're the Queen of bloody Sheba. You're not interfering with my pre-match preparations.'
'Is there perhaps someone else there I could talk to?' asked Pangloss, changing his tone a little.
After further discussion with a nice girl in the office it was agreed that Pangloss would pick the winning raffle ticket in the half-time draw. Pangloss arrived promptly and was greatly interested by all that went on, particularly the singing. Apparently the cafe had run out of pies, and one section of the crowd wanted to know where they had gone. They seemed to suspect a large steward had eaten them. As kick-off time approached the announcer read out the Westphalia United team: 'In goal, Tom Pearce. At the back Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney and Peter Davey. In midfield Daniel Whiddon, Harry Hawk and Tom Cobley. Up front, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub. On the bench, Williams, Burfitt, Courtenay and Phillips. After each player's name was read out the crowd gave an appreciative cheer. Yes, thought Pangloss, that's what I need, a little public show of affection, something to give me a boost, and demonstrate that there are plenty of people out there who agree with what I'm doing and like the way I'm doing it. These people may be revolting foul-mouthed working class football oiks, but at least they're not bloody lefties and moaning Victor Meldrew types. Feelgood factor, here we come at last.
Pangloss had to admit the match was quite exciting. He wasn't sure who was running towards each goal, but by half-time the lady next to him assured him that Westphalia were winning. Perfect thought Pangloss. I'll just pop down and get my standing ovation as the town's elected civic leader, and he made his way down on to the pitch.
The young lady from the club office shouted into the microphone: 'And here to pick the winning ticket and present the prize money is your mayor, Dr Pangloss!' Her voice rose at the end, which was a subtle hint for the crowd to cheer.
'Boo! boo! The crowd shouted with one voice. Boo! BOO!'
Pangloss's face took on the colour of a slapped arse, and he smiled the uncomfortable smile of someone trying to ignore three and a half-thousand people booing them. The Steeple Bumstead fans must have thought it was hilarious.
'Goodness me, he said to the girl afterwards. Football fans, eh? They do have a jolly sense of humour.'
'Yes, agreed the girl. we haven't had that kind of reaction since the last owner was here. And you probably need the skin of a rhino in your job - what did you say you do again?'
'Oh, it doesn't matter, said Pangloss, it's really not that important now.'
'OK, said the girl. See you next time, then?'
'Hmm, yes, maybe.' replied Pangloss.
Chapter 15 In which the 'city' idea is finally unveiled
'Phil's going to take centre stage with the presentation, if that all right with you,' said Derek Poundsign as he shook Pangloss's hand.
'Fine by me, said Pangloss. What's the big idea then? I'm dying to know.'
'In a word, city,' said Derek.
'City?' Repeated Pangloss.
'That's right. At the moment you've got three towns: Westphalia-on-Sea, Eastphalia and Fishhole. But..., (at this point Derek squeezed three of the fingers on his left hand together to indicate a merger) ... add the populations together, and you're talking 'city'.'
'I still don't understand. What do you mean 'city'?'
'You all become a city. Look, I know this may seem quite a radical concept for you to grasp here in the foyer, but trust me, we've had plenty of other clients who we've advised to upgrade in this way - in fact Phil has probably copied and pasted a lot of the presentation from our archives.'
'Does that mean we'll get a discount?' asked Pangloss.
'This is no time for humour, said Derek. Now let's get started - just listen to the presentation and all will become clear - the clue is in the title 'complete Structured Harmony In a Town Environment' - I think that says it all. I know it's a bit of a mouthful, but I'm sure we can come up with a snappy acronym to encapsulate what we're doing here.'
Pangloss took his seat with the rest of the great and the good of Westphalia-on-Sea.
At the end of two hours Phil Muggins came over to Pangloss, closely followed by the rest of the team. 'Well, what did you think? asked Phil.
'I thought the presentation was absolutely bloody brilliant, said Pangloss. The photos, the pastel coloured squares, the aerial shots, the comparisons, the headings, the buzz words, the diagrams and the general layout, everything was just out of this world - it was just that the idea, was, well, ... shit.'
'Praise indeed, Mr Mayor, praise indeed, said Derek. I must say it's gratifying to have a client really appreciate what we've achieved. Phil put his heart and soul into this project - practically wore that thesaurus out, he did, with his 'Garden City' here and his 'Creative Harbour' there.'
'Yes, but, the idea, ... it's shit.'
'Isn't it just? said Raza. I'd say it's mission accomplished. What's the matter Dr Pangloss? You look a little faint.'
'Well, it's just that all the other shitty ideas were fairly small scale, isolated. A privatised beach here, a name change and a high speed ferry there, it was all stuff that captured the imagination with its innate silliness, but was still easily forgotten, you know, tomorrow's chip paper and all that. But this, this is, well, massive.'
'We have pushed the old boat out here, I'll grant you that, said Toby. This wasn't a low budget affair by any stretch of the imagination.'
'Yes, but, I think you've gone too far. People aren't going to forget this. It includes the whole of the Cote de Westphalia.'
'New Cote de Westphalia, corrected Phil. We popped another name change in.'
'Two name changes in as many months? Isn't that taking the piss?' asked Pangloss.
'We prefer the term 'an upgraded rebrand initiative based on market projection', but I concede that that may have been interpreted as urine extraction by a small cross-section of the audience,' said Phil.
The colour continued to drain from Pangloss's face.
'I think I need a brandy. This project is going to haunt me. It could finish me.'
'Now, now, don't be all doom and gloom. Let's have a look at the caveats; that'll cheer you up,' said Derek.
'The caveats? What do you mean?'
'The caveats. The little phrases and semantic markers we spread across the presentation so that on closer inspection everyone realises that it's never going to happen. You wouldn't give a presentation of this magnitude without caveats. They're our starting point - list your caveats and work backwards - first rule of consultancy, that is. Raza, be a love and read out the caveats, would you? Dr Pangloss is feeling poorly.'
'Sure, here they are. Right, let's have a look. OK, in no particular order ... other such visions had gathered dust ... bloodying a few noses ... a bold, imaginative step ... bold political leadership and bravery ... head above the parapet ... documents were still a work in progress ... not about imposing their ideas ... would take decades to achieve ... difficult projects which do involve a step change ... is not about re-branding ... getting Westphalia-on-Sea on the radar of investors ... Westphalia-on-Sea's track record at making changes is not very good ... scientific research suggested the climate of the traditional holiday destinations like the Mediterranean would be too hot for tourists ..., I think that's about it.'
'Thank you Raza, said Derek. Now doesn't that make you feel better, Dr Pangloss? Do you see what Phil has very cleverly done? Firstly he's used the language of the battlefield: from medieval parapets to the bloody noses of good old-fashioned pugilism, and then on to World War Two radars. He's been contradictory: he's said it's not about rebranding. Any definite promise of inward investment? Of course not - he says you'll be a little green 'blip' on the very small screen of a man several miles away. He's pointed out that lots of change is needed, and then he's told you how crap you all are at changing. And did he promise it would happen soon? No - he said it would take decades. And to cap it all off he's thrown the sheer lunacy of climate change into the mix. Hmm, don't know if that last bit was strictly necessary Phil.'
'Yeah, sorry boss. I was on a bit of a roll by that stage - caffeine overdose maybe.'
'Yes, well just be a bit more careful next time. I mean, telling them to sit tight and wait for the fucking Med to overheat. Ker-rist! Anyone who swallows that should be in a bloody straightjacket. I'm surprised you didn't tell them that if the wind decides to blow the other way they'd soon be living in a ski resort.'
'Well, that does have an attractive win-win feel to it, boss.'
'Hmm, yes, I suppose it does. OK, sorry, Phil, I take it back. I think Dr Pangloss's demeanour is unsettling me a little. Anyway Dr Pangloss, I think you'll agree that anyone who takes the time to reread our proposal will see that none of this is actually going to happen; I mean he did say decades, plural. That could be nine decades. Relax, you've got nothing to worry about.'
Pangloss was less than convinced. He had an awful feeling that even the dimmest Westphalian would greet this idea with, at best, lukewarm condescension.
Just as he was turning to go he heard his name being called, and turned around to see Charlie Windsor coming towards him. Charlie was the Conservative prospective parliamentary candidate for Westphalia-on-Sea, so they were on the same side, but the last thing Pangloss needed was someone else pointing out how shit the whole project was.
'Great ideas!' he shouted before Pangloss could even say hello.
'Really?' said Pangloss tentatively.
'Top drawer. Did you see those pastel coloured squares? And the aerial photos on a sunny day? I can see you and your team mean business. These bright sparks must be costing a pretty penny, I'll wager. Don't worry, he said, tapping the side of his nose knowingly, no names no pack drill. Mum's the word, eh? Great turns of phrase as well, almost poetic; now what was it? Oh yes, 'The Cote de Westphalia is a very dispersed low density urban model' and 'a City with intensely developed compact urban hubs'. Blimey, if I could come out with stuff like that I reckon the election would be in the bag. That's what people want to hear about, not who's going to rebuild the seafront and why are there turds being washed up on the beach. No, they want to go to bed in a town and wake up in a city! Pangloss, I am delighted to see that you have now launched the clear vision for our future that we have been crying out for.'
Pangloss mumbled 'thanks Charlie', and walked out to his waiting car.
'Fine by me, said Pangloss. What's the big idea then? I'm dying to know.'
'In a word, city,' said Derek.
'City?' Repeated Pangloss.
'That's right. At the moment you've got three towns: Westphalia-on-Sea, Eastphalia and Fishhole. But..., (at this point Derek squeezed three of the fingers on his left hand together to indicate a merger) ... add the populations together, and you're talking 'city'.'
'I still don't understand. What do you mean 'city'?'
'You all become a city. Look, I know this may seem quite a radical concept for you to grasp here in the foyer, but trust me, we've had plenty of other clients who we've advised to upgrade in this way - in fact Phil has probably copied and pasted a lot of the presentation from our archives.'
'Does that mean we'll get a discount?' asked Pangloss.
'This is no time for humour, said Derek. Now let's get started - just listen to the presentation and all will become clear - the clue is in the title 'complete Structured Harmony In a Town Environment' - I think that says it all. I know it's a bit of a mouthful, but I'm sure we can come up with a snappy acronym to encapsulate what we're doing here.'
Pangloss took his seat with the rest of the great and the good of Westphalia-on-Sea.
At the end of two hours Phil Muggins came over to Pangloss, closely followed by the rest of the team. 'Well, what did you think? asked Phil.
'I thought the presentation was absolutely bloody brilliant, said Pangloss. The photos, the pastel coloured squares, the aerial shots, the comparisons, the headings, the buzz words, the diagrams and the general layout, everything was just out of this world - it was just that the idea, was, well, ... shit.'
'Praise indeed, Mr Mayor, praise indeed, said Derek. I must say it's gratifying to have a client really appreciate what we've achieved. Phil put his heart and soul into this project - practically wore that thesaurus out, he did, with his 'Garden City' here and his 'Creative Harbour' there.'
'Yes, but, the idea, ... it's shit.'
'Isn't it just? said Raza. I'd say it's mission accomplished. What's the matter Dr Pangloss? You look a little faint.'
'Well, it's just that all the other shitty ideas were fairly small scale, isolated. A privatised beach here, a name change and a high speed ferry there, it was all stuff that captured the imagination with its innate silliness, but was still easily forgotten, you know, tomorrow's chip paper and all that. But this, this is, well, massive.'
'We have pushed the old boat out here, I'll grant you that, said Toby. This wasn't a low budget affair by any stretch of the imagination.'
'Yes, but, I think you've gone too far. People aren't going to forget this. It includes the whole of the Cote de Westphalia.'
'New Cote de Westphalia, corrected Phil. We popped another name change in.'
'Two name changes in as many months? Isn't that taking the piss?' asked Pangloss.
'We prefer the term 'an upgraded rebrand initiative based on market projection', but I concede that that may have been interpreted as urine extraction by a small cross-section of the audience,' said Phil.
The colour continued to drain from Pangloss's face.
'I think I need a brandy. This project is going to haunt me. It could finish me.'
'Now, now, don't be all doom and gloom. Let's have a look at the caveats; that'll cheer you up,' said Derek.
'The caveats? What do you mean?'
'The caveats. The little phrases and semantic markers we spread across the presentation so that on closer inspection everyone realises that it's never going to happen. You wouldn't give a presentation of this magnitude without caveats. They're our starting point - list your caveats and work backwards - first rule of consultancy, that is. Raza, be a love and read out the caveats, would you? Dr Pangloss is feeling poorly.'
'Sure, here they are. Right, let's have a look. OK, in no particular order ... other such visions had gathered dust ... bloodying a few noses ... a bold, imaginative step ... bold political leadership and bravery ... head above the parapet ... documents were still a work in progress ... not about imposing their ideas ... would take decades to achieve ... difficult projects which do involve a step change ... is not about re-branding ... getting Westphalia-on-Sea on the radar of investors ... Westphalia-on-Sea's track record at making changes is not very good ... scientific research suggested the climate of the traditional holiday destinations like the Mediterranean would be too hot for tourists ..., I think that's about it.'
'Thank you Raza, said Derek. Now doesn't that make you feel better, Dr Pangloss? Do you see what Phil has very cleverly done? Firstly he's used the language of the battlefield: from medieval parapets to the bloody noses of good old-fashioned pugilism, and then on to World War Two radars. He's been contradictory: he's said it's not about rebranding. Any definite promise of inward investment? Of course not - he says you'll be a little green 'blip' on the very small screen of a man several miles away. He's pointed out that lots of change is needed, and then he's told you how crap you all are at changing. And did he promise it would happen soon? No - he said it would take decades. And to cap it all off he's thrown the sheer lunacy of climate change into the mix. Hmm, don't know if that last bit was strictly necessary Phil.'
'Yeah, sorry boss. I was on a bit of a roll by that stage - caffeine overdose maybe.'
'Yes, well just be a bit more careful next time. I mean, telling them to sit tight and wait for the fucking Med to overheat. Ker-rist! Anyone who swallows that should be in a bloody straightjacket. I'm surprised you didn't tell them that if the wind decides to blow the other way they'd soon be living in a ski resort.'
'Well, that does have an attractive win-win feel to it, boss.'
'Hmm, yes, I suppose it does. OK, sorry, Phil, I take it back. I think Dr Pangloss's demeanour is unsettling me a little. Anyway Dr Pangloss, I think you'll agree that anyone who takes the time to reread our proposal will see that none of this is actually going to happen; I mean he did say decades, plural. That could be nine decades. Relax, you've got nothing to worry about.'
Pangloss was less than convinced. He had an awful feeling that even the dimmest Westphalian would greet this idea with, at best, lukewarm condescension.
Just as he was turning to go he heard his name being called, and turned around to see Charlie Windsor coming towards him. Charlie was the Conservative prospective parliamentary candidate for Westphalia-on-Sea, so they were on the same side, but the last thing Pangloss needed was someone else pointing out how shit the whole project was.
'Great ideas!' he shouted before Pangloss could even say hello.
'Really?' said Pangloss tentatively.
'Top drawer. Did you see those pastel coloured squares? And the aerial photos on a sunny day? I can see you and your team mean business. These bright sparks must be costing a pretty penny, I'll wager. Don't worry, he said, tapping the side of his nose knowingly, no names no pack drill. Mum's the word, eh? Great turns of phrase as well, almost poetic; now what was it? Oh yes, 'The Cote de Westphalia is a very dispersed low density urban model' and 'a City with intensely developed compact urban hubs'. Blimey, if I could come out with stuff like that I reckon the election would be in the bag. That's what people want to hear about, not who's going to rebuild the seafront and why are there turds being washed up on the beach. No, they want to go to bed in a town and wake up in a city! Pangloss, I am delighted to see that you have now launched the clear vision for our future that we have been crying out for.'
Pangloss mumbled 'thanks Charlie', and walked out to his waiting car.
Chapter 14 In which Pangloss remembers the good old days
Henry Charles Albert David Pangloss jumped out of bed with exceptional gusto. Today was the day of the big meeting with all the councillors and local bigwigs, where the consultants would present the next big idea, and after the success of the last meeting he was looking forward to it with relish. The only lingering doubt was whose idea would they actually say it was? Was it the consultants' idea, so that was why they were presenting it, or would they say it was actually the Mayor's idea? Hmm, tricky; people might say 'but if it's the Mayor's idea, why are we paying for consultants?' Yes, and knowing what a bunch of miserable, whining, po-faced, overly-critical and downright ungrateful malcontents the majority of Westphalians had turned out to be he could just see that happening. Yes, they'd be scrabbling for their pens and paper before the end of the presentation. Some of them wrote to the newspaper so often with their bloody lefty agenda that he almost knew their names. What was that old twat who really got under his skin called? Ditchling? Ditchlow? Scratchlow? Oh, he couldn't remember. It didn't matter; he'd get his comeuppance along with the rest of them, after this. Whichever way they presented it, it would sound impressive. It would be a new ... what was the word? Outlook. No, that didn't sound quite right. Perspective? No, too arty-farty. View? No, too mundane, and too short. Vision? Hmm, possible. Hang on though, weren't visions things that people had when they were going a bit loopy? He didn't want his term in office shortened prematurely by someone coming round and quoting the Mental Health Act at him. Probably best to leave the final decision to the consultants.
Pangloss decided he wasn't going to let these minor concerns spoil his big day. He would be as proud as he was when he received his degree from that seat of great learning all those years ago. He could hear the words of the Australian Vice-Chancellor ringing in his ears as if it were yesterday: 'By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Universita Committeeatum E Pluribus Unum, I hereby confer upon you the honorary degree of Th.D. - Doctor of Thinkology.' A proud moment indeed. For a moment he was lost in a reverie of his student days, when, being something of a movie buff, he had been president of the film society. Pangloss glanced in the mirror. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days but still looked pretty good for his age. In fact the stubble gave him that mean chiselled look that had earned him his nickname at university - 'Dirty Harry'.
He put on his best gravelly voice and snarled at his reflection: 'I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?'
'Ahh, the good old days,' Pangloss sighed to himself. Thinking of that degree ceremony, he wondered what that smart arse from the Biology department was doing now? He used to keep Pangloss up half the night playing Bruce bloody Springsteen. Something insignificant, no doubt. And he'd probably lost most of his hair. One thing was for certain - he wouldn't have risen to the lofty position of Mayor, oh no. Wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't hack life in the UK and had had to emigrate to some colonial backwater. Yes, he'd like to see him at a reunion, sidle up to him and say something like 'So Griffiths, what are you up to these days? I'm the Mayor of Westphalia-on-Sea, you know, giving something back to society. And where did all that biology get you? Don't suppose you've found a cure for cancer, have you?'
Yes, that would take the old slaphead down a peg or two, he chuckled to himself.
Pangloss decided he wasn't going to let these minor concerns spoil his big day. He would be as proud as he was when he received his degree from that seat of great learning all those years ago. He could hear the words of the Australian Vice-Chancellor ringing in his ears as if it were yesterday: 'By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Universita Committeeatum E Pluribus Unum, I hereby confer upon you the honorary degree of Th.D. - Doctor of Thinkology.' A proud moment indeed. For a moment he was lost in a reverie of his student days, when, being something of a movie buff, he had been president of the film society. Pangloss glanced in the mirror. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days but still looked pretty good for his age. In fact the stubble gave him that mean chiselled look that had earned him his nickname at university - 'Dirty Harry'.
He put on his best gravelly voice and snarled at his reflection: 'I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?'
'Ahh, the good old days,' Pangloss sighed to himself. Thinking of that degree ceremony, he wondered what that smart arse from the Biology department was doing now? He used to keep Pangloss up half the night playing Bruce bloody Springsteen. Something insignificant, no doubt. And he'd probably lost most of his hair. One thing was for certain - he wouldn't have risen to the lofty position of Mayor, oh no. Wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't hack life in the UK and had had to emigrate to some colonial backwater. Yes, he'd like to see him at a reunion, sidle up to him and say something like 'So Griffiths, what are you up to these days? I'm the Mayor of Westphalia-on-Sea, you know, giving something back to society. And where did all that biology get you? Don't suppose you've found a cure for cancer, have you?'
Yes, that would take the old slaphead down a peg or two, he chuckled to himself.
Chapter 13 In which Pangloss finds out there is very little cause and effect on a consultant's invoice
In the days after Pangloss's 'final solution' to ending the chav problem in Westphalia-on-Sea was reported in the Westphalia Express all Hell broke loose. Not only were the usual suspects writing to the paper to point out that Pangloss's 'final solution' wouldn't work, but the Director of the Westphalia-on-Sea Hotels' Association publicly declared that he too thought the Mayor had possibly been a little over-zealous with some of his 'repopulation' plans.
Pangloss was snoozing in his chair in his office at the Town Hall when the phone woke him. He didn't usually nap at work, but last night he had slept fitfully after a nightmare, and had woken feeling decidedly unrefreshed. In the dream he was being chased along the seafront by three large palm trees with particularly sharp fronds. He had only escaped by rushing into a newly built casino. 'Hello, Dr Pangloss here' he said groggily into the mouthpiece.
'Pangloss, it's Toby from Complete C-'
'I know who you work for,' interrupted Pangloss. 'What do you want?'
'I just wanted to congratulate you on your 'final solution' and the discord it provoked.' replied Toby.
'You do?' Said Pangloss. I was beginning to regret it now that Mr Twist from the Hotels' Association has publicly disagreed with me.'
'Nonsense, conflict is brilliant. Takes everybody's mind off the last daft story. By this time next week nobody will remember that we were going to change 'Cote de Westphalia' to just 'Phalia'.'
'Do you think so?'
'I know so. Who did you say this Twist character was, anyway?'
'Director of the Hotels' Association.'
'Director? Director? I bet he couldn't direct piss into a bucket,' said Toby.
'Oh, that's a bit harsh, began Pangloss. With all the toilets being closed for so long he's probably had a bit of practice. I'm sure that with something with a fairly wide rim ...'
'It's a just a figure of speech, interrupted Toby, rather exasperated.
'Oh, I see. So you thought I did well, did you?'
'When your time as Mayor is over I can see a great future for you in the consultancy game. As a matter of fact we bumped into a local consultant when we down there last time. Bet she could do with an assistant. Now what was her name ...? She seemed to be quite well connected.'
'Yes, well my time as Mayor has a while yet to run, so there's no need to dwell on that now,' said Pangloss.
'Ok, well is everything ready for our big presentation next week? You've booked the hotel, I take it?'
'Oh yes, I requested everything you asked for.'
'Did you remember we want the orange juice with the bits in for breakfast?
'Yes.'
'And Kellogg's Fruit and Fibre. Not some random supermarket own brand.'
'Yes.'
'And no cardboard cut-outs in the hotel?'
'Yes, I've put you in a different hotel; do you mind me asking what the big idea is for the presentation?'
'Why, of course I don't mind, old boy,' said Toby.
'Well?'
'Well what?'
'Well what's the idea?'
'Oh, we haven't come up with that yet.'
'But you said ...'
'I said I didn't mind you asking. Which I don't. Look, it might surprise you but our modus operandi is often fairly lastminute.com, if you get my drift. Enables us to lick our finger, stick it up and see which way the wind's blowing, as it were. In this game you never know when you're going to have to switch horses mid-race, and if you show your hand too soon you've had your chips. If we leave things to the very last minute, however, we can react like lightning - we'll probably finalise it on the train coming down. Anyway, I think we've decided on which number will be at the bottom of the next invoice.'
'How can you do that, if you haven't thought of what the idea is? Surely the work you do and the cost are related?'
'Oh, now you've gone and spoilt it, said Toby. There was me thinking we'd make a consultant of you, and then you come out with something like that. Tish, tish. Dr Pangloss, tish tish. One minute I was thinking you could run a busy little consultancy firm, but now - he paused, searching for the right phrase; ah yes, but now methinks you couldn't run a greasy pole up a cow's arse.'
'Why's that then?'
'Because there is absolutely no connection between a consultant's work and the figure on his bill. Everyone knows that. You can't quantify what a consultant does. Did people pay Uri Geller per 'every spoon successfully bent'? Of course they didn't. He was paid to turn up and fill up a bit of TV time. Remember when he said he'd stopped Big Ben, just after it had stopped?' Remember when he said he had moved the ball off the penalty spot in that Scotland game, just after the ball had moved off the penalty spot? Marvellous. What you can do with a gullible audience, eh?
'Yes, but didn't everyone know that Uri Geller was a fake?'
'Everyone except that football team that went down the toilet, apparently. Now what were they called? Oh, it doesn't matter. Anyway, we're just like Uri. We'll come in, spout some rubbish, arse about with some graphics, get the bloody job done and get out.'
'But you said you'd finish it on the train. How can you prepare graphics on the train?'
'We can't -we'll just bring a selection: Cape Town, Dubai, Monte Carlo, then we'll just work them into the presentation. Probably won't actually need any of Westphalia-on-Sea, come to think of it. Anyway must dash - see you next week.'
Pangloss was snoozing in his chair in his office at the Town Hall when the phone woke him. He didn't usually nap at work, but last night he had slept fitfully after a nightmare, and had woken feeling decidedly unrefreshed. In the dream he was being chased along the seafront by three large palm trees with particularly sharp fronds. He had only escaped by rushing into a newly built casino. 'Hello, Dr Pangloss here' he said groggily into the mouthpiece.
'Pangloss, it's Toby from Complete C-'
'I know who you work for,' interrupted Pangloss. 'What do you want?'
'I just wanted to congratulate you on your 'final solution' and the discord it provoked.' replied Toby.
'You do?' Said Pangloss. I was beginning to regret it now that Mr Twist from the Hotels' Association has publicly disagreed with me.'
'Nonsense, conflict is brilliant. Takes everybody's mind off the last daft story. By this time next week nobody will remember that we were going to change 'Cote de Westphalia' to just 'Phalia'.'
'Do you think so?'
'I know so. Who did you say this Twist character was, anyway?'
'Director of the Hotels' Association.'
'Director? Director? I bet he couldn't direct piss into a bucket,' said Toby.
'Oh, that's a bit harsh, began Pangloss. With all the toilets being closed for so long he's probably had a bit of practice. I'm sure that with something with a fairly wide rim ...'
'It's a just a figure of speech, interrupted Toby, rather exasperated.
'Oh, I see. So you thought I did well, did you?'
'When your time as Mayor is over I can see a great future for you in the consultancy game. As a matter of fact we bumped into a local consultant when we down there last time. Bet she could do with an assistant. Now what was her name ...? She seemed to be quite well connected.'
'Yes, well my time as Mayor has a while yet to run, so there's no need to dwell on that now,' said Pangloss.
'Ok, well is everything ready for our big presentation next week? You've booked the hotel, I take it?'
'Oh yes, I requested everything you asked for.'
'Did you remember we want the orange juice with the bits in for breakfast?
'Yes.'
'And Kellogg's Fruit and Fibre. Not some random supermarket own brand.'
'Yes.'
'And no cardboard cut-outs in the hotel?'
'Yes, I've put you in a different hotel; do you mind me asking what the big idea is for the presentation?'
'Why, of course I don't mind, old boy,' said Toby.
'Well?'
'Well what?'
'Well what's the idea?'
'Oh, we haven't come up with that yet.'
'But you said ...'
'I said I didn't mind you asking. Which I don't. Look, it might surprise you but our modus operandi is often fairly lastminute.com, if you get my drift. Enables us to lick our finger, stick it up and see which way the wind's blowing, as it were. In this game you never know when you're going to have to switch horses mid-race, and if you show your hand too soon you've had your chips. If we leave things to the very last minute, however, we can react like lightning - we'll probably finalise it on the train coming down. Anyway, I think we've decided on which number will be at the bottom of the next invoice.'
'How can you do that, if you haven't thought of what the idea is? Surely the work you do and the cost are related?'
'Oh, now you've gone and spoilt it, said Toby. There was me thinking we'd make a consultant of you, and then you come out with something like that. Tish, tish. Dr Pangloss, tish tish. One minute I was thinking you could run a busy little consultancy firm, but now - he paused, searching for the right phrase; ah yes, but now methinks you couldn't run a greasy pole up a cow's arse.'
'Why's that then?'
'Because there is absolutely no connection between a consultant's work and the figure on his bill. Everyone knows that. You can't quantify what a consultant does. Did people pay Uri Geller per 'every spoon successfully bent'? Of course they didn't. He was paid to turn up and fill up a bit of TV time. Remember when he said he'd stopped Big Ben, just after it had stopped?' Remember when he said he had moved the ball off the penalty spot in that Scotland game, just after the ball had moved off the penalty spot? Marvellous. What you can do with a gullible audience, eh?
'Yes, but didn't everyone know that Uri Geller was a fake?'
'Everyone except that football team that went down the toilet, apparently. Now what were they called? Oh, it doesn't matter. Anyway, we're just like Uri. We'll come in, spout some rubbish, arse about with some graphics, get the bloody job done and get out.'
'But you said you'd finish it on the train. How can you prepare graphics on the train?'
'We can't -we'll just bring a selection: Cape Town, Dubai, Monte Carlo, then we'll just work them into the presentation. Probably won't actually need any of Westphalia-on-Sea, come to think of it. Anyway must dash - see you next week.'
Chapter 12 In which Pangloss hatches a plan for socio-economic cleansing
Initially having consultants to assist with the running of Westphalia-on-Sea had been a great help to Pangloss, but as he gradually adapted to the system he began to feel rather emasculated. To put it bluntly, he was annoyed with himself for having grown overly dependent on Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. Over breakfast one morning he reminded himself that he was (a) the Mayor,and (b) an ideas man, and that although 26 big ideas a year might be over-ambitious, he could certainly have one or two from time to time. In search of inspiration he thought back to the time before he had hired the consultants - how was his mind working then? Of course, back then everything he did was intended to attract high-spending high-class visitors; perhaps it was time to cast his net again and try and catch some of those elusive elites? While still not absolutely sure what attracted high-spending high-class visitors, he did know a few things that didn't attract them. One was low-spending low-class visitors - the two simply didn't mix. Another was coachloads of old-age pensioners. What benefit were they exactly to Westphalia-on-Sea? All they did was clog up the roads. They had no money. You were lucky if they bought a couple of postcards and a bloody teatowel, and they were all in bed by nine o'clock.
'Chairman Miaow, I think it's time we made a list, Pangloss announced to his feline companion, of all the undesirable social groups that we need to eliminate from Westphalia-on-Sea if I am to achieve my goal of a new order of elite rebranded free-market trickle-down wealth-delivering tourist economy fit for the twenty-first century.'
From his extensive knowledge of current affairs Pangloss knew that the phrase 'ethnic cleansing' usually attracted a fair bit of bad press for the perpetrators, and he was pretty sure even a firm of top-drawer consultants would have trouble putting a positive spin on that kind of provocative language. No, what he had in mind was a much more media-friendly policy which he would call 'socio-economic cleansing'.
He took out a notepad. Right, who'll be first? he thought. That's easy, those low-lifes ... now what did everyone call them? Oh yes, Chavs. He wrote it at the top of a new page. Hmm, better jot down a few reasons as well, I suppose, just in case I have to justify my new strategy. He put the pencil back on the page, but his mind had temporarily gone blank. He chewed the end of the pencil and looked at Chairman Miaow for inspiration. The cat looked back at him, then closed its eyes. Oh, I'll come back to that, thought Pangloss. He knew there was a very good reason why he didn't want Chavs running around Westphalia-on-Sea, but he couldn't quite put it into words at this very moment. Next category; stag and hen parties. Yes, no question about that. All those hideous women pushing some woefully under-dressed girl around in a shopping trolley with 'L' plates on it. Hang on, wouldn't they come under 'Chavs' anyway? What about stag parties? They often had a bit of a rugby/city boy feel, so they weren't Chavs. A lot were probably middle class. Some might even be upper-class. Blimey, thought Pangloss, this is more difficult than I'd first thought. Young farmers? - middle class? Hmm, depended how much land their parents (the old farmers) had, he supposed.
Pangloss began to wonder if a Venn diagram would be a better way of getting his thoughts down on paper, instead of writing in it all down in a list. He began to sketch it out - first two intersecting circles representing Chavs and pre-wedding parties. He wrote hen parties where they overlapped. Now we're getting somewhere, he thought. He added a third circle. Young farmers who came from very small farms joined the hen parties in the 'very undesirable' section, farmers from bigger farms stayed outside the overlapping area, like the stag parties full of rugger boys, who still seemed to be welcome. Wait a minute, thought Pangloss. There are some Chavs there who are still in the 'OK' section; that can't be right. And where are the old people going to go? How many circles should a Venn diagram have anyway? He drew a new diagram with another two intersecting circles. In one circle he wrote 'old people', and in the other he wrote 'coaches', so the bit in the middle was old people on coaches - they were a definite no-no. Pangloss could feel a migrain coming on. He looked at all the scribbling before him, then sighed, ripped the page from the notebook and screwed it up. Christ, this isn't as easy as looks, he thought.
Then he wondered if a two-tier system would work. Chavs, old people on coaches, young farmers from small farms and hen parties in the winter, and rich people, middle-class stag parties and wealthier young farmers in the summer. No, this was getting far too complicated, an organisational nightmare. It was time to be bold. Time to go out on a limb. No time to pussyfoot around. He glanced at the cat and smiled to himself. He had a mandate from 7% of the electorate, so he wasn't going shy away from making big decisions - he owed it to the people of Westphalia-on-Sea. He phoned the Town Hall and was put through to the Highways Department.
'Yes, this is Dr Pangloss,' he said, putting on his most impresive tone of voice. 'I want new signs made up for every entry road into the town, and this is what they should say: No Chavs, no old people on coaches, no stag or hen parties and no young farmers. Westphalia-on-Sea extends a warm welcome to the very wealthy. I'd like them in place by the end of next week. What's that? No, of course I don't want any bloody palm trees on the sign. Thank you and goodbye.' Then, flushed with the adrenaline of decision-making, Pangloss redialed, and told the editor of the Westphalia Express what he had done.
'Hmm, where do think they'll all go if they don't come here?' asked the editor.
'I really don't care, said Pangloss. Why don't we send them all the train times to some dreadful holiday camp up North?'
'Is that your final solution?' asked the editor.
'It most certainly is,' replied Pangloss. 'I want to see a completely new breed of people here - tanned, beautiful, cultured, and with a few quid in their pocket.'
'Chairman Miaow, I think it's time we made a list, Pangloss announced to his feline companion, of all the undesirable social groups that we need to eliminate from Westphalia-on-Sea if I am to achieve my goal of a new order of elite rebranded free-market trickle-down wealth-delivering tourist economy fit for the twenty-first century.'
From his extensive knowledge of current affairs Pangloss knew that the phrase 'ethnic cleansing' usually attracted a fair bit of bad press for the perpetrators, and he was pretty sure even a firm of top-drawer consultants would have trouble putting a positive spin on that kind of provocative language. No, what he had in mind was a much more media-friendly policy which he would call 'socio-economic cleansing'.
He took out a notepad. Right, who'll be first? he thought. That's easy, those low-lifes ... now what did everyone call them? Oh yes, Chavs. He wrote it at the top of a new page. Hmm, better jot down a few reasons as well, I suppose, just in case I have to justify my new strategy. He put the pencil back on the page, but his mind had temporarily gone blank. He chewed the end of the pencil and looked at Chairman Miaow for inspiration. The cat looked back at him, then closed its eyes. Oh, I'll come back to that, thought Pangloss. He knew there was a very good reason why he didn't want Chavs running around Westphalia-on-Sea, but he couldn't quite put it into words at this very moment. Next category; stag and hen parties. Yes, no question about that. All those hideous women pushing some woefully under-dressed girl around in a shopping trolley with 'L' plates on it. Hang on, wouldn't they come under 'Chavs' anyway? What about stag parties? They often had a bit of a rugby/city boy feel, so they weren't Chavs. A lot were probably middle class. Some might even be upper-class. Blimey, thought Pangloss, this is more difficult than I'd first thought. Young farmers? - middle class? Hmm, depended how much land their parents (the old farmers) had, he supposed.
Pangloss began to wonder if a Venn diagram would be a better way of getting his thoughts down on paper, instead of writing in it all down in a list. He began to sketch it out - first two intersecting circles representing Chavs and pre-wedding parties. He wrote hen parties where they overlapped. Now we're getting somewhere, he thought. He added a third circle. Young farmers who came from very small farms joined the hen parties in the 'very undesirable' section, farmers from bigger farms stayed outside the overlapping area, like the stag parties full of rugger boys, who still seemed to be welcome. Wait a minute, thought Pangloss. There are some Chavs there who are still in the 'OK' section; that can't be right. And where are the old people going to go? How many circles should a Venn diagram have anyway? He drew a new diagram with another two intersecting circles. In one circle he wrote 'old people', and in the other he wrote 'coaches', so the bit in the middle was old people on coaches - they were a definite no-no. Pangloss could feel a migrain coming on. He looked at all the scribbling before him, then sighed, ripped the page from the notebook and screwed it up. Christ, this isn't as easy as looks, he thought.
Then he wondered if a two-tier system would work. Chavs, old people on coaches, young farmers from small farms and hen parties in the winter, and rich people, middle-class stag parties and wealthier young farmers in the summer. No, this was getting far too complicated, an organisational nightmare. It was time to be bold. Time to go out on a limb. No time to pussyfoot around. He glanced at the cat and smiled to himself. He had a mandate from 7% of the electorate, so he wasn't going shy away from making big decisions - he owed it to the people of Westphalia-on-Sea. He phoned the Town Hall and was put through to the Highways Department.
'Yes, this is Dr Pangloss,' he said, putting on his most impresive tone of voice. 'I want new signs made up for every entry road into the town, and this is what they should say: No Chavs, no old people on coaches, no stag or hen parties and no young farmers. Westphalia-on-Sea extends a warm welcome to the very wealthy. I'd like them in place by the end of next week. What's that? No, of course I don't want any bloody palm trees on the sign. Thank you and goodbye.' Then, flushed with the adrenaline of decision-making, Pangloss redialed, and told the editor of the Westphalia Express what he had done.
'Hmm, where do think they'll all go if they don't come here?' asked the editor.
'I really don't care, said Pangloss. Why don't we send them all the train times to some dreadful holiday camp up North?'
'Is that your final solution?' asked the editor.
'It most certainly is,' replied Pangloss. 'I want to see a completely new breed of people here - tanned, beautiful, cultured, and with a few quid in their pocket.'
Chapter 11 In which Pangloss wholeheartedly supports the by-pass
Pangloss was in his office at the town hall, telephone receiver wedged between neck and shoulder as he spoke to Toby from Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions while flicking through the pages of the Westphalia Express.
'Well Toby, said Pangloss, judging by the the letters in today's Westphalia Express, your name-changing idea hasn't really bolstered my popularity among the locals.'
'The locals? The locals? sneered Toby. Who gives a flying fuck what they think? Anyway, in two weeks' time this name-change idea will be history. But in the meantime if they still question the wisdom of it you might like to point out that it wasn't so long ago that our great capital was at the arse-end of nowhere and going by the name of Londinium. Now look - rebranded as London, it's the bloody financial powerhouse of the western world. I'll give you another example: Siam. One minute it's all Yul Brynner and singing children, the next they've changed the name to Thailand and it's the sex-tourism capital of the world.'
'Yes, pondered Pangloss. I suppose those are pretty compelling arguments. Anyway, looking beyond that, do you have any new strategy initiatives for me?'
'Well, not new exactly, but we've found an issue that you're not really exploiting enough.'
'Oh really? What's that?'
'Well apparently a by-pass has been the subject of much discussion for as long as most locals can remember.'
'That's right, said Pangloss. Around the village of Dibley. I've said I'm in favour of it - was that the right thing to do?'
'Oh, absolutely right, said Toby. Apparently it will cost about £130 million and plough through swathes of green fields, so there's not much chance of it being built any time soon.'
'Oh, that is a shame.'
'On the contrary, it's a massive benefit to you; cause and effect, Dr Pangloss, cause and effect. Look, you need to point out that for all of your big ideas to be successful this road simply must be built. The effect caused by not having a new by-pass will be no success. If you stand for anything, you stand for this: a vague notion of success at some unspecified time in the future. You can now legitimately use the lack of a by-pass as the reason why everything is still utterly crap, even though you are now in charge, and have been for the last two years. And you can go on promising that everything will be fantastic as soon as the by-pass is built.'
'I see. So the by-pass is the sort of thing I can talk about from time to time when I haven't got a new big idea to unveil?'
'Now you're catching on, Dr Pangloss. Of course, the only danger will come if the road does actually look like it will get built, at which point you will have to strenuously oppose its contruction.'
'I will? Why?'
'Oh, please try to use 'ze leetle grey cells' for me on this one, Dr Pangloss. You will oppose it because it involves tarmacking over a load of fields and upsetting most of Dibley just to move a traffic jam five miles down the road. And don't you remember your party's new slogan - 'Vote blue, go green'?'
'Well, yes, I've heard the slogan, and I've seen the new tree logo. Your company didn't do that bit of rebranding, did it?'
'No, I think that was done by class 5B at All Saints Primary. Sorry, I'm joking. Just a little bitter - we'd have loved to have had a piece of that action - licence to print money. Anyway, we're losing our focus here, the point is David Cameron is green, he goes everywhere on a bike and he's got a wind turbine on the roof of his house.'
'But doesn't his briefcase travel around in a chauffeur-driven car?' asked Pangloss.
'Well, yes, but that's not the point. The point is that if there is an election on the horizon David Cameron won't want you and your bloody by-pass causing a green revolt. You've got to remember that the Dibley pensioners haven't got anything to do all day, and they love a bit of publicity. Before you know where you are they'll be boycotting Gardeners' Question Time and The Archers, and threatening to pay their council tax in old thrupenny bits they've been saving in a tin under the bed.'
'I see; so I support the by-pass now, then campaign against it as soon as there's a chance it may be built. Hmm, I just feel a bit of a fraud, you know, contemplating changing my opinion like that, just to suit my own political situation.'
'Now don't you worry about that Dr Pangloss, said Toby, reassuringly. There are plenty of politicians out there who are very happy to change their opinions at the drop of hat if they think it will benefit them. Why, I've known people start out as Liberals, change to Conservative and then bang on about being an Independent when it suits them.' They're a right bloomin' shower, an' no mistake (Toby often slipped into a faux cockney accent when the mood took him). Anyway, changing your mind about the by-pass is a long time in the future, so don't you lose any sleep over it. Goodbye Dr Pangloss.'
'Well Toby, said Pangloss, judging by the the letters in today's Westphalia Express, your name-changing idea hasn't really bolstered my popularity among the locals.'
'The locals? The locals? sneered Toby. Who gives a flying fuck what they think? Anyway, in two weeks' time this name-change idea will be history. But in the meantime if they still question the wisdom of it you might like to point out that it wasn't so long ago that our great capital was at the arse-end of nowhere and going by the name of Londinium. Now look - rebranded as London, it's the bloody financial powerhouse of the western world. I'll give you another example: Siam. One minute it's all Yul Brynner and singing children, the next they've changed the name to Thailand and it's the sex-tourism capital of the world.'
'Yes, pondered Pangloss. I suppose those are pretty compelling arguments. Anyway, looking beyond that, do you have any new strategy initiatives for me?'
'Well, not new exactly, but we've found an issue that you're not really exploiting enough.'
'Oh really? What's that?'
'Well apparently a by-pass has been the subject of much discussion for as long as most locals can remember.'
'That's right, said Pangloss. Around the village of Dibley. I've said I'm in favour of it - was that the right thing to do?'
'Oh, absolutely right, said Toby. Apparently it will cost about £130 million and plough through swathes of green fields, so there's not much chance of it being built any time soon.'
'Oh, that is a shame.'
'On the contrary, it's a massive benefit to you; cause and effect, Dr Pangloss, cause and effect. Look, you need to point out that for all of your big ideas to be successful this road simply must be built. The effect caused by not having a new by-pass will be no success. If you stand for anything, you stand for this: a vague notion of success at some unspecified time in the future. You can now legitimately use the lack of a by-pass as the reason why everything is still utterly crap, even though you are now in charge, and have been for the last two years. And you can go on promising that everything will be fantastic as soon as the by-pass is built.'
'I see. So the by-pass is the sort of thing I can talk about from time to time when I haven't got a new big idea to unveil?'
'Now you're catching on, Dr Pangloss. Of course, the only danger will come if the road does actually look like it will get built, at which point you will have to strenuously oppose its contruction.'
'I will? Why?'
'Oh, please try to use 'ze leetle grey cells' for me on this one, Dr Pangloss. You will oppose it because it involves tarmacking over a load of fields and upsetting most of Dibley just to move a traffic jam five miles down the road. And don't you remember your party's new slogan - 'Vote blue, go green'?'
'Well, yes, I've heard the slogan, and I've seen the new tree logo. Your company didn't do that bit of rebranding, did it?'
'No, I think that was done by class 5B at All Saints Primary. Sorry, I'm joking. Just a little bitter - we'd have loved to have had a piece of that action - licence to print money. Anyway, we're losing our focus here, the point is David Cameron is green, he goes everywhere on a bike and he's got a wind turbine on the roof of his house.'
'But doesn't his briefcase travel around in a chauffeur-driven car?' asked Pangloss.
'Well, yes, but that's not the point. The point is that if there is an election on the horizon David Cameron won't want you and your bloody by-pass causing a green revolt. You've got to remember that the Dibley pensioners haven't got anything to do all day, and they love a bit of publicity. Before you know where you are they'll be boycotting Gardeners' Question Time and The Archers, and threatening to pay their council tax in old thrupenny bits they've been saving in a tin under the bed.'
'I see; so I support the by-pass now, then campaign against it as soon as there's a chance it may be built. Hmm, I just feel a bit of a fraud, you know, contemplating changing my opinion like that, just to suit my own political situation.'
'Now don't you worry about that Dr Pangloss, said Toby, reassuringly. There are plenty of politicians out there who are very happy to change their opinions at the drop of hat if they think it will benefit them. Why, I've known people start out as Liberals, change to Conservative and then bang on about being an Independent when it suits them.' They're a right bloomin' shower, an' no mistake (Toby often slipped into a faux cockney accent when the mood took him). Anyway, changing your mind about the by-pass is a long time in the future, so don't you lose any sleep over it. Goodbye Dr Pangloss.'
Chapter 10 In which Pangloss gets the consultants' first bill
At the end of the meeting when the councillors and business leaders had all gone Pangloss went up to Derek Poundsign.
'I can't believe we just got away with that, said Pangloss.
'Then I'm afraid you have a lot to learn about presentations by consultants, replied Poundsign. Oh, by the way, when we checked into that hotel by the station I didn't have a sea view, so I went down to reception to complain. I was remonstrating with the manager for a good two minutes before I realised that I didn't have my glasses and I was talking to a life-size cardboard cut-out. What's that all about?'
'Hmm, yes, I've seen that, but I'm not really sure as to its purpose,' replied Pangloss.
'Well, I think you need to have a word in the guy's shell-like, and get him to remove it, otherwise the town is going to get a reputation for eccentric hotel managers. Once your town's got a reputation like that it's very difficult to get rid of.'
'OK, I'll bring it up when I next see him. Now what's your next presentation going to be on?'
'Oh, that'll be on the computer, said Derek. On Powerpoint.'
'No, I mean what will next idea be - what subject will it be on?' added Pangloss.
'Oh you don't need to worry about that. We'll dot the i's and cross the t's later. All you need to know is that the presentation will be flash. We might use a laser pointer. Do you know what that is? It's a great bit of kit. Say something stupid and people will laugh in your face. Write the same thing down , transfer it to a screen and point at it with a laser beam and people will believe it's one of the Ten Commandments. That's what I love about new technology - it has made our job so much easier. Making bullshit believable is so much easier with new technology.'
'Oh well, if you say so.'
'Oh, I do say so, Dr Pangloss, I do say so. By the way, here's the first installment of our bill.' said Derek, handing Pangloss an envelope.
Pangloss wasn't entirely sure what a heart attack felt like, but he was fairly sure he was in the early stages of one when he unfolded the bill from Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. It said £10,000.
'My God, what did they actually do for that?' thought Pangloss. He suspected the answer was very little, so he tried not to think about it too much. Oh well, he thought, there must be about 100, 000 people in Westpahlia-on-Sea, so spending ten grand of their money is just the same as asking everybody for 10p. Hmm, when you thought about it like that it wasn't much at all. Pangloss quickly resolved to consider all his future spending (particularly that going on consultants) in these terms, for the sake of his heart, if nothing else.
'I can't believe we just got away with that, said Pangloss.
'Then I'm afraid you have a lot to learn about presentations by consultants, replied Poundsign. Oh, by the way, when we checked into that hotel by the station I didn't have a sea view, so I went down to reception to complain. I was remonstrating with the manager for a good two minutes before I realised that I didn't have my glasses and I was talking to a life-size cardboard cut-out. What's that all about?'
'Hmm, yes, I've seen that, but I'm not really sure as to its purpose,' replied Pangloss.
'Well, I think you need to have a word in the guy's shell-like, and get him to remove it, otherwise the town is going to get a reputation for eccentric hotel managers. Once your town's got a reputation like that it's very difficult to get rid of.'
'OK, I'll bring it up when I next see him. Now what's your next presentation going to be on?'
'Oh, that'll be on the computer, said Derek. On Powerpoint.'
'No, I mean what will next idea be - what subject will it be on?' added Pangloss.
'Oh you don't need to worry about that. We'll dot the i's and cross the t's later. All you need to know is that the presentation will be flash. We might use a laser pointer. Do you know what that is? It's a great bit of kit. Say something stupid and people will laugh in your face. Write the same thing down , transfer it to a screen and point at it with a laser beam and people will believe it's one of the Ten Commandments. That's what I love about new technology - it has made our job so much easier. Making bullshit believable is so much easier with new technology.'
'Oh well, if you say so.'
'Oh, I do say so, Dr Pangloss, I do say so. By the way, here's the first installment of our bill.' said Derek, handing Pangloss an envelope.
Pangloss wasn't entirely sure what a heart attack felt like, but he was fairly sure he was in the early stages of one when he unfolded the bill from Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. It said £10,000.
'My God, what did they actually do for that?' thought Pangloss. He suspected the answer was very little, so he tried not to think about it too much. Oh well, he thought, there must be about 100, 000 people in Westpahlia-on-Sea, so spending ten grand of their money is just the same as asking everybody for 10p. Hmm, when you thought about it like that it wasn't much at all. Pangloss quickly resolved to consider all his future spending (particularly that going on consultants) in these terms, for the sake of his heart, if nothing else.
Chapter 9 In which the consultants present the name change idea
Derek Poundsign and his team were slightly late for their meeting at the Town Hall of Westphalia-on-Sea, and Dr Pangloss was getting more than a little anxious as the minutes ticked by. Ever since he had hired the services of Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions he had not bothered to think of any new big ideas himself (what a relief!), and now he was dreading having to face a large audience with nothing to say, so when Derek and the rest of them walked through the door he greeted them like long-lost friends.
'Welcome one and all! Pleasant trip down I trust? said Pangloss, as he began shaking hands and ushering them into his office, all the time trying to exude an air of calm. OK, he said, as soon as the door was closed, we need to get started very soon, so I thought you could just outline some of your ideas to me before we start, just so it looks like I know what's going on.'
'Sure thing, said Phil Muggins. It's very simple: the focus for today is all on the name, and how it needs to be changed.'
'Change the name? asked Pangloss. What, you mean change the name of Westphalia-on-Sea?'
'Oh, God, no, said Phil. That would be crazy. In fact I'd go so far as to say that kind of thinking would be the work of an out and out mentalist. That's care-in-the-community-without-taking-your-medication kind of thinking. No, we're talking about Cote de Westphalia. That's your problem.'
'Cote de Westphalia? What's wrong with that?'
'Far too long, far too French, far too last millennium, added Raza. I could go on, but you said we haven't got long.'
'So what do you propose changing it to?'
'Phalia,' said Raza.
'Hang on, let me get this straight, said Pangloss. I've got a wide cross-section of the community including councillors and business leaders assembled in the room next door ready to hear your ideas, and the first one is just changing the name 'Cote de Westphalia' to 'Phalia'. Is that correct?'
'No,' said Phil.
'Oh, thank God for that, said Pangloss. I knew I must have got the wrong end of the stick. For a moment there I thought ...'
'No, I meant it's not the first idea, said Phil. It's the only idea.'
'Whaaat!? exclaimed Pangloss. I've got reporters in their from the Westphalia Express, and I've
promised them a story, and now you're telling me we're going to present a pointless name change to all those assembled?'
'Present and discuss, added Derek. Look, you're obviously new to consultancy. We'll do most of the talking. Phil's got some pretty convincing arguments on branding, and Raza's brought some charts and some facts and figures. It was always going to be a high-risk strategy trying to make crap ideas look good initially, but we're confident we can string this drivel out for an hour or two. Just follow our lead, and say something like 'it seems a contradiction to put Cote de West in front of Phalia, because everyone knows it's on the coast and knows it's in the West. Say that we need to concentrate on what makes the place different or special, and then say that we need a strong brand to promote Phalia and not just tourism. Trust me - Phalia will be a success. Now let's get in there and kick some ass.'
'Welcome one and all! Pleasant trip down I trust? said Pangloss, as he began shaking hands and ushering them into his office, all the time trying to exude an air of calm. OK, he said, as soon as the door was closed, we need to get started very soon, so I thought you could just outline some of your ideas to me before we start, just so it looks like I know what's going on.'
'Sure thing, said Phil Muggins. It's very simple: the focus for today is all on the name, and how it needs to be changed.'
'Change the name? asked Pangloss. What, you mean change the name of Westphalia-on-Sea?'
'Oh, God, no, said Phil. That would be crazy. In fact I'd go so far as to say that kind of thinking would be the work of an out and out mentalist. That's care-in-the-community-without-taking-your-medication kind of thinking. No, we're talking about Cote de Westphalia. That's your problem.'
'Cote de Westphalia? What's wrong with that?'
'Far too long, far too French, far too last millennium, added Raza. I could go on, but you said we haven't got long.'
'So what do you propose changing it to?'
'Phalia,' said Raza.
'Hang on, let me get this straight, said Pangloss. I've got a wide cross-section of the community including councillors and business leaders assembled in the room next door ready to hear your ideas, and the first one is just changing the name 'Cote de Westphalia' to 'Phalia'. Is that correct?'
'No,' said Phil.
'Oh, thank God for that, said Pangloss. I knew I must have got the wrong end of the stick. For a moment there I thought ...'
'No, I meant it's not the first idea, said Phil. It's the only idea.'
'Whaaat!? exclaimed Pangloss. I've got reporters in their from the Westphalia Express, and I've
promised them a story, and now you're telling me we're going to present a pointless name change to all those assembled?'
'Present and discuss, added Derek. Look, you're obviously new to consultancy. We'll do most of the talking. Phil's got some pretty convincing arguments on branding, and Raza's brought some charts and some facts and figures. It was always going to be a high-risk strategy trying to make crap ideas look good initially, but we're confident we can string this drivel out for an hour or two. Just follow our lead, and say something like 'it seems a contradiction to put Cote de West in front of Phalia, because everyone knows it's on the coast and knows it's in the West. Say that we need to concentrate on what makes the place different or special, and then say that we need a strong brand to promote Phalia and not just tourism. Trust me - Phalia will be a success. Now let's get in there and kick some ass.'
Chapter 8 In which we eavesdrop on a consultancy meeting
Derek Poundsign called his team of consultants into the meeting room of Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions to brief them on their new client and his requirements.
'OK, we've got a potentially very lucrative client on the line, so I want one of you to give this at least an hour of your time next week.'
A collective groan went around the room. 'Before you all start, I should say that there's an all expenses-paid weekend jolly down on the Cote de Westphalia in it for us. Now who wants to take it on?'
Raza Sharp broke the silence. 'What exactly do they want?'
'It's more a 'he' than they. As I understand it the Mayor down there is playing personality politics but his flow of dynamic initiatives for the press is in danger of drying up. He needs us to come up with a few headline-grabbing turkeys just to take the heat off him. We need to kick start things for him at a meeting with the council.'
'Why don't we start with the old rebranding trick? - that's always a pretty safe bet, suggested Raza.
'That's OK for most firms, but a town? Changing a logo's one thing, but we can't exactly suggest a change of name, can we?
'Why not? said Toby Throgmorton. It worked for Casterbridge, didn't it? That's Dorchester now.'
'No. It never was Casterbridge. That was just in a book. It was a fictitious town based on Dorchester - The Mayor of Bloody Casterbridge,' said Raza.
'Oh yeah, Oliver Hardy. I remember now.'
'Whatever. Anyway we're getting off the point, said Derek. But look, it might just work; this guy sounded pretty desperate.'
'Where's he the mayor of, then?'
'Westphalia-on-Sea. You know, on the Cote de Westphalia.'
'Well, that's it then, said Raza. Cote de Westphalia, that's five syllables - we tell them that's too much of a mouthful. Needs to be shortened to Phalia. 'Cote de' is much too French, and 'West' is superfluous - we all know it's in the West. Phalia is snappy, two syllables, streamlined, much more 21st century. Think of some words to combine it with. Off the top of my head, the town centre could be renamed 'Heart Phalia', the trading estate could be 'Business Phalia' and they could have a new wind farm called 'Power Phalia'. Who'd book a holiday to somewhere with 5 syllables in the name? Toby, make up some stats showing people are more likely to go to places with two syllables in the name. Let's have pie charts and bar charts, but I want them in pastel shades - no primary colours - we're not bloody amateurs.'
'Right you are.'
'Hold on, hold on, said Phil Muggins, who up to now had been silent. You're all going way too fast. This project has got 'slowburn' written all over it. We don't want to go in all bells and whistles right at the first meeting - we'll just create more work for ourselves in the long run. I say we go with Raza's name change idea, but do it very low tech. Let's start with a brainstorming session, get a bit touchy-feely with them and ask them for their opinions. Then we feed in the the new name, give them the old line about the danger of a weak brand, how you're percieved in the market, a few more supporting arguments, etc. and leave the mayor to sell it to the rest of the council. We give him our first invoice for something reasonable, say 10K, and head off for happy hour at the hotel bar, and leave him to deal with with the shitstorm over the daft name change idea.'
'I like the way you're thinking, Phil, said Derek. You've got your finger on the pulse as usual. That gives us at least four weeks before we have to come up with something more substantial. That's agreed then; rebranding bullshit for the first meeting, and then the next time we're down there we'll up the ante and put together some kind of powerpoint presentation.'
'OK, we've got a potentially very lucrative client on the line, so I want one of you to give this at least an hour of your time next week.'
A collective groan went around the room. 'Before you all start, I should say that there's an all expenses-paid weekend jolly down on the Cote de Westphalia in it for us. Now who wants to take it on?'
Raza Sharp broke the silence. 'What exactly do they want?'
'It's more a 'he' than they. As I understand it the Mayor down there is playing personality politics but his flow of dynamic initiatives for the press is in danger of drying up. He needs us to come up with a few headline-grabbing turkeys just to take the heat off him. We need to kick start things for him at a meeting with the council.'
'Why don't we start with the old rebranding trick? - that's always a pretty safe bet, suggested Raza.
'That's OK for most firms, but a town? Changing a logo's one thing, but we can't exactly suggest a change of name, can we?
'Why not? said Toby Throgmorton. It worked for Casterbridge, didn't it? That's Dorchester now.'
'No. It never was Casterbridge. That was just in a book. It was a fictitious town based on Dorchester - The Mayor of Bloody Casterbridge,' said Raza.
'Oh yeah, Oliver Hardy. I remember now.'
'Whatever. Anyway we're getting off the point, said Derek. But look, it might just work; this guy sounded pretty desperate.'
'Where's he the mayor of, then?'
'Westphalia-on-Sea. You know, on the Cote de Westphalia.'
'Well, that's it then, said Raza. Cote de Westphalia, that's five syllables - we tell them that's too much of a mouthful. Needs to be shortened to Phalia. 'Cote de' is much too French, and 'West' is superfluous - we all know it's in the West. Phalia is snappy, two syllables, streamlined, much more 21st century. Think of some words to combine it with. Off the top of my head, the town centre could be renamed 'Heart Phalia', the trading estate could be 'Business Phalia' and they could have a new wind farm called 'Power Phalia'. Who'd book a holiday to somewhere with 5 syllables in the name? Toby, make up some stats showing people are more likely to go to places with two syllables in the name. Let's have pie charts and bar charts, but I want them in pastel shades - no primary colours - we're not bloody amateurs.'
'Right you are.'
'Hold on, hold on, said Phil Muggins, who up to now had been silent. You're all going way too fast. This project has got 'slowburn' written all over it. We don't want to go in all bells and whistles right at the first meeting - we'll just create more work for ourselves in the long run. I say we go with Raza's name change idea, but do it very low tech. Let's start with a brainstorming session, get a bit touchy-feely with them and ask them for their opinions. Then we feed in the the new name, give them the old line about the danger of a weak brand, how you're percieved in the market, a few more supporting arguments, etc. and leave the mayor to sell it to the rest of the council. We give him our first invoice for something reasonable, say 10K, and head off for happy hour at the hotel bar, and leave him to deal with with the shitstorm over the daft name change idea.'
'I like the way you're thinking, Phil, said Derek. You've got your finger on the pulse as usual. That gives us at least four weeks before we have to come up with something more substantial. That's agreed then; rebranding bullshit for the first meeting, and then the next time we're down there we'll up the ante and put together some kind of powerpoint presentation.'
Chapter 7 In which a firm of consultants is hired
Dr Pangloss liked the word 'consultation' so much he couldn't get it out of his head. He liked it because it sounded important and professional. When he looked it up in the dictionary he liked it even more: 'A discussion between people or groups before they make a decision' it said, and 'a meeting with an expert to get advice'. 'Yes, thought Pangloss, consultation is exactly what is needed in my line of work. Lots of discussions with experts before any decisions can be made, and certainly before any idea can be put into practice. He thought how he might slip it into a conversation: 'What's happening with the casino idea Dr Pangloss? - oh, it's still at the consultation stage.' 'Any news on the high speed ferry, Dr Pangloss? - Yes, we've got a consultation session scheduled for Friday.' What a marvellously ambiguous word! Just then the word 'consultant' caught his eye - 'an expert or a professional person whose job is to give help and advice on a particular subject.' A wry smile began to play on Pangloss's lips, as another idea began to take shape in his brain. He thought about the stress he had felt before old whatsisname came up with the ferry idea. Why should he, Pangloss, shoulder all the responsibility for coming up with the big ideas? He had already come up with lots, but he really needed to have a good idea about once a fortnight. Jesus Christ on a bike! That was twenty-six a year. It was an impossible task. What he needed was a consultant. No, what he needed was a team of consultants. A group of people he could pay to come up with the good ideas. Hmm, that was a point - he'd have to pay them out of the council tax money that the residents of Westphalia had paid for essential services. Oh well, this was an essential service - he simply had to have that supply of big ideas - the office of mayor depended on it. Thinking of it like that eased his conscience. Still, probably best to keep quiet about it for the moment though - let's get the consultants in, get a few good ideas kicking around and then worry about who's doing what and how much they're being paid later. And anyway, it probably wouldn't cost much anyway - how much could ideas be? It's not as if ideas are made of precious metal, or have to be hand-made by skilled craftsmen, or have to be imported from the other side of the world. No, he was sure they wouldn't cost much. Loose change. Probably pay them out of the petty cash.
He flicked through the yellow pages and stopped at consultants. They all had fairly dull names, and he wondered if they would understand his rather special situation. It wasn't as if being a mayor was a very common job, so it was unlikely there would be lots of consultants out there with expertise in the area of improving business prospects and running a town. Then his eye was drawn to a firm called Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. Well, you could have knocked Pangloss down with a feather. These were probably just the people he was looking for. He got on the phone at once. A young lady answered so quickly that Pangloss momentarily forgot why he was calling.
'Oh hello, is that the firm of complete c...'
'Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. The voice at the other end of the line finished his sentence. It is indeed. How can I help?'
'Well, I'd like to speak to a consultant.'
'Let me see, Ms Sharp is with a client, but I think Mr Poundsign is free. I'll put you through.'
Pangloss explained his situation, and asked Mr Poundsign if he thought he'd be able to help.
'Of course we can help,' said Mr Poundsign.
'But do you fully understand the brief? The nature of the ideas I need is very specific; they must be essentially bad ideas that won't work, but presented in such a way to look fantastically exciting, dare I say, cutting edge. Eye catching. Something that could, ... er ..., produce a snappy headline or two.'
'Don't worry Mr Paintbrush, we'll sort you out.'
'It's Pangloss, actually. Dr Pangloss.'
'I do apologize, sir. It's a bad line. Where are you calling from?'
'Westphalia-on-Sea, actually.'
'Ah, the Cote de Westphalia, as I believe it's known. I've spent a few holidays down that way myself. Have they unlocked the toilets yet?'
'Er... yes ... no ... well, some of them. Look do we need to have a meeting or something?'
'Oh I don't think that'll be necessary. I know what you want - some crap ideas dressed up as good ideas.'
'Exactly. Do you think you'll be able to do it?' asked Pangloss.
'We're consultants, Dr Pangloss. It's what we do - our name alone should tell you the kind of people we are. Business and towns - it's our thing. We'll have a bit of a brainstorm, then come down at the end of next week, run a few ideas up your flagpole and see if anyone salutes them. How does that sound?'
'Fine. Shall I book a hotel room?'
'RoomS. Yes. Four doubles, I'll be bringing my team. Always looks better, especially at the beginning. Trust me, you don't want to start cutting corners and looking cheap. Five star, and sea views of course. Make the booking under Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions, but ask them not to abbreviate; we've had that problem before. I'll be in touch. Bye.'
He flicked through the yellow pages and stopped at consultants. They all had fairly dull names, and he wondered if they would understand his rather special situation. It wasn't as if being a mayor was a very common job, so it was unlikely there would be lots of consultants out there with expertise in the area of improving business prospects and running a town. Then his eye was drawn to a firm called Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. Well, you could have knocked Pangloss down with a feather. These were probably just the people he was looking for. He got on the phone at once. A young lady answered so quickly that Pangloss momentarily forgot why he was calling.
'Oh hello, is that the firm of complete c...'
'Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. The voice at the other end of the line finished his sentence. It is indeed. How can I help?'
'Well, I'd like to speak to a consultant.'
'Let me see, Ms Sharp is with a client, but I think Mr Poundsign is free. I'll put you through.'
Pangloss explained his situation, and asked Mr Poundsign if he thought he'd be able to help.
'Of course we can help,' said Mr Poundsign.
'But do you fully understand the brief? The nature of the ideas I need is very specific; they must be essentially bad ideas that won't work, but presented in such a way to look fantastically exciting, dare I say, cutting edge. Eye catching. Something that could, ... er ..., produce a snappy headline or two.'
'Don't worry Mr Paintbrush, we'll sort you out.'
'It's Pangloss, actually. Dr Pangloss.'
'I do apologize, sir. It's a bad line. Where are you calling from?'
'Westphalia-on-Sea, actually.'
'Ah, the Cote de Westphalia, as I believe it's known. I've spent a few holidays down that way myself. Have they unlocked the toilets yet?'
'Er... yes ... no ... well, some of them. Look do we need to have a meeting or something?'
'Oh I don't think that'll be necessary. I know what you want - some crap ideas dressed up as good ideas.'
'Exactly. Do you think you'll be able to do it?' asked Pangloss.
'We're consultants, Dr Pangloss. It's what we do - our name alone should tell you the kind of people we are. Business and towns - it's our thing. We'll have a bit of a brainstorm, then come down at the end of next week, run a few ideas up your flagpole and see if anyone salutes them. How does that sound?'
'Fine. Shall I book a hotel room?'
'RoomS. Yes. Four doubles, I'll be bringing my team. Always looks better, especially at the beginning. Trust me, you don't want to start cutting corners and looking cheap. Five star, and sea views of course. Make the booking under Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions, but ask them not to abbreviate; we've had that problem before. I'll be in touch. Bye.'
Chapter 6 In which a high-speed ferry service comes to the rescue
Dr Pangloss could hardly sleep after his chance meeting with the mystery man from Westphalia United, such was his excitement about the philosophy of cause and effect. 'I must quickly think of another big idea, he thought, otherwise everyone will be expecting me to have a casino built, or create some new jobs somewhere.' His mind was racing. He thought about cutting unnecessary spending at the Town Hall, or making fast food outlets stop handing out polystyrene cartons which filled up the litter bins and ended up in the harbour, but he couldn't see those ideas making much of an impact in the Westphalia Express. When he arrived at work the next morning he was more than a little anxious as he had still not come up with a new big idea, but as it turned out he needn't have worried - help was on its way, albeit from a very unlikely source. The boss of the biggest bus company in the country was on his way to see him, to discuss (can you believe it readers?) a very big idea of his own. However, before I divulge the nature of this idea a little background information is necessary.
Westphalia-on-Sea was one of three towns situated on a bay. Eastphalia was next to Westphalia-on-Sea, and at the further end of the bay was the picturesque town of Fishhole, which, as the name suggested, relied on fishing for much of its income. Ever since Victorian times the area had been known as the Cote de Westphalia, because it looked a bit like a place in France called the Cote d'Azur. It was only about nine miles to drive around the coast to Fishhole from Westphalia-on-Sea, but in summer many tourists preferred to make the journey by ferry boat - it only took half an hour across the bay, and gave everyone the chance to appreciate this beautiful stretch of coastline from the sea. Once in Fishhole they could stroll around the harbour, have a crab sandwich and then take the ferry boat back again. Over the years fashions and governments came and went, but the leisurely ferry boat service had remained largely unchanged, apparently stubbornly resistant to progress. That was, of course, until now. Apparently the aforementioned boss of the bus company planned to install a high-speed ferry service from Westphalia-on-Sea to Fishhole. The words 'high-speed' leapt off the page at Pangloss. This was it. Manna from heaven. If this didn't have 'the-next-big-idea-that-was-never-going-to-happen' written all over it then he was a Dutchman. He could see the front page now: the sleek lines of a large top-of-the-range modern white ferry with his face in a little inset in the top right corner, just below the words HIGH SPEED FERRY. Maybe it could be juxtaposed with a photo of the sad old tub that took the visitors to Fishhole at the moment. He would discuss it with the editor. God, he was good at this. Was it his imagination, or were his bowels loosening ever so slightly at the excitement of it all? Pangloss got on the phone and set up the meeting with old bigwig whatsisname from the bus company. After barely 30 minutes he was saying goodbye and heading back to his desk to formulate a press release. 'Hmm, mustn't give the impression that this is actually going to happen,' he thought. He jotted down a few key phrases he thought he could use: '... proposed some interesting ideas ... must stress ... everything in early stages ... all subject to extensive consultation.' Then he read them back to himself. Great, he thought. I particularly like that word 'consultation', and the text says it all: not - going - to - happen.
As soon as the story appeared in the paper a few Westphalians were suckered into think the plan was a real one, and began pointing out its glaringly obvious flaws. The main one, of course, was that no-one really wanted to travel at high speed to or from Fishhole, because the enjoyment was in the leisurely trip across the bay, not in reaching the destination at top speed. Someone also pointed out that travelling at high speed would mean the only thing you were likely to see was spray. There were also questions about running such a service in bad weather, and last but not least, the people who ran the existing ferry service pointed out that it would put them out of business. Frankly it had all worked like a dream. Dr Pangloss closed and folded the newspaper, took his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. His cat, Chairman Miaow, was stretched out on his lap, and stirred slightly as Pangloss tickled him under the chin. 'Do you know, Chairman Miaow, he said, I've a good mind to send that fellow from the bus company a box of chocolates or something by way of a thank you for that wonderfully useless idea. Now what was his name?'
Westphalia-on-Sea was one of three towns situated on a bay. Eastphalia was next to Westphalia-on-Sea, and at the further end of the bay was the picturesque town of Fishhole, which, as the name suggested, relied on fishing for much of its income. Ever since Victorian times the area had been known as the Cote de Westphalia, because it looked a bit like a place in France called the Cote d'Azur. It was only about nine miles to drive around the coast to Fishhole from Westphalia-on-Sea, but in summer many tourists preferred to make the journey by ferry boat - it only took half an hour across the bay, and gave everyone the chance to appreciate this beautiful stretch of coastline from the sea. Once in Fishhole they could stroll around the harbour, have a crab sandwich and then take the ferry boat back again. Over the years fashions and governments came and went, but the leisurely ferry boat service had remained largely unchanged, apparently stubbornly resistant to progress. That was, of course, until now. Apparently the aforementioned boss of the bus company planned to install a high-speed ferry service from Westphalia-on-Sea to Fishhole. The words 'high-speed' leapt off the page at Pangloss. This was it. Manna from heaven. If this didn't have 'the-next-big-idea-that-was-never-going-to-happen' written all over it then he was a Dutchman. He could see the front page now: the sleek lines of a large top-of-the-range modern white ferry with his face in a little inset in the top right corner, just below the words HIGH SPEED FERRY. Maybe it could be juxtaposed with a photo of the sad old tub that took the visitors to Fishhole at the moment. He would discuss it with the editor. God, he was good at this. Was it his imagination, or were his bowels loosening ever so slightly at the excitement of it all? Pangloss got on the phone and set up the meeting with old bigwig whatsisname from the bus company. After barely 30 minutes he was saying goodbye and heading back to his desk to formulate a press release. 'Hmm, mustn't give the impression that this is actually going to happen,' he thought. He jotted down a few key phrases he thought he could use: '... proposed some interesting ideas ... must stress ... everything in early stages ... all subject to extensive consultation.' Then he read them back to himself. Great, he thought. I particularly like that word 'consultation', and the text says it all: not - going - to - happen.
As soon as the story appeared in the paper a few Westphalians were suckered into think the plan was a real one, and began pointing out its glaringly obvious flaws. The main one, of course, was that no-one really wanted to travel at high speed to or from Fishhole, because the enjoyment was in the leisurely trip across the bay, not in reaching the destination at top speed. Someone also pointed out that travelling at high speed would mean the only thing you were likely to see was spray. There were also questions about running such a service in bad weather, and last but not least, the people who ran the existing ferry service pointed out that it would put them out of business. Frankly it had all worked like a dream. Dr Pangloss closed and folded the newspaper, took his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. His cat, Chairman Miaow, was stretched out on his lap, and stirred slightly as Pangloss tickled him under the chin. 'Do you know, Chairman Miaow, he said, I've a good mind to send that fellow from the bus company a box of chocolates or something by way of a thank you for that wonderfully useless idea. Now what was his name?'
Chapter 5 In which Pangloss learns about cause and effect from the new owner of Westphalia United
By the time Dr Pangloss had been in office for two years he had had so many brilliant ideas that many of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea had taken to wearing sunglasses, so bright was the future which Pangloss had promised them. Around this time some Westphalians began to suspect that Pangloss was following the now famous philosophy of cause and effect, which had been used so effectively by the previous owner of the local football team, Westphalia United.
Westphalia-on-Sea had always had a football team which from time to time enjoyed a little success. Westphalia United had a little ground which comfortably held six thousand fans, although even when they were playing other teams off the park no more than three and a half thousand Westphalians turned up to watch. One day a mysterious man arrived in town and announced that he had bought the team. Apparently he didn't have any money, but he had borrowed a little bit and he would use that money to buy a little bit of the football club. After he had bought that little bit of the club he would be allowed to take all the money out of the club and use it to buy the rest of the club, and anything else he fancied. Most of the fans of the club thought this probably wouldn't work, for the simple reason that if you want to buy something expensive you need the money to pay for it. But before anyone could think too much about this upside down logic the mystery man announced his second idea: he would build a brand new football stadium next to the sea. It would hold about 20,000 people and could be used for all sorts of things, like the Olympics. At this point most people realised the mystery man was either clinically insane or a con artist, but Pangloss was truly inspired by the man who could buy things and build things without any money. So when the mystery man turned up at the Town Hall, instead of telling him to piss off and stop wasting everybody's time, Pangloss asked him to explain again (this time very slowly and in very simple language) how the buying-things-with-no-money-system worked. At this the mystery man had to come clean with Pangloss. He told him there was no system. All he was doing, was employing the philosophy of cause and effect.
'Cause and effect is rather like what magicians call 'misdirection', he explained to Pangloss. When a magician wants to make a coin appear in something like a hanky he simply directs the gaze of the audience away from the hanky with one hand, and uses the other hand to place the coin where he wants it to appear. The effect? Magic.'
'Do you mean to tell me that magicians do not really perform magic?' exclaimed Pangloss.
He was rather depressed at learning the truth about magicians, because he was a big fan of the dramatic arts, but he was quick to see the benefits of wholeheartedly adopting the philosophy of cause and effect. He realised that rather than have just one or two ideas which could be implemented and would actually work, it was much better to have a constant stream of daring (or as some Westphalians would describe them 'barking mad') ideas which would never work and would never see the light of day. It certainly was an audacious plan, but the mystery man pointed out that it had worked for him so far.
'Does this mean you won't be building a new stadium with no money, then?' asked Pangloss.
'Of course not, laughed the mystery man. You and I will have a little walk down around the proposed site at the seafront and have our photo taken for the Westphalia Express. Then in a couple of days' time I will move on to my next big plan, which will be to bring lots excellent players from the Czech Republic to the club.'
'And you won't actually do that either?'
'Now you're getting the idea, said the mystery man. All you have to do is make sure your big new initiative is so bold that it fills up a few pages of the Westphalia Express for at least a couple of days. Once people are engrossed in the new big idea the previous big idea will be conveniently forgotten.'
It was so simple it was genius. Pangloss realised that he really was living in the best of all possible worlds. He thanked the mystery man and showed him out, then sat back in his chair, smiled to himself, and in direct contravention of council directive 4, subsection 2 paragraph 5.3, leaned back and put his feet on the desk.
Westphalia-on-Sea had always had a football team which from time to time enjoyed a little success. Westphalia United had a little ground which comfortably held six thousand fans, although even when they were playing other teams off the park no more than three and a half thousand Westphalians turned up to watch. One day a mysterious man arrived in town and announced that he had bought the team. Apparently he didn't have any money, but he had borrowed a little bit and he would use that money to buy a little bit of the football club. After he had bought that little bit of the club he would be allowed to take all the money out of the club and use it to buy the rest of the club, and anything else he fancied. Most of the fans of the club thought this probably wouldn't work, for the simple reason that if you want to buy something expensive you need the money to pay for it. But before anyone could think too much about this upside down logic the mystery man announced his second idea: he would build a brand new football stadium next to the sea. It would hold about 20,000 people and could be used for all sorts of things, like the Olympics. At this point most people realised the mystery man was either clinically insane or a con artist, but Pangloss was truly inspired by the man who could buy things and build things without any money. So when the mystery man turned up at the Town Hall, instead of telling him to piss off and stop wasting everybody's time, Pangloss asked him to explain again (this time very slowly and in very simple language) how the buying-things-with-no-money-system worked. At this the mystery man had to come clean with Pangloss. He told him there was no system. All he was doing, was employing the philosophy of cause and effect.
'Cause and effect is rather like what magicians call 'misdirection', he explained to Pangloss. When a magician wants to make a coin appear in something like a hanky he simply directs the gaze of the audience away from the hanky with one hand, and uses the other hand to place the coin where he wants it to appear. The effect? Magic.'
'Do you mean to tell me that magicians do not really perform magic?' exclaimed Pangloss.
He was rather depressed at learning the truth about magicians, because he was a big fan of the dramatic arts, but he was quick to see the benefits of wholeheartedly adopting the philosophy of cause and effect. He realised that rather than have just one or two ideas which could be implemented and would actually work, it was much better to have a constant stream of daring (or as some Westphalians would describe them 'barking mad') ideas which would never work and would never see the light of day. It certainly was an audacious plan, but the mystery man pointed out that it had worked for him so far.
'Does this mean you won't be building a new stadium with no money, then?' asked Pangloss.
'Of course not, laughed the mystery man. You and I will have a little walk down around the proposed site at the seafront and have our photo taken for the Westphalia Express. Then in a couple of days' time I will move on to my next big plan, which will be to bring lots excellent players from the Czech Republic to the club.'
'And you won't actually do that either?'
'Now you're getting the idea, said the mystery man. All you have to do is make sure your big new initiative is so bold that it fills up a few pages of the Westphalia Express for at least a couple of days. Once people are engrossed in the new big idea the previous big idea will be conveniently forgotten.'
It was so simple it was genius. Pangloss realised that he really was living in the best of all possible worlds. He thanked the mystery man and showed him out, then sat back in his chair, smiled to himself, and in direct contravention of council directive 4, subsection 2 paragraph 5.3, leaned back and put his feet on the desk.
Chapter 4 In which Pangloss decides that buildings and beaches should be sold for the good of all
As is often the case with things you read in newspapers, after a while people began to lose interest in the idea of a second casino. There seemed to be some dispute over who would build it, and whether the government would even allow one to be built at all. This was a shame, because it was Pangloss's heartfelt belief that whoever built the casino would also rebuild the whole of the harbour, which was falling down. Anyway, the whole debate had been a terrific experience for the people of Westphalia-on-Sea , because it had proved that Pangloss was a man of action who had big ideas, so the people didn't mind that considerable amounts of their money had been spent on the project. At the offices of the Westphalia Express the photo editor was finally told to stop superimposing Pangloss's picture onto a roulette wheel.
Pangloss's next brilliant idea was to sell off an old building which belonged to the local council. Some people still said it was part of their heritage, but Pangloss said it was falling down and selling it was the best option. At this point some of residents remembered that Pangloss was an estate agent, and that if anyone knew a thing or two about selling buildings, it was him. While the debate over the old building rumbled on, Pangloss had yet another brilliant idea.
Pangloss's next brilliant idea was to sell off an old building which belonged to the local council. Some people still said it was part of their heritage, but Pangloss said it was falling down and selling it was the best option. At this point some of residents remembered that Pangloss was an estate agent, and that if anyone knew a thing or two about selling buildings, it was him. While the debate over the old building rumbled on, Pangloss had yet another brilliant idea.
Being built around a rocky headland, Westphalia-on-Sea did not have one great big sandy beach, but several coves at the bottom of quite steep cliffs. All these coves had a picturesque charm, but one was particularly favoured by visitors and locals alike because of the quaint pub near the little rocky beach. Sitting outside that pub on a warm summer evening and watching the fishermen on the beach that Queen Victoria had once visited was one of life's great pleasures for the ordinary folk of Westphalia-on-Sea, so it was only natural that Pangloss would bring in a rich property developer to knock everything down and build an exclusive hotel complex in its place. Some of the residents aired their concerns: the little cove would lose its quaint charm forever, locals might not have access to the area, and even if they did they wouldn't be able to afford a drink there. Pangloss was beginning to think that the ungrateful plebs of Westphalia-on-Sea didn't deserve him as mayor. 'Every time I have a brilliant idea somebody from the local awkward squad raises some piffling objection, he thought to himself. Can't these jokers see that boatloads of rich people will come to Westphalia-on-Sea because of this, and masses of menial jobs will be created?' Luckily the Westphalia Express knew that Pangloss was absolutely right, and told its readers to look to the future and stop bellyaching about a silly old pub on a crappy little beach being knocked down.
Chapter 3 In which Dr Pangloss decides a second casino is urgently needed in Westphalia-on-Sea
As soon as Dr Pangloss was installed as the new mayor he quickly began pouring oil on the troubled waters of the past. He said everyone on the council needed to work together, and had his photo in the Westphalia Express everyday with a caption underneath saying 'we must all work together'. Everyone agreed with this sentiment, but an unfortunate side-effect of this new unity was that the mayor and the councillors kept falling out and were constantly saying they couldn't possibly work together. Some of the 93% of Westphalia-on-Sea who hadn't supported Dr Pangloss began to think that his appointment was a very expensive waste of time, and that everything was just the same as before. But that was with hindsight, which is a wonderful thing - even Pangloss and the councillors were agreed on that. In order to silence his critics, Dr Pangloss began writing a fortnightly column in the Westphalia Express entitled 'The Best Of All Possible Worlds', in which he explained why everything was already fairly brilliant now he was in charge of Westphalia-on-Sea, and how it would be unbelievably fantastic in the future if only people would stop being negative and focus on his brilliant ideas.
Pangloss's first brilliant idea was a second casino. Westphalia-on-Sea already had a well-established fully-functioning casino, but it wasn't attracting any upmarket visitors. Maybe it was too small and not close enough to the sea. Pangloss thought a bigger casino very close to the sea would do the trick. Apparently when upmarket rich people book a holiday one of the first things they look for is a big casino near the sea. Lots of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea couldn't follow Dr Pangloss's logic on this one, and thought encouraging more gambling in an area with a lot of social deprivation might in fact be a bad idea, but they were simple folk who didn't earn fifty grand a year, so they couldn't be expected to grasp such a tricky concept, and really had no business writing to the Westphalia Express to air their simplistic and narrow-minded views.
Pangloss's first brilliant idea was a second casino. Westphalia-on-Sea already had a well-established fully-functioning casino, but it wasn't attracting any upmarket visitors. Maybe it was too small and not close enough to the sea. Pangloss thought a bigger casino very close to the sea would do the trick. Apparently when upmarket rich people book a holiday one of the first things they look for is a big casino near the sea. Lots of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea couldn't follow Dr Pangloss's logic on this one, and thought encouraging more gambling in an area with a lot of social deprivation might in fact be a bad idea, but they were simple folk who didn't earn fifty grand a year, so they couldn't be expected to grasp such a tricky concept, and really had no business writing to the Westphalia Express to air their simplistic and narrow-minded views.
Chapter 2 In which the people of Westphalia-on-Sea realise that superheroes are in short supply.
And so there was great excitement in Westphalia-on-Sea when the idea of an elected mayor was proposed. First of all a referendum was held to see if the people really wanted a superhero-type mayor. Yes, they all cried. Well, 18,074 cried 'yes', 14,682 cried 'no' and approximately 67,000 of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea didn't bother crying anything, but let us not dwell on unseemly facts that may bring the whole democratic process into question - Westphalia-on-Sea would jolly well get its mayor.
With 14 candidates the people were spoilt for choice. There was a soldier and a sailor, but predictably no candlestick maker, as that profession had been badly hit by the invention of electricity. Some people said 'where are the superhero-type people you promised us? These are just ordinary people; there's a journalist, a nurse, a pub landlord and the bloke from the launderette.' But those people were ignored, because they were just spoiling the fun for everybody else. With so many independent candidates one of them was bound to win, and he or she would soon sort the town out, even if they weren't a self-made super-businessperson, and the story filled up lots of space in the Westphalia Express, so everybody was happy.
On the day of the election a massive 24% of the population of Westphalia-on-Sea rushed to the polls and cast their vote. When the winner was announced, it became clear that things hadn't quite gone to plan. Instead of welcoming an independent superhero into office, the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea were faced with the grin of the Conservative candidate, an estate agent named Dr Pangloss. It turned out that Pangloss had the support of only 7% of the electorate, but rules are rules, and he was still entitled to the superhero salary. 'Never mind, said the Westphalia Express. We've got a wonderful new mayor, and you, the good people of Westphalia-on-Sea should support him, and forget that you're now paying an estate agent fifty grand a year.'
With 14 candidates the people were spoilt for choice. There was a soldier and a sailor, but predictably no candlestick maker, as that profession had been badly hit by the invention of electricity. Some people said 'where are the superhero-type people you promised us? These are just ordinary people; there's a journalist, a nurse, a pub landlord and the bloke from the launderette.' But those people were ignored, because they were just spoiling the fun for everybody else. With so many independent candidates one of them was bound to win, and he or she would soon sort the town out, even if they weren't a self-made super-businessperson, and the story filled up lots of space in the Westphalia Express, so everybody was happy.
On the day of the election a massive 24% of the population of Westphalia-on-Sea rushed to the polls and cast their vote. When the winner was announced, it became clear that things hadn't quite gone to plan. Instead of welcoming an independent superhero into office, the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea were faced with the grin of the Conservative candidate, an estate agent named Dr Pangloss. It turned out that Pangloss had the support of only 7% of the electorate, but rules are rules, and he was still entitled to the superhero salary. 'Never mind, said the Westphalia Express. We've got a wonderful new mayor, and you, the good people of Westphalia-on-Sea should support him, and forget that you're now paying an estate agent fifty grand a year.'
Chapter 1 In which we learn how Westphalia-on-Sea went into terminal decline.
Westphalia-on-Sea was once the most popular and prosperous seaside town in England. Hordes of visitors from the Midlands, the North and even Scotland would fill its hotels and guest houses every summer. By day the families would crowd onto the beach and gradually sit closer and closer together as the tide came in, not really minding that it was overcast, and ignoring the children when they said they felt little drops of rain. By night the younger revellers would crowd into the town's nightclubs and drink sensible amounts of Bacardi and Coke or Watney's Red Barrel. These were happy times, when locals and holidaymakers would bond with each other outside late-night kebab shops, and the odd dispute over a taxi or a girl was easily settled by throwing someone in the harbour. The only problem the hoteliers and pub landlords had was clearing up the occasional splash of vomit and hiding a large chunk of their profits from the taxman. It seemed as if this idyllic lifestyle would go on forever, but alas, it was not to be.
Progress and prospersity eventually brought cheap flights to those people in the North, and many decided to see whether it was possible to enjoy themselves on a sunny sandy beach abroad. To their suprise, most of them were able to adapt, and they didn't seem to miss the shingle beaches, the smell of seaweed or the occasional drizzle of Westphalia-on-Sea. Soon the only people that came to the town were the old people who weren't up to flying and liked to go everywhere by coach, and the foreign students who came to learn phrases such as 'don't you know what a queue is?' and 'give us your mobile phone or I'll smash your face in'. Everyone agreed that the situation was getting desperate, and that something needed to be done, so some of the good people of Westphalia-on-Sea took it upon themselves to find a suitable scapegoat.
It wasn't long before they settled on the local councillors. It wasn't the councillors' fault that the visitors had stopped coming, but they often argued amongst themselves and claimed an allowance for the time they spent arguing on behalf of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea, and this seemed like a good enough reason to blame them. A small group of people said that what was needed was a kind of 'super-councillor' to make all the other councillors do the right thing and sort out all the town's problems and not ask for too much money. Luckily the local newspaper (Westphalia Express) agreed with this small group of people, so the plan went ahead. Everyone was filled with optimism - the 'super-councillor' would be called the Mayor, and he would be an independent self-made man with an impressive record in business. Because he would be a kind of super-hero, the people of Westphalia-on-Sea would have to pay him a super-hero's salary, but this would be money well spent, because he would solve all the town's problems, and you can't put a price on that.
Progress and prospersity eventually brought cheap flights to those people in the North, and many decided to see whether it was possible to enjoy themselves on a sunny sandy beach abroad. To their suprise, most of them were able to adapt, and they didn't seem to miss the shingle beaches, the smell of seaweed or the occasional drizzle of Westphalia-on-Sea. Soon the only people that came to the town were the old people who weren't up to flying and liked to go everywhere by coach, and the foreign students who came to learn phrases such as 'don't you know what a queue is?' and 'give us your mobile phone or I'll smash your face in'. Everyone agreed that the situation was getting desperate, and that something needed to be done, so some of the good people of Westphalia-on-Sea took it upon themselves to find a suitable scapegoat.
It wasn't long before they settled on the local councillors. It wasn't the councillors' fault that the visitors had stopped coming, but they often argued amongst themselves and claimed an allowance for the time they spent arguing on behalf of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea, and this seemed like a good enough reason to blame them. A small group of people said that what was needed was a kind of 'super-councillor' to make all the other councillors do the right thing and sort out all the town's problems and not ask for too much money. Luckily the local newspaper (Westphalia Express) agreed with this small group of people, so the plan went ahead. Everyone was filled with optimism - the 'super-councillor' would be called the Mayor, and he would be an independent self-made man with an impressive record in business. Because he would be a kind of super-hero, the people of Westphalia-on-Sea would have to pay him a super-hero's salary, but this would be money well spent, because he would solve all the town's problems, and you can't put a price on that.
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