"Mr Staedtler, Mr Staedtler." It was the voice of one of the office cleaners, trying to rouse John from what seemed like a very deep sleep, judging by his snoring. He was at his desk, head tilted back, and looked quite peaceful and contented.
"Eh, what?" he grumbled as he regained consciousness. "Where ..?, what ..?"
"Mr Staedtler, have you been here all night?"
John rubbed his face and glanced at his watch. Christ, seven o'clock! How had that happened? Then the events of the previous night came racing through his mind. Obviously they must have been a dream, but they seemed so real. He ran his hand over his chest, then felt stupid for having done so. Then he remembered the email from French. Maybe there was a clue in that. He fired up the computer that sat on his desk and opened his email. The one from French warned him not to go outside. Had that triggered his imagination and been the seed for that most vivid of nightmares? But according to the computer the email hadn't been opened. Staedtler suddenly felt very uneasy; he wasn't prone to panic attacks, but he had been going for it of late, working like a Trojan. Suddenly he called out to one of the cleaners who was emptying a bin at a nearby desk: "Maureen, this may sound like a daft question, but this is Westphalia-on-Sea, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, Mr Staedtler, course it is. Why ever do you ask?"
"Oh, it would take too long to explain. Have you ever been to Piddlebackside Maureen?"
"Piddlebackside? I've never even heard of it. Is there such a place?"
"Yes, it's, er ..., not far from here."
"Well I'm sure I've never been there, and I wouldn't fancy going there neither, judging by the name. Are you sure you haven't been dreaming Mr Staedtler?"
"Funny you should say that actually. I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, but the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had ..."
"Well, it is a mad world sometimes Mr Staedtler. Can I get you a coffee or something? You look rather pale."
"N-no, I'm fine, but thanks anyway."
Staedtler kept thinking of previous conversations he had had with French - the postcards, the warnings. Rather than helping him unmask the Piddlebackside blogger Staedtler now had the feeling that French was actually involved in all this, and not in a good way. If that was the case he'd better stop all contact with him. No, he could do better than that - he would call the local constabulary and tell them all he knew and let them investigate. He picked up the phone and dialled - after a couple of automated messages he was talking to the desk sergeant at the local police station.
"So let me get this straight," said the bemused voice at the end of the line, "you want to make a complaint about a blog, is that correct?"
"Yes, exactly," confirmed Staedtler.
"And what exactly is a blog, sir?"
"Well, it's like an on-line diary, but this one is a kind of story."
"So you want to complain about a story?"
"Yes, well it's more than a story because all the characters are real people."
"Oh, real are they? So who's in it then?"
"Well lots of people, including me. And I've just been murdered."
"Murdered you say? And when did this happen sir, if you don't mind me inquiring?"
"Last night, outside my office."
"Hmm, I may be pointing out the bleeding obvious here sir, but you do sound quite perky for someone who's just been murdered. And this happened in Westphalia-on-Sea, did it?"
"Yes. No. Well, in Piddlebackside. But Piddlebackside is Westphalia-on-Sea."
"Ah, now you're starting to confuse me even more sir. Are we talking about murder in Westphalia-on-Sea or murder in Piddlebackside? You see, I can't have my crime figures contaminated by rogue data from this Piddlewhatsit place."
"Look, I know it sounds a bit far-fetched the way I've explained it but ..."
"With all due respect sir, I think someone has lost the plot. If there had been a murder we would need a victim, and hopefully a murder weapon and some suspects."
"Yes, I've just told you, I'm the victim."
"But you're still alive sir. You have to be dead to be a murder victim. That's the law I'm afraid sir. I don't make the rules, I just enforce them. And what about a weapon and suspects?"
"It was Mrs Brolly. She stabbed me with her umbrella."
"And what does this Mrs Brolly look like?"
"Short, with grey hair. In her early sixties I'd guess."
"So a little old lady called Brolly stabbed you with a brolly? That's a strange coincidence, isn't it, sir? Tell me, is there a carer or other health professional with you at the moment sir?"
"Of course not. What are you implying?"
"Well, it just sounds a little bit Cluedo-ish to me sir."
"Look sergeant," began Staedtler, beginning to get a little irate, "I don't care how it sounds to you, I'd like you to do something about it."
"What like? Arrest Mrs Brolly? Can't the boys in blue in Piddlewhatsit do it?"
"No, don't be ridiculous. Piddlebackside doesn't really exist, and neither does Mrs Brolly. It's French, Paul French. He's your man. I want you to call him and tell him that you know he's involved and that they've gone too far."
"Right you are sir. And this Mr French, would he be in the Westphalia-on-Sea phone book or the Piddlewhatsit phone book?"
"I can give you his number."
"That would be very helpful sir. Save a lot of valuable police time that will, sir. I shall call him immediately and tell him how disturbed you are."
"No, don't tell him it's me. I don't want to look foolish."
"No, of course not sir. I can see that you wouldn't want to be murdered and look foolish - that would be a bit traumatic."
Staedtler gave the sergeant French's number and put the phone down. Back at the police station the sergeant hung up the phone and turned to his colleague.
"I think I've heard it all now," he said. "Just had someone asking me to investigate a fictional murder - what a flamin' nutjob! Who does he think I am - 'Ercule bloody Poirot?"
"Or Sherlock bleedin' 'Olmes," agreed his colleague. "I knew that 'care in community' was a flawed policy. We should've kept all the nutters locked up so we could keep an eye on them - would make our life a lot bloomin' easier."
"Yeah, sometimes I think this whole town has gone mad. Right, load those boxes in the car and let's get down the harbour - those flip-flops are going to get handed out by magic you know."
Chapter 63 In which Pangloss is on the lookout for Xmas decorations, and Staedtler comes unstuck ...
It was the worst of times and it was the best of times in Westphalia-on-Sea. The worst because the country was in the grip of the worst global recession ever, but the best of times because Dr Pangloss had assured everyone on the Cote de Westphalia that the recession would by-pass the area. Of course, some of the locals scratched their heads and took the straw out of their mouth for a moment and said: 'So this 'ere recession, it's a bit loike a tor-nay-do, is it? If we all gets inside and shuts the door us'll be safe, will us? And 'ow will it by-pass us? The bleddy by-pass ain't bin built yet!'
'God,' Pangloss had thought, 'these locals are as thick as pigshit. I bet most of them think the credit crunch is a kind of breakfast cereal.'
Back in his office later the same day, Dr Pangloss was relaxing with his deputy.
'I think we need a few more decorations round here,' said Pangloss, 'make it feel a bit more seasonal.' (He was careful not to use the word Christmassy, because the Daily Mail said it had been banned by the moaning minnies and the Muslims).
'Well you can't have any, because there's nowt left in the budget,' replied Hatter. 'It's all gone on consultants and Wreck Walk.'
'Oh, don't be a spoilsport. Let's look in the paper - there are always bargains in the Westphalia Express classifieds.'
After a few minutes scanning the newspaper Pangloss squealed with delight. 'Listen,' he said,
'Xmas santa and xmas fairy, outdoor exhibit, surplus to requirements, free to collector. Phone two-oh-seven-double one-three.' Phone it now for me, but disguise your voice; we don't want people to know the council has fallen on hard times.'
Ahmad Hatter sighed and took out his phone. Just after he'd finished dialling, the mayor's phone rang. As Pangloss moved to answer it Hatter signalled that he would continue his call outside
the office.
'Yes, I'm calling about the Xmas Santa, and the fairy,' said Hatter, doing his best not to sound too northern and straight-talking.
'Really?' said the voice at the other end. 'What a coincidence.'
'Is it a big fairy? Would it look good in an office?' persisted Hatter.
'Oh, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick,' said the voice. 'There are no fairies here. I'm looking for a fairy ...'
'What do tha mean there's no fairies there?' asked Hatter, unknowingly slipping into his northern accent.
'Ahmad Hatter, is that you?' came the voice.
'Wait a fookin' minute,' said Hatter, opening the office door.
The mayor and his deputy stared open-mouthed across the room at each other as the penny dropped. 'Either that's a printing error, or some bugger's taking the fookin' piss,' said Hatter, slamming his phone shut.
Over at the Westphalia Express office it was unusual to find John Staedtler still at his desk after everyone else had left, but these were particularly strange times in Westphalia-on-Sea; the mayor had confidently predicted that the town was recession-proof, but Staedtler felt he couldn't afford to be complacent. He had already earned a few brownie points with the editor for shooting Mrs Brolly down in flames in his column, and he had made a point of letting the editor know he was staying late. Yes, thought Staedtler to himself, if there was any brown-nosing or arse-kissing to be done, John Staedtler was definitely your man. He checked his watch - it was exactly eleven o'clock. Christ, his wife would be wondering where he was. As he started closing his email he noticed a new message in his inbox. When he saw it was from Paul French he decided to leave it until the following day. It was marked 'urgent', but Staedtler figured it could wait. 'Probably just another cranky warning about all that Piddlebackside bollocks,' he thought.
Walking across the car park he suddenly remembered the recent story about councillors being worried about walking back to their cars after dark. Just then a voice called out from the shadows 'Hey, Parker! Not still working for that rag, are you? the Daily Bugle?' A chill ran up Staedtler's back. He looked around. There was no-one else about; the comment was obviously directed at him.
'I think you've made a mistake,' he shouted back. 'I'm Staedtler, and this is the Westphalia Express. I think you're mixing me up with Spiderman, you know, Peter Parker.'
'Whatever', came the reply. Staedtler could see someone dressed in white, wearing a bowler hat. As the figure approached Staedtler could see strange make-up around the eyes. It reminded Staedtler of that dreadful film A Clockwork Journalist. 'It's rather late to be walking the streets of Piddlebackside, you know, especially in this part of town,' the character said. Staedtler was unsure if the person was male or female, but he was sure the voice sounded familiar. 'This isn't Piddlebackside, it's Westphalia-on-Sea,' replied Staedtler hesitantly, 'and technically we're not on the streets, we're in the car park,' he added, somewhat more defiantly.
'Oh, is that right?' said the voice. 'Well, I think you've just crossed the invisible line into Piddlebackside.'
'Don't be ridiculous. And what are you wearing that eye make-up for? You remind me of a character in a book by Anthony Burgess ...'
'And you remind me of a character in a book by Bram Stoker,' came the reply. 'Someone that lived by sucking the blood of others ...'
'Whoa! Steady on!' said Staedtler, 'I'm only a bloody journo, just doing my job.'
'Yes, but it's always take, take, take, with you isn't it? And things have a nasty habit of catching up with you in Piddlebackside.'
'I keep telling you this isn't Piddlebackside,' protested Staedtler.
'Don't fuck with me,' the voice suddenly snarled. Staedtler let out an involuntary whimper at the sudden change in tone of voice, and broke wind audibly. He turned to run towards his car but tripped over his briefcase and went sprawling on the floor. He was unable to move. He didn't know whether he was paralysed by fear or being pinned to the ground by some imaginary force field. 'Look what's all this about? Surely we can work something out?' he mumbled.
The figure looked down at Staedtler, lying on his back, and said: 'Where shall we start? The postcards? the articles? Putting words in my mouth? You were sloppy, and you know it. But it's too late now.' Now up close, Staedtler realised it was a woman who was addressing him. From behind her back she produced something long and pointed, and placed the metal tip on Staedtler's chest, hovering just above his heart.
'What's that?' A bloody stake? asked Staedtler, almost crying.
'No,' said the voice. 'Can't you see? It's just a brolly.' With that she brought a mallet down on the handle wilth all her might. She felt the metal tip of the brolly pierce Staedtler's chest, and heard it make a satisfying squelchy noise as it locked on to its target. Staedtler saw his life flash before him, which was disappointing even by his standards - it was mainly cricket and being passed over for the editor's job.
As Staedtler stopped twitching the woman took the bowler hat off and wiped her brow. Addressing the prone body leaking at her feet she asked under her breath: 'Who's fucking heartless now?'
IS STAEDTLER REALLY DEAD? WHAT WAS ON THOSE POSTCARDS? WHY DON'T YOU CALL HIM TO FIND OUT? ARE THE XMAS SANTA AND THE XMAS FAIRY STILL AVAILABLE? WHY NOT CALL TO FIND OUT? HOW DID THE ADVERT GET PRINTED? WILL HEADS ROLL? DON'T MISS NEXT WEEK'S THRILLING EPISODE ...
'God,' Pangloss had thought, 'these locals are as thick as pigshit. I bet most of them think the credit crunch is a kind of breakfast cereal.'
Back in his office later the same day, Dr Pangloss was relaxing with his deputy.
'I think we need a few more decorations round here,' said Pangloss, 'make it feel a bit more seasonal.' (He was careful not to use the word Christmassy, because the Daily Mail said it had been banned by the moaning minnies and the Muslims).
'Well you can't have any, because there's nowt left in the budget,' replied Hatter. 'It's all gone on consultants and Wreck Walk.'
'Oh, don't be a spoilsport. Let's look in the paper - there are always bargains in the Westphalia Express classifieds.'
After a few minutes scanning the newspaper Pangloss squealed with delight. 'Listen,' he said,
'Xmas santa and xmas fairy, outdoor exhibit, surplus to requirements, free to collector. Phone two-oh-seven-double one-three.' Phone it now for me, but disguise your voice; we don't want people to know the council has fallen on hard times.'
Ahmad Hatter sighed and took out his phone. Just after he'd finished dialling, the mayor's phone rang. As Pangloss moved to answer it Hatter signalled that he would continue his call outside
the office.
'Yes, I'm calling about the Xmas Santa, and the fairy,' said Hatter, doing his best not to sound too northern and straight-talking.
'Really?' said the voice at the other end. 'What a coincidence.'
'Is it a big fairy? Would it look good in an office?' persisted Hatter.
'Oh, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick,' said the voice. 'There are no fairies here. I'm looking for a fairy ...'
'What do tha mean there's no fairies there?' asked Hatter, unknowingly slipping into his northern accent.
'Ahmad Hatter, is that you?' came the voice.
'Wait a fookin' minute,' said Hatter, opening the office door.
The mayor and his deputy stared open-mouthed across the room at each other as the penny dropped. 'Either that's a printing error, or some bugger's taking the fookin' piss,' said Hatter, slamming his phone shut.
Over at the Westphalia Express office it was unusual to find John Staedtler still at his desk after everyone else had left, but these were particularly strange times in Westphalia-on-Sea; the mayor had confidently predicted that the town was recession-proof, but Staedtler felt he couldn't afford to be complacent. He had already earned a few brownie points with the editor for shooting Mrs Brolly down in flames in his column, and he had made a point of letting the editor know he was staying late. Yes, thought Staedtler to himself, if there was any brown-nosing or arse-kissing to be done, John Staedtler was definitely your man. He checked his watch - it was exactly eleven o'clock. Christ, his wife would be wondering where he was. As he started closing his email he noticed a new message in his inbox. When he saw it was from Paul French he decided to leave it until the following day. It was marked 'urgent', but Staedtler figured it could wait. 'Probably just another cranky warning about all that Piddlebackside bollocks,' he thought.
Walking across the car park he suddenly remembered the recent story about councillors being worried about walking back to their cars after dark. Just then a voice called out from the shadows 'Hey, Parker! Not still working for that rag, are you? the Daily Bugle?' A chill ran up Staedtler's back. He looked around. There was no-one else about; the comment was obviously directed at him.
'I think you've made a mistake,' he shouted back. 'I'm Staedtler, and this is the Westphalia Express. I think you're mixing me up with Spiderman, you know, Peter Parker.'
'Whatever', came the reply. Staedtler could see someone dressed in white, wearing a bowler hat. As the figure approached Staedtler could see strange make-up around the eyes. It reminded Staedtler of that dreadful film A Clockwork Journalist. 'It's rather late to be walking the streets of Piddlebackside, you know, especially in this part of town,' the character said. Staedtler was unsure if the person was male or female, but he was sure the voice sounded familiar. 'This isn't Piddlebackside, it's Westphalia-on-Sea,' replied Staedtler hesitantly, 'and technically we're not on the streets, we're in the car park,' he added, somewhat more defiantly.
'Oh, is that right?' said the voice. 'Well, I think you've just crossed the invisible line into Piddlebackside.'
'Don't be ridiculous. And what are you wearing that eye make-up for? You remind me of a character in a book by Anthony Burgess ...'
'And you remind me of a character in a book by Bram Stoker,' came the reply. 'Someone that lived by sucking the blood of others ...'
'Whoa! Steady on!' said Staedtler, 'I'm only a bloody journo, just doing my job.'
'Yes, but it's always take, take, take, with you isn't it? And things have a nasty habit of catching up with you in Piddlebackside.'
'I keep telling you this isn't Piddlebackside,' protested Staedtler.
'Don't fuck with me,' the voice suddenly snarled. Staedtler let out an involuntary whimper at the sudden change in tone of voice, and broke wind audibly. He turned to run towards his car but tripped over his briefcase and went sprawling on the floor. He was unable to move. He didn't know whether he was paralysed by fear or being pinned to the ground by some imaginary force field. 'Look what's all this about? Surely we can work something out?' he mumbled.
The figure looked down at Staedtler, lying on his back, and said: 'Where shall we start? The postcards? the articles? Putting words in my mouth? You were sloppy, and you know it. But it's too late now.' Now up close, Staedtler realised it was a woman who was addressing him. From behind her back she produced something long and pointed, and placed the metal tip on Staedtler's chest, hovering just above his heart.
'What's that?' A bloody stake? asked Staedtler, almost crying.
'No,' said the voice. 'Can't you see? It's just a brolly.' With that she brought a mallet down on the handle wilth all her might. She felt the metal tip of the brolly pierce Staedtler's chest, and heard it make a satisfying squelchy noise as it locked on to its target. Staedtler saw his life flash before him, which was disappointing even by his standards - it was mainly cricket and being passed over for the editor's job.
As Staedtler stopped twitching the woman took the bowler hat off and wiped her brow. Addressing the prone body leaking at her feet she asked under her breath: 'Who's fucking heartless now?'
IS STAEDTLER REALLY DEAD? WHAT WAS ON THOSE POSTCARDS? WHY DON'T YOU CALL HIM TO FIND OUT? ARE THE XMAS SANTA AND THE XMAS FAIRY STILL AVAILABLE? WHY NOT CALL TO FIND OUT? HOW DID THE ADVERT GET PRINTED? WILL HEADS ROLL? DON'T MISS NEXT WEEK'S THRILLING EPISODE ...
Chapter 62 In which the Facebook generation appraises Dr Pangloss's achievements
By the time French got down to the Westphalia Express office Staedtler had already retrieved the missing postcards from Charlie Windsor and Dr Pangloss, and had pieced them together on his desk so the message could be read in full.
"Hmm, intriguing," said French, after scanning the text. "Well, I think it's time to do as they say and print something. I mean, these postcards are beginning to mount up, and it looks like you could have a big story on your hands."
"No can do, I'm afraid," replied Satedtler. "I've spoken to Pangloss and Charlie Windsor and they're both dead against it. And the editor's none too keen either."
"Oh, I see," said French. "We don't do deals with terrorists, that kind of attitude, is it?"
"Something like that. Their official line is that it's all a bit of harmless fun and they find it mildly amusing, but off the record they're worried about this breaking nationally and they don't want the Westphalia Express involved. After all, we are supposed to be supporting them."
"So you're going to keep a lid on this story, and let some other journo run with?"
"Looks like I'll have to, sighed Staedtler.
"Well, they won't be able to keep a lid on this stuff for ever, said French. "There's more trouble for Pangloss out there."
With that he reached over to Staedtler's computer and tapped away at the keys. After a few moments a Facebook page appeared with Dr Pangloss's face at the top of it. Next to his picture were the words 'I fucking hate Dr Pangloss'.
"Bloody hell," said Staedtler. "Another website?"
"Yep," said French. "Not quite as subtle as the Piddlebackside blog. This one tells it like it is."
"Shit. I'm going to call Pangloss and see if he knows about this. If they won't let me run with the postcard mystery they've got to let me do a piece on this."
After a brief phone call to the Mayor's office Staedtler turned to French and said: "The guy's unbelievable. What do you think he said? He said it's the biggest compliment you can have — people know who their leader is. And then he said it is an 'enormous compliment' that people read and respond to his column in the Westphalia Express — whether they are for or against his views."
"And what did you say?"
"I said: but everyone thinks you're doing a crap job and earning too much money."
"How did he answer that?"
He said: "I have had to make sure things are happening. Things are happening which are controversial but they are happening. You are not going to make progress without upsetting some people."
"Progress?" Spluttered French. "The towns are dying on their arses. Christ, if Eastphalia was a person it would be halfway to Switzerland by now, asking to be put out of its misery."
"Yes," added Staedtler, putting on a tannoy announcer's voice, "Will the last person to leave please switch off the lights."
"Oh well," sighed French, "I guess you'd better commit our great leader's words of wisdom to print."
"Hmm, intriguing," said French, after scanning the text. "Well, I think it's time to do as they say and print something. I mean, these postcards are beginning to mount up, and it looks like you could have a big story on your hands."
"No can do, I'm afraid," replied Satedtler. "I've spoken to Pangloss and Charlie Windsor and they're both dead against it. And the editor's none too keen either."
"Oh, I see," said French. "We don't do deals with terrorists, that kind of attitude, is it?"
"Something like that. Their official line is that it's all a bit of harmless fun and they find it mildly amusing, but off the record they're worried about this breaking nationally and they don't want the Westphalia Express involved. After all, we are supposed to be supporting them."
"So you're going to keep a lid on this story, and let some other journo run with?"
"Looks like I'll have to, sighed Staedtler.
"Well, they won't be able to keep a lid on this stuff for ever, said French. "There's more trouble for Pangloss out there."
With that he reached over to Staedtler's computer and tapped away at the keys. After a few moments a Facebook page appeared with Dr Pangloss's face at the top of it. Next to his picture were the words 'I fucking hate Dr Pangloss'.
"Bloody hell," said Staedtler. "Another website?"
"Yep," said French. "Not quite as subtle as the Piddlebackside blog. This one tells it like it is."
"Shit. I'm going to call Pangloss and see if he knows about this. If they won't let me run with the postcard mystery they've got to let me do a piece on this."
After a brief phone call to the Mayor's office Staedtler turned to French and said: "The guy's unbelievable. What do you think he said? He said it's the biggest compliment you can have — people know who their leader is. And then he said it is an 'enormous compliment' that people read and respond to his column in the Westphalia Express — whether they are for or against his views."
"And what did you say?"
"I said: but everyone thinks you're doing a crap job and earning too much money."
"How did he answer that?"
He said: "I have had to make sure things are happening. Things are happening which are controversial but they are happening. You are not going to make progress without upsetting some people."
"Progress?" Spluttered French. "The towns are dying on their arses. Christ, if Eastphalia was a person it would be halfway to Switzerland by now, asking to be put out of its misery."
"Yes," added Staedtler, putting on a tannoy announcer's voice, "Will the last person to leave please switch off the lights."
"Oh well," sighed French, "I guess you'd better commit our great leader's words of wisdom to print."
Chapter 61 In which we realise that nobody trusts anything the Mayor says
Some Westphalians who have not yet succumbed to the onset of Alzheimer's may remember that some months ago the Westphalia Express ran a story about a local councillor who was such a good councillor that he became a sort of 'super-councillor', who would go around the country giving other councils the benefit of his long experience, presumably telling them how to deal with and best serve the people they represent, and how to generally create a harmonious working environment at the town hall. This 'super-councillor' happened to be none other than the straight-talking, shoot-from-the-hip Deputy Mayor, otherwise known as his esteemed deputy worshipfulness Ahmad Hatter. Apparently none of the sharp journos down at the Westphalia Express saw any irony when a number of weeks later this recently annointed super-councillor was unceremoniously given the heave-ho by his own party as soon as he went on holiday. Their message seemed to be simple: he was obviously an excellent councillor and a wonderful human being, but they would prefer it if he spent more of his time dispensing wisdom in the town halls up and down the country and much less time being their leader in the one in Westphalia-on-Sea.
Seeing that the Westphalia Express had either not picked up on the irony of the situation, or had chosen to overlook it (perhaps to avoid further embarrassment to someone who had for so long been their favourite page 3 pin-up), it will come as no surprise to readers to learn that they have done it again. The source of the irony this time comes in the shape of the war memorial. For those people unfortunate enough not to live on the Cote De Westphalia and who don't know this touching story where human sacrifice becomes secondary to the value of prime real estate we provide below a brief synopsis of the saga:
Step 1: Dr Pangloss hires at great expense a firm of consultants who tell him he should start an ambitious building project down at the waterfront.
Step 2: Dr Pangloss announces that a casino complex will be central to this waterside redevelopment.
Step 3: The Westphalians tell Dr Pangloss that steps 1 & 2 are a load of crap.
Step 4: Dr Pangloss realises that the War Memorial is right in the middle of the land earmarked for the development.
Step 5: An amazing coincidence! At the same time that Dr Pangloss realises the War Memorial is right in the middle of the development site, he also realises that the War Memorial doesn't have the right vista. Yes, that's right. The silly sods who erected it had put it where the vista was all wrong. It must have been around this time that Dr Pangloss thought of the old saying about killing two birds with one stone. If he could point out this vista deficiency and suggest an alternative site with a much better vista to which the memorial could be moved all his problems would be solved.
Step 6: Dr Pangloss suggests moving the memorial to a corner of the harbour.
Step 7: The silly old Westphalians didn't really understand the vista problem, and told Dr Pangloss that step 6 was a load of crap as well.
Step 8: Dr Pangloss says 'OK, I wasn't really going to move he memorial, let's just forget all about it.'
Step 9: People begin to think that Dr Pangloss can't be trusted. It seems that the people who mostly hold this view are the councillors in Dr Pangloss's own party. They are so worried that Cllr Twist and and Cllr Nitrate bring a motion to retain the memorial in its current position. Dr Pangloss insists he was just 'trying to open a debate', but clearly the Tories don't trust him any further than they can spit - they wanted these assurances in writing.
So there you have it. The Tories want to protect the War Memorial from the excesses of the Tory Council led by the Tory Mayor-cum-Estate-Agent, and they want it in writing, rather like, we might assume, some kind of covenant. One wonders if anyone has pointed to Cllr Twist that some of the current administration tend to think that covenants are made to be broken.
So on the evidence of the events described above, it would seem that Dr Pangloss and Ahmad Hatter are not very popular down at the town hall, least of all with members of their own party. However, Dr Pangloss should not lose heart because there is still at least one Tory prepared to nail his colours to the mast and stand beside Pangloss. Yes, prospective Tory candidate Charlie Windsor has publicly stated on his blog on 22nd September: 'And as for the mayor? You can't see it, nor would I expect you to (presumably because we have not yet reached the state of grace and enlightenment that our Charlie has achieved - Ed) but I assure you that he is an asset to my campaign; people like him and think he is doing his best for the bay.'
Of course, to regular readers of Charlie Windsor's blog (latest figures available put the readership somewhere between 1 and 10) this kind of nonsense will come as no surprise. Who can forget his robust defence of the wild speculations of the banking industry and his downplaying of the resulting financial catastrophe, or his blaming the Labour government for the Ross/Brand affair at the BBC? Anyway let's not upset ourselves by dwelling of the mental powers of the man from Windsor. Over at the offices of the Westphalia Express John Staedtler was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had ignored the advice of Paul French and not revealed to the public that he had received further postcards from the bloggers, and nothing had happened. All that tosh that French came out with about him being part of Piddlebackside; well, it was just nonsense. He'd been reading too many detective novels, for sure. Just then the door opened and a colleague left some post on the corner of Staedtler's desk. Among the brown business envelopes a red dragon caught Staedtler's eye. On closer inspection he saw it was a postcard from South Wales. He turned it over. The message began 'Dear John', but it was incomplete. He picked up another postcard, this time from Liverpool. Another incomplete message was on the reverse. A third postcard was from Stoke-on-Trent, and a fourth from Nantwich. Turning all the postcards over he realised that they fitted together like a puzzle, and that by arranging them he could read part of the message. Not all of it though, because there were two postcards still missing. This would have been a problem, but when Staedtler put two of his postcards together the last line of the message was revealed. It said: 'P.S. If you're wondering where the missing pieces are, call Pangloss and Charlie.'
Staedtler was just about to hit the speed dial button on his phone that would connect him directly to the mayor's office when his phone rang. He picked it up before it could ring a second time and said: 'Staedtler".
"John, it's French. any news?"
"You could say that," replied Staedtler. "I think you'd better come over."
Seeing that the Westphalia Express had either not picked up on the irony of the situation, or had chosen to overlook it (perhaps to avoid further embarrassment to someone who had for so long been their favourite page 3 pin-up), it will come as no surprise to readers to learn that they have done it again. The source of the irony this time comes in the shape of the war memorial. For those people unfortunate enough not to live on the Cote De Westphalia and who don't know this touching story where human sacrifice becomes secondary to the value of prime real estate we provide below a brief synopsis of the saga:
Step 1: Dr Pangloss hires at great expense a firm of consultants who tell him he should start an ambitious building project down at the waterfront.
Step 2: Dr Pangloss announces that a casino complex will be central to this waterside redevelopment.
Step 3: The Westphalians tell Dr Pangloss that steps 1 & 2 are a load of crap.
Step 4: Dr Pangloss realises that the War Memorial is right in the middle of the land earmarked for the development.
Step 5: An amazing coincidence! At the same time that Dr Pangloss realises the War Memorial is right in the middle of the development site, he also realises that the War Memorial doesn't have the right vista. Yes, that's right. The silly sods who erected it had put it where the vista was all wrong. It must have been around this time that Dr Pangloss thought of the old saying about killing two birds with one stone. If he could point out this vista deficiency and suggest an alternative site with a much better vista to which the memorial could be moved all his problems would be solved.
Step 6: Dr Pangloss suggests moving the memorial to a corner of the harbour.
Step 7: The silly old Westphalians didn't really understand the vista problem, and told Dr Pangloss that step 6 was a load of crap as well.
Step 8: Dr Pangloss says 'OK, I wasn't really going to move he memorial, let's just forget all about it.'
Step 9: People begin to think that Dr Pangloss can't be trusted. It seems that the people who mostly hold this view are the councillors in Dr Pangloss's own party. They are so worried that Cllr Twist and and Cllr Nitrate bring a motion to retain the memorial in its current position. Dr Pangloss insists he was just 'trying to open a debate', but clearly the Tories don't trust him any further than they can spit - they wanted these assurances in writing.
So there you have it. The Tories want to protect the War Memorial from the excesses of the Tory Council led by the Tory Mayor-cum-Estate-Agent, and they want it in writing, rather like, we might assume, some kind of covenant. One wonders if anyone has pointed to Cllr Twist that some of the current administration tend to think that covenants are made to be broken.
So on the evidence of the events described above, it would seem that Dr Pangloss and Ahmad Hatter are not very popular down at the town hall, least of all with members of their own party. However, Dr Pangloss should not lose heart because there is still at least one Tory prepared to nail his colours to the mast and stand beside Pangloss. Yes, prospective Tory candidate Charlie Windsor has publicly stated on his blog on 22nd September: 'And as for the mayor? You can't see it, nor would I expect you to (presumably because we have not yet reached the state of grace and enlightenment that our Charlie has achieved - Ed) but I assure you that he is an asset to my campaign; people like him and think he is doing his best for the bay.'
Of course, to regular readers of Charlie Windsor's blog (latest figures available put the readership somewhere between 1 and 10) this kind of nonsense will come as no surprise. Who can forget his robust defence of the wild speculations of the banking industry and his downplaying of the resulting financial catastrophe, or his blaming the Labour government for the Ross/Brand affair at the BBC? Anyway let's not upset ourselves by dwelling of the mental powers of the man from Windsor. Over at the offices of the Westphalia Express John Staedtler was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had ignored the advice of Paul French and not revealed to the public that he had received further postcards from the bloggers, and nothing had happened. All that tosh that French came out with about him being part of Piddlebackside; well, it was just nonsense. He'd been reading too many detective novels, for sure. Just then the door opened and a colleague left some post on the corner of Staedtler's desk. Among the brown business envelopes a red dragon caught Staedtler's eye. On closer inspection he saw it was a postcard from South Wales. He turned it over. The message began 'Dear John', but it was incomplete. He picked up another postcard, this time from Liverpool. Another incomplete message was on the reverse. A third postcard was from Stoke-on-Trent, and a fourth from Nantwich. Turning all the postcards over he realised that they fitted together like a puzzle, and that by arranging them he could read part of the message. Not all of it though, because there were two postcards still missing. This would have been a problem, but when Staedtler put two of his postcards together the last line of the message was revealed. It said: 'P.S. If you're wondering where the missing pieces are, call Pangloss and Charlie.'
Staedtler was just about to hit the speed dial button on his phone that would connect him directly to the mayor's office when his phone rang. He picked it up before it could ring a second time and said: 'Staedtler".
"John, it's French. any news?"
"You could say that," replied Staedtler. "I think you'd better come over."
Chapter 60 In which moving the war memorial was definitely not suggested
October 2008 was an exciting time in Westphalia-on-Sea. First of all, the sixteenth was Piddlebackside Day, the one-year anniversary of the Piddlebackside blog. Piddlebackside Day was, of course, a very low key affair, since the Westphalia Express was reluctant to give it any publicity, but due to the technological wonder of the Internet readers continued to pop up all over the globe, regardless of any 'official' recognition. It was also pinned up by the coffee machine from time to time by a mischievous councillor in the Westphalia Town Hall.
October was also an exciting time for Dr Pangloss, because it meant he had managed draw his salary for another 12 months without any sign of armed revolution on the streets of Westphalia-on-Sea. Quite how he'd managed this feat he didn't really know. Admittedly he had had to pay a hefty price to the consultants for showing him how to pull the wool over the eyes of the Westphalians, but now he felt he was up and running on his own. He had got the Westphalia Express back on side, and they were, for the moment, happy to print his outlandish tales of 'jam tomorrow'. He said things like 'if someone like John Lewis and Waitrose were to show interest we would certainly welcome them'. Of course, what he omitted to say was: 'but they won't.' No, it was a sad fact that if John Lewis or Waitrose were to open stores in Westphalia-on-Sea during a recession then their shareholders would seriously question the sanity of the board of directors running those companies. But that didn't matter, because Pangloss was on a mission to talk up these wild ideas. Luckily for him he didn't have to live in the real world, because he led a charmed life. If he needed any more evidence of this he had only to look at the plight of the estate agents. Down to an average of one sale a week they were shutting up shop and laying people off at a fair old rate. Pangloss, on the other hand, the Mother of All Estate Agents, was totally recession-proof with his mayoral salary. It was just too good to be true. And whenever he had to revert to being an estate agent again in the future much of the competition would have gone to the wall. Happy days!
Safe in the knowledge that however bad he was at his job he could not be ousted, his stories became even wilder. He explained in his column why the Westphalians lived in the best of all possible worlds, and how they wouldn't be hit too badly by the recession while he was in charge. He talked about the Hilton Hotel coming to town. He explained how life would be better if we could shoot across the Bay ten minutes quicker in all weathers and at all times of the day, and he had had his photo taken with the man from the bus company with the very firm handshake who had promised to make it happen. He explained how parking meters represented progress. And then he got carried away and mentioned creating a 'cafe culture' in Westphalia Road in Eastphalia by closing the road to traffic. In December. After the clocks have gone back. When it gets dark at 4 o'clock. Yes, it seemed that Pangloss believed that the only thing stopping the good people of Eastphalia having an espresso out on the pavement on a cold dark December afternoon after a stroll around the boarded-up shops was the traffic. To be fair, Dr Pangloss probably knew in his heart of hearts that this was a mad idea, because he sent Ahmad Hatter out to do the photoshoot and talk to the press. For his part, Ahmad Hatter was just glad to see his face back in the paper without the words 'stabbed in the back by his own party' under the photo, so he wasn't complaining. Of course, during the announcement of all these glad tidings there were grumbles from some of the more half-witted locals. They said things like: 'but the new ferry will wreck the business of those who have been here for years and it uses loads of fuel', and 'we don't want to pay to park and the parking meters spoil the seafront' and 'the number of shopper in town has fallen'. Luckily for Dr Pangloss these were just a small minority of old duffers who hadn't fully grasped what progress meant, so they could be easily ignored. Hot on the heels of the cafe culture story was an even crazier notion: a £50,000 p. a. salary for a Town Centre Chief Executive. Yes, dear readers, a salary close to that of the mayor's to someone whose job, it seems, is to go around local traders and ask them for more money, because the council 'can't afford to clean the streets more often, put in more flowers and put more bins out.' So in the crazy world of Westphalia-on-Sea you can't get money for street cleaning, but you can get a grant to set up a company to employ someone to go around and ask local shopkeepers for money for, er, street cleaning.
So while the residents all along the Cote de Westphalia were in for a tough financial time Dr Pangloss was rather pleased with how things were going. He did, however, still have some unfinished business down at the seafront. There was a piece of prime real estate with glorious sea views opposite Wreck Walk, but stuck slap bang in the middle of it was an old war memorial, precisely where Pangloss wanted to build his now legendary 'second casino', one of the cornerstones of his plan to turn the tired old seaside resort into something to rival Monte Carlo. Of course, it had completely pissed down for the last two summers, but Pangloss was still confident that fit-looking French, Russian and Lebanese beauties would soon be beating a path to the beach to sit among the seaweed and wait for the rain to turn to a light drizzle if only he could get the go-ahead for that casino. Having spent a little time reminding the locals of the pseudo-mediterranean sophistication that awaited them he slipped the idea of moving the war memorial into the conversation. Well, talk about overreaction. The usual bunch of coffin-dodgers went barmy. 'It's a disgrace!' 'You can't move that - it's a grave!' they screamed.
Pangloss reverted to estate agent-mode. 'Look the memorial's lost its vista,' he said.
'What the fuck are you talking about?' asked the locals.
'It needs to be in a more prominent position,' he said. 'Let's stick it over there, in the corner of the harbour, that would be great. There's a much better vista over there. I've seen it. Inanimate objects need a good vista or they get depressed - it's a well-known fact.'
'Are you sure you don't just want to move it so you can build a casino?' asked the locals.
'No, honestly, I give you my word as an estate agent,' promised Pangloss. 'I just want it to have the vista it deserves.' Eventually Dr Pangloss realised that the locals were probably far too thick to understand the concept of vistas for war memorials, so he adopted a more simplistic approach which he felt even the average Westphalian would understand. 'Look,' he said, 'let's pretend I never said anything about moving the memorial. Let's just say everyone misunderstood me when I started talking about moving the war memorial. And let's not forget that many people have laid down their lives for the right to freedom of speech, particularly when it comes to speeches about moving war memorials. So in a way we would be honouring the dead by discussing moving the war memorial, but of course we're not, because I never ever suggested moving it.'
And when the mayor had finished explaining himself all the Westphalians agreed that if they did want their war memorial moved any time in the future they would certainly make sure Dr Pangloss was the first to know.
October was also an exciting time for Dr Pangloss, because it meant he had managed draw his salary for another 12 months without any sign of armed revolution on the streets of Westphalia-on-Sea. Quite how he'd managed this feat he didn't really know. Admittedly he had had to pay a hefty price to the consultants for showing him how to pull the wool over the eyes of the Westphalians, but now he felt he was up and running on his own. He had got the Westphalia Express back on side, and they were, for the moment, happy to print his outlandish tales of 'jam tomorrow'. He said things like 'if someone like John Lewis and Waitrose were to show interest we would certainly welcome them'. Of course, what he omitted to say was: 'but they won't.' No, it was a sad fact that if John Lewis or Waitrose were to open stores in Westphalia-on-Sea during a recession then their shareholders would seriously question the sanity of the board of directors running those companies. But that didn't matter, because Pangloss was on a mission to talk up these wild ideas. Luckily for him he didn't have to live in the real world, because he led a charmed life. If he needed any more evidence of this he had only to look at the plight of the estate agents. Down to an average of one sale a week they were shutting up shop and laying people off at a fair old rate. Pangloss, on the other hand, the Mother of All Estate Agents, was totally recession-proof with his mayoral salary. It was just too good to be true. And whenever he had to revert to being an estate agent again in the future much of the competition would have gone to the wall. Happy days!
Safe in the knowledge that however bad he was at his job he could not be ousted, his stories became even wilder. He explained in his column why the Westphalians lived in the best of all possible worlds, and how they wouldn't be hit too badly by the recession while he was in charge. He talked about the Hilton Hotel coming to town. He explained how life would be better if we could shoot across the Bay ten minutes quicker in all weathers and at all times of the day, and he had had his photo taken with the man from the bus company with the very firm handshake who had promised to make it happen. He explained how parking meters represented progress. And then he got carried away and mentioned creating a 'cafe culture' in Westphalia Road in Eastphalia by closing the road to traffic. In December. After the clocks have gone back. When it gets dark at 4 o'clock. Yes, it seemed that Pangloss believed that the only thing stopping the good people of Eastphalia having an espresso out on the pavement on a cold dark December afternoon after a stroll around the boarded-up shops was the traffic. To be fair, Dr Pangloss probably knew in his heart of hearts that this was a mad idea, because he sent Ahmad Hatter out to do the photoshoot and talk to the press. For his part, Ahmad Hatter was just glad to see his face back in the paper without the words 'stabbed in the back by his own party' under the photo, so he wasn't complaining. Of course, during the announcement of all these glad tidings there were grumbles from some of the more half-witted locals. They said things like: 'but the new ferry will wreck the business of those who have been here for years and it uses loads of fuel', and 'we don't want to pay to park and the parking meters spoil the seafront' and 'the number of shopper in town has fallen'. Luckily for Dr Pangloss these were just a small minority of old duffers who hadn't fully grasped what progress meant, so they could be easily ignored. Hot on the heels of the cafe culture story was an even crazier notion: a £50,000 p. a. salary for a Town Centre Chief Executive. Yes, dear readers, a salary close to that of the mayor's to someone whose job, it seems, is to go around local traders and ask them for more money, because the council 'can't afford to clean the streets more often, put in more flowers and put more bins out.' So in the crazy world of Westphalia-on-Sea you can't get money for street cleaning, but you can get a grant to set up a company to employ someone to go around and ask local shopkeepers for money for, er, street cleaning.
So while the residents all along the Cote de Westphalia were in for a tough financial time Dr Pangloss was rather pleased with how things were going. He did, however, still have some unfinished business down at the seafront. There was a piece of prime real estate with glorious sea views opposite Wreck Walk, but stuck slap bang in the middle of it was an old war memorial, precisely where Pangloss wanted to build his now legendary 'second casino', one of the cornerstones of his plan to turn the tired old seaside resort into something to rival Monte Carlo. Of course, it had completely pissed down for the last two summers, but Pangloss was still confident that fit-looking French, Russian and Lebanese beauties would soon be beating a path to the beach to sit among the seaweed and wait for the rain to turn to a light drizzle if only he could get the go-ahead for that casino. Having spent a little time reminding the locals of the pseudo-mediterranean sophistication that awaited them he slipped the idea of moving the war memorial into the conversation. Well, talk about overreaction. The usual bunch of coffin-dodgers went barmy. 'It's a disgrace!' 'You can't move that - it's a grave!' they screamed.
Pangloss reverted to estate agent-mode. 'Look the memorial's lost its vista,' he said.
'What the fuck are you talking about?' asked the locals.
'It needs to be in a more prominent position,' he said. 'Let's stick it over there, in the corner of the harbour, that would be great. There's a much better vista over there. I've seen it. Inanimate objects need a good vista or they get depressed - it's a well-known fact.'
'Are you sure you don't just want to move it so you can build a casino?' asked the locals.
'No, honestly, I give you my word as an estate agent,' promised Pangloss. 'I just want it to have the vista it deserves.' Eventually Dr Pangloss realised that the locals were probably far too thick to understand the concept of vistas for war memorials, so he adopted a more simplistic approach which he felt even the average Westphalian would understand. 'Look,' he said, 'let's pretend I never said anything about moving the memorial. Let's just say everyone misunderstood me when I started talking about moving the war memorial. And let's not forget that many people have laid down their lives for the right to freedom of speech, particularly when it comes to speeches about moving war memorials. So in a way we would be honouring the dead by discussing moving the war memorial, but of course we're not, because I never ever suggested moving it.'
And when the mayor had finished explaining himself all the Westphalians agreed that if they did want their war memorial moved any time in the future they would certainly make sure Dr Pangloss was the first to know.
Chapter 59 In which the parking issue descends into farce
"There really is no pleasing some people, is there?" sighed a very frustrated and close-to-the-end-of-his-tether Dr Pangloss as he screwed the copy of the Westphalia Express he had just been reading into a loose ball and sent it skidding across the polished parquet floor of his office. "You try and do something positive that will bring a few quid into the council's coffers, something that will really invigorate the town centres at a crucial time, something that will greatly increase the number of shoppers, and do you get any thanks? Of course you don't. All you get is a procession of fossils from the last century saying 'we can't afford it', 'I used to shop there but I won't anymore', and 'this is the last nail in the coffin for Eastphalia'. Talk about negative. What's a couple of quid? Christ on a bike! If I dropped a couple of quid I wouldn't risk putting my back out to pick it up. It's small change in this day and age. Fair enough if you want to sit in your car drinking lukewarm tea while staring out at the English Channel, but you've got to expect to pay for it. There are no free lunches anymore. Especially not in the 21st century. You've got to pay for everything. In fact paying for things can actually enhance your enjoyment. It adds value. Any consultant worth his salt will tell you that. Things you pay for must ipso facto have some inherent value, and are therefore much more fun than things which are free. This measure is actually increasing everyone's pleasure, but where's the support? Where are the letters saying 'hats off to Dr Pangloss - this time he's got it absolutely right!' or 'Three cheers for Dr Pangloss - I'd much rather pay to park!' Nowhere. Abso-bloody-lutely nowhere. It makes me ruddy sick ..."
"Are tha' talking to me lad?" asked Ahmad Hatter, as he stirred in the chair opposite. "What's tha' wittering on abat?"
"Parking meters, the bloody parking meters, of course. Nobody seems to appreciate them, or the fantastic opportunity they represent," replied Pangloss.
"Oh, don't get me started on them ungrateful bloody locals," replied Hatter. "They were just t' bloody same when I told them where they could stick their bloody covenants. Not a ruddy word of thanks I got for that."
Just then the councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Good news Your Worshipfulness!" he beamed. "We're going to reduce car parking charges in the run-up to Christmas."
"What's the point of that? Only a little while ago you told us that putting up parking charges was good for business."
"Oh you didn't believe that old tosh, did you?" asked the cllr FUC-U. "Don't be silly - we all know people hate parking charges. No, now you have to go on record saying that lower charges are a good thing."
"Well what shall I say?"
"Oh, I don't know; what about something like this: 'It will hopefully lead to an upturn in trade and encourage more people to come into the Cote de Westphalia to do their shopping'."
"Why yes," said Pangloss, "I rather like that. Wait a minute, won't they spot that we've completed changed our stance on parking charges?"
"No," smirked the cllr FUC-U, "because I've got this - ", and with a little flurry he rolled in a giant 50p piece made of lightweight plastic and said 'Ta - Da'."
"What's that?" aske the Mayor.
"50 pence" replied the cllr FUC-U. "We have our photo taken with it. It will distract the readers and they will never actually realise that this measure actually proves that we are completely and utterly wrong about the net result of parking charges, i.e. that they will ultimately adversely affect local businesses."
"Splendid idea!" said Pangloss, almost shouting. "Let's get down to the ticket machine - I love a good photoshoot!"
"Are tha' talking to me lad?" asked Ahmad Hatter, as he stirred in the chair opposite. "What's tha' wittering on abat?"
"Parking meters, the bloody parking meters, of course. Nobody seems to appreciate them, or the fantastic opportunity they represent," replied Pangloss.
"Oh, don't get me started on them ungrateful bloody locals," replied Hatter. "They were just t' bloody same when I told them where they could stick their bloody covenants. Not a ruddy word of thanks I got for that."
Just then the councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Good news Your Worshipfulness!" he beamed. "We're going to reduce car parking charges in the run-up to Christmas."
"What's the point of that? Only a little while ago you told us that putting up parking charges was good for business."
"Oh you didn't believe that old tosh, did you?" asked the cllr FUC-U. "Don't be silly - we all know people hate parking charges. No, now you have to go on record saying that lower charges are a good thing."
"Well what shall I say?"
"Oh, I don't know; what about something like this: 'It will hopefully lead to an upturn in trade and encourage more people to come into the Cote de Westphalia to do their shopping'."
"Why yes," said Pangloss, "I rather like that. Wait a minute, won't they spot that we've completed changed our stance on parking charges?"
"No," smirked the cllr FUC-U, "because I've got this - ", and with a little flurry he rolled in a giant 50p piece made of lightweight plastic and said 'Ta - Da'."
"What's that?" aske the Mayor.
"50 pence" replied the cllr FUC-U. "We have our photo taken with it. It will distract the readers and they will never actually realise that this measure actually proves that we are completely and utterly wrong about the net result of parking charges, i.e. that they will ultimately adversely affect local businesses."
"Splendid idea!" said Pangloss, almost shouting. "Let's get down to the ticket machine - I love a good photoshoot!"
Chapter 58 In which a planning application goes 'tits up'
September in Westphalia-on-Sea was shaping up to be a pretty normal affair: the few tourists that had bothered to visit had all gone home, and right on cue the rain had dried up and the sun had come out. Sitting across the desk from Dr Pangloss in his spacious office at the Town Hall was John Staedtler, who had come down to see exactly how much blood was on the carpet after the Tory group had collectively axed their leader.
"OK, let's get this straight right from the outset," began the Mayor, "Ahmad Hatter will definitely stay on as deputy mayor. There is nobody in the group who has asked me or suggested to me that he should not be in that role." He added: "His contribution in the past few years has been absolutely outstanding. It is a great shame that people are judged by one or two things that go wrong or one or two comments rather than the huge amount of good things that he has done."
"Can you give me an example?" asked Staedtler.
"Well, he's going to be remembered for things like Wreck Walk and covenant-breaking, isn't he, whereas what we should be celebrating is his no-nonsense, straight-talking and iron-fist approach."
"Some people might call it an arrogant, rude and bullying approach?" suggested Staedtler.
" Oh, without a doubt, it's that style which has partly led to his downfall," said the Mayor quickly, "but all that 'ee-by-'eck-well-I'll-go-t' foot-of-our-stairs-where-there's-muck-there's-brass-and-I speak-as-I-find-type thing gave life in the Town Hall a certain rustic charm. Goodness me, I hardly knew what he was on about half the time. They certainly didn't talk like that at my prep school, I can tell you. They didn't really do 'blunt northerners' at the schools I went to."
"I see. So why are you keeping him on as Deputy Mayor if more than half of his own party don't seem to like him much and don't want him as their leader?"
"Now look, let's not get bogged down in the semantics of this business - probably best just to gloss over that question, if you don't mind. Politics is a funny old business, and I'm sure it can all seem rather strange for an outsider looking in, but the truth of the matter is this: it is entirely possible for someone to be doing an excellent job and enjoy the full support of their cabinet colleagues, and still be asked to stand down when they get back from holiday. It's a bit like a surprise retirement party thrown by all your friends."
"Hmm, I'm not entirely sure I follow you," said Staedtler, scratching his head. So you're saying they've all done him a big favour, and he's very happy about it?"
"Happy? Happy? Ecstatic, I'd say. Over the moon. Pleased as punch. A chance to spend more time with the family, a spot of gardening, put the old CD collection in alphabetical order, all that sort of thing. It's a real opportunity for him. Once the votes had been counted he very quickly grabbed the opportunity not to be leader anymore - it was that simple."
"And he doesn't bear any grudges?"
"Grudges? No, nooo. Under that gruff exterior he's just a big old pussycat. A cuddly teddy bear. A sleepy koala bear. A little tiny dormouse ..."
"Yes, I get the picture ..." said Staedtler, looking up from his notepad.
Just then the Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Oh, sorry, am I interrupting? It's just that I've come across a small problem with the planning application for Wreck Walk."
"Can't this wait?" asked Pangloss, trying to indicate that he was with a journalist.
"Well, not really. It''s all turning into a bit of a mess."
"Ooh, it's not connected with parking fines, is it?" interjected Staedtler. "Just thinking 'Another fine mess' would make a good headline."
"No it's nothing to do with parking fines," said the Cllr FUC-U. "It's section 16 on the planning application. It says 'Are there any trees or hedges on the proposed development site? And then it says 'Are there trees or hedges on land adjacent to the proposed development site that could influence the development or might be important as part of the local landscape character?'"
"Hmm, that might pose a small problem ...," mused Pangloss.
"Wait, there's more. It says 'if yes to either or both of the above, you will need to provide a full Tree Survey, with accompanying plan before your application can be determined. Your Local Planning Authority should make clear on its website what the survey should contain, etc., etc."
"OK," said Pangloss, "let me see if I've got this right. We've already cut down every tree on Wreck Walk, permanently closed half the road and made the cliff unstable and now we think we shouldn't have because we didn't follow the necessary planning procedures?"
"That's it in a nutshell, boss. Imagine if it was a member of the public wanting to do something on their land which involved cutting down trees. Well, it would be like them chopping all the trees down first, and then coming to us and putting in a planning application, wouldn't it? We wouldn't be very happy, would we?"
"No, but there again, a member of the public probably wouldn't be stupid enough to go round chopping trees down willy-nilly without permission, would they?"
"No, I suppose not. Anyway, what are we going to do?"
"What are we going to do? What are you going to do, more like. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to have you face, with a suitably glum expression on it, superimposed on a picture of Wreck Walk for the front page of the Westphalia Express. My face will appear in the relative safety of page five, doing my usual amateur dramatics or certificate presentation, or judging a novelty cake competition, or some such. I can't get involved in all that rocks and trees stuff. By the way, whatever became of my 'Grot-Busting' initiative aimed at preventing eyesores around the Bay? Did that bloke in Fishhole ever get round to repainting his house? It was an absolute disgrace, it really was."
"OK, let's get this straight right from the outset," began the Mayor, "Ahmad Hatter will definitely stay on as deputy mayor. There is nobody in the group who has asked me or suggested to me that he should not be in that role." He added: "His contribution in the past few years has been absolutely outstanding. It is a great shame that people are judged by one or two things that go wrong or one or two comments rather than the huge amount of good things that he has done."
"Can you give me an example?" asked Staedtler.
"Well, he's going to be remembered for things like Wreck Walk and covenant-breaking, isn't he, whereas what we should be celebrating is his no-nonsense, straight-talking and iron-fist approach."
"Some people might call it an arrogant, rude and bullying approach?" suggested Staedtler.
" Oh, without a doubt, it's that style which has partly led to his downfall," said the Mayor quickly, "but all that 'ee-by-'eck-well-I'll-go-t' foot-of-our-stairs-where-there's-muck-there's-brass-and-I speak-as-I-find-type thing gave life in the Town Hall a certain rustic charm. Goodness me, I hardly knew what he was on about half the time. They certainly didn't talk like that at my prep school, I can tell you. They didn't really do 'blunt northerners' at the schools I went to."
"I see. So why are you keeping him on as Deputy Mayor if more than half of his own party don't seem to like him much and don't want him as their leader?"
"Now look, let's not get bogged down in the semantics of this business - probably best just to gloss over that question, if you don't mind. Politics is a funny old business, and I'm sure it can all seem rather strange for an outsider looking in, but the truth of the matter is this: it is entirely possible for someone to be doing an excellent job and enjoy the full support of their cabinet colleagues, and still be asked to stand down when they get back from holiday. It's a bit like a surprise retirement party thrown by all your friends."
"Hmm, I'm not entirely sure I follow you," said Staedtler, scratching his head. So you're saying they've all done him a big favour, and he's very happy about it?"
"Happy? Happy? Ecstatic, I'd say. Over the moon. Pleased as punch. A chance to spend more time with the family, a spot of gardening, put the old CD collection in alphabetical order, all that sort of thing. It's a real opportunity for him. Once the votes had been counted he very quickly grabbed the opportunity not to be leader anymore - it was that simple."
"And he doesn't bear any grudges?"
"Grudges? No, nooo. Under that gruff exterior he's just a big old pussycat. A cuddly teddy bear. A sleepy koala bear. A little tiny dormouse ..."
"Yes, I get the picture ..." said Staedtler, looking up from his notepad.
Just then the Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Oh, sorry, am I interrupting? It's just that I've come across a small problem with the planning application for Wreck Walk."
"Can't this wait?" asked Pangloss, trying to indicate that he was with a journalist.
"Well, not really. It''s all turning into a bit of a mess."
"Ooh, it's not connected with parking fines, is it?" interjected Staedtler. "Just thinking 'Another fine mess' would make a good headline."
"No it's nothing to do with parking fines," said the Cllr FUC-U. "It's section 16 on the planning application. It says 'Are there any trees or hedges on the proposed development site? And then it says 'Are there trees or hedges on land adjacent to the proposed development site that could influence the development or might be important as part of the local landscape character?'"
"Hmm, that might pose a small problem ...," mused Pangloss.
"Wait, there's more. It says 'if yes to either or both of the above, you will need to provide a full Tree Survey, with accompanying plan before your application can be determined. Your Local Planning Authority should make clear on its website what the survey should contain, etc., etc."
"OK," said Pangloss, "let me see if I've got this right. We've already cut down every tree on Wreck Walk, permanently closed half the road and made the cliff unstable and now we think we shouldn't have because we didn't follow the necessary planning procedures?"
"That's it in a nutshell, boss. Imagine if it was a member of the public wanting to do something on their land which involved cutting down trees. Well, it would be like them chopping all the trees down first, and then coming to us and putting in a planning application, wouldn't it? We wouldn't be very happy, would we?"
"No, but there again, a member of the public probably wouldn't be stupid enough to go round chopping trees down willy-nilly without permission, would they?"
"No, I suppose not. Anyway, what are we going to do?"
"What are we going to do? What are you going to do, more like. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to have you face, with a suitably glum expression on it, superimposed on a picture of Wreck Walk for the front page of the Westphalia Express. My face will appear in the relative safety of page five, doing my usual amateur dramatics or certificate presentation, or judging a novelty cake competition, or some such. I can't get involved in all that rocks and trees stuff. By the way, whatever became of my 'Grot-Busting' initiative aimed at preventing eyesores around the Bay? Did that bloke in Fishhole ever get round to repainting his house? It was an absolute disgrace, it really was."
Chapter 57 In which Staedtler is given a tip about the Queer Affair in Fishhole
John Staedtler grabbed the phone on his desk before it had chance to ring twice and barked his name into the mouthpiece by way of a greeting.
"French, here," came the voice at the other end. "Your private dick - remember?"
"Oh, hello," said Staedtler. "What do you want?"
"Oh, just following up the case, and wondering why you didn't tell me you'd received more postcards from the Piddlebackside blogger. What's the story John?"
"Er ... it slipped my mind?"
"Not very convincing John. I warned you that you might get in above your head. Having second thoughts about getting into this business?"
"No just sitting on the postcards for the moment. Ball's in my court, and all that. Considering my options."
"I see. So have you had any calls yet? Anyone phoning you to find out what the clue was on that sixth card?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, you might get some soon. Or emails. Readers will want to know what was on it. To them the goings-on in Piddlebackside are more important than what's happening here on the Cote De Westphalia."
"Don't be ridiculous! People phoning me up for information about a fictitious place? You're having a laugh."
"Am I? Twenty-five thousand hits? Readers in Canada and on the west coast of America? And in Australia and Europe? Piddlebackside has become something of a phenomenon. I wouldn't bet against the odd phone call or two - especially when people read this."
"What do you mean, when people read this?"
"Haven't you even figured that out, John? We're all involved. We're part of Piddlebackside. People are reading this is in real time - have you seen the film The Truman Show?" Staedtler nodded. "Well, it's a bit like that."
"No ... no," Staedler said, shaking his head as thoughts raced through it. "You might be in it, but I'm not. I'm just a regular journo in Westphalia-on-Sea, doing my job."
"John, John," said French, with mock reassurance. Staedtler knew from his tone that a sting in the tail was coming. "You went after the author, you printed postcards in your column. You're in deeper than me, deeper than lots of people."
"So what shall I do now?"
"Like I said before John, it's your call. But wouldn't you just like to get a few more postcards? See where the clues begin to point? A couple of pictures and few lines - it won't take more than half a column, maybe less."
"I'll think about it."
"I think it would be wise - in my 'umble opinion. Now what about this queer business over in Fishhole?"
"Queer business? I don't know what you're talking about."
"The Fast-cat ferry. Doesn't it smell fishy to you?"
"No ... a whiff of diesel maybe. Are you thinking of the trawlers?"
"I mean fishy as in suspicious."
"How do you mean? I don't know of any strange goings-on. I read that the launch went well - just a small hitch while they had to wait for one of the existing ferries to go out of business."
"Don't you mean get out of the way?"
"Yes, yes, of course I do. Freudian slip. Anyway, I think our official line is 'competition is healthy'."
"Even if it puts locals out of business?"
"Well, look, I can't really comment." Staedtler looked towards the door which was about ten centimetres ajar -he did not want to be overheard.
"OK, point taken," said French. "Well this guy who's running the show - maybe you should check him out - I can't repeat it all here, I'll email you a link. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/612409.stm It's kosha - from the BBC, no less. OK, got to go."
"OK ... bye," said Staedtler, replacing the reciever slowly. There's more to this Piddlebackside stuff than meets the eye, he thought to himself.
"French, here," came the voice at the other end. "Your private dick - remember?"
"Oh, hello," said Staedtler. "What do you want?"
"Oh, just following up the case, and wondering why you didn't tell me you'd received more postcards from the Piddlebackside blogger. What's the story John?"
"Er ... it slipped my mind?"
"Not very convincing John. I warned you that you might get in above your head. Having second thoughts about getting into this business?"
"No just sitting on the postcards for the moment. Ball's in my court, and all that. Considering my options."
"I see. So have you had any calls yet? Anyone phoning you to find out what the clue was on that sixth card?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, you might get some soon. Or emails. Readers will want to know what was on it. To them the goings-on in Piddlebackside are more important than what's happening here on the Cote De Westphalia."
"Don't be ridiculous! People phoning me up for information about a fictitious place? You're having a laugh."
"Am I? Twenty-five thousand hits? Readers in Canada and on the west coast of America? And in Australia and Europe? Piddlebackside has become something of a phenomenon. I wouldn't bet against the odd phone call or two - especially when people read this."
"What do you mean, when people read this?"
"Haven't you even figured that out, John? We're all involved. We're part of Piddlebackside. People are reading this is in real time - have you seen the film The Truman Show?" Staedtler nodded. "Well, it's a bit like that."
"No ... no," Staedler said, shaking his head as thoughts raced through it. "You might be in it, but I'm not. I'm just a regular journo in Westphalia-on-Sea, doing my job."
"John, John," said French, with mock reassurance. Staedtler knew from his tone that a sting in the tail was coming. "You went after the author, you printed postcards in your column. You're in deeper than me, deeper than lots of people."
"So what shall I do now?"
"Like I said before John, it's your call. But wouldn't you just like to get a few more postcards? See where the clues begin to point? A couple of pictures and few lines - it won't take more than half a column, maybe less."
"I'll think about it."
"I think it would be wise - in my 'umble opinion. Now what about this queer business over in Fishhole?"
"Queer business? I don't know what you're talking about."
"The Fast-cat ferry. Doesn't it smell fishy to you?"
"No ... a whiff of diesel maybe. Are you thinking of the trawlers?"
"I mean fishy as in suspicious."
"How do you mean? I don't know of any strange goings-on. I read that the launch went well - just a small hitch while they had to wait for one of the existing ferries to go out of business."
"Don't you mean get out of the way?"
"Yes, yes, of course I do. Freudian slip. Anyway, I think our official line is 'competition is healthy'."
"Even if it puts locals out of business?"
"Well, look, I can't really comment." Staedtler looked towards the door which was about ten centimetres ajar -he did not want to be overheard.
"OK, point taken," said French. "Well this guy who's running the show - maybe you should check him out - I can't repeat it all here, I'll email you a link. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/612409.stm It's kosha - from the BBC, no less. OK, got to go."
"OK ... bye," said Staedtler, replacing the reciever slowly. There's more to this Piddlebackside stuff than meets the eye, he thought to himself.
Chapter 56 In which we get a bird's eyeview of the goings on in Westphalia-on-Sea
Kenneth Livingston Seagull woke with surprise one late August morning. The surprise was due to the sun, which was suddenly shining in his eyes, something which hadn't happened, since, well, Kenneth couldn't really remember, but he knew it had been a while. He stood up and stretched his wings, and then hopped off the chimney where he had spent the night onto the top of the pitched roof a couple of feet below. Having only just woken up, and having webbed feet, he was a little unsteady on the slippery slates (at least they weren't wet - they were a nightmare then) so he flapped his wings a little for balance as he toddled along the top of the roof which he called home. It was nothing fancy, a three-bedroom terrace in an average part of town, but Kenneth was perfectly happy with it, and it had a little flat roof on an extension at the back, which was great for the kids when they were small and couldn't fly. Of course, he had no financial worries - he didn't have a mortgage, or even a bank account come to that. In fact he made a point of never carrying cash on him, ever since he heard that was what the Queen did. Or didn't. He had friends who lived on big detached houses with sea views, and they were always squawking on about the fresh fish heads you could get down on the coast if you had a mind to get up early, but that didn't interest Kenneth. If fact Kenneth was rather conservative by nature. His wife had recently told him about a swanky new development that was opening up on the seafront and tried to persuade him to move, but Kenneth was cautious. Sure, it was a great location, handy for the harbourside takeaways, and it had all been sealed off with large swathes of blue tarpaulin so the Providers couldn't go there anymore, and it seemed like they would never return. However, some of the Providers were still insisting they would be back, and Kenneth would not be persuaded to move from the roof where he had seen so many of his kids emerge from their eggs. His wife even pointed out that it would be good to get some more fish in their diet instead of living on convenience food, but Kenneth wasn't convinced. In fact he thought all this stuff about seafood and healthy eating was rather unnatural. If they were meant to go out catching fish, why did the Providers leave enormous bags of food out in the street for him? It just didn't make sense.
Kenneth was shaken out of his reverie by the noise of the first few Providers who were starting to appear from their houses below, and he began thinking about some of the crazy theories he had heard about them. Craziest by far was the idea that the Providers were actually the dominant species on the planet. Kenneth didn't believe this for one simple reason: it was the fact that he often saw the Providers out picking up fresh dog's mess, and in his small seagull-sized brain he figured that before any species could really be classed as truly dominant it would have to stop going around picking up the warm excrement of other species and casually slipping it in their pocket. True, the Providers seemed to have invented quite a lot of useful stuff, but they were a weird disorganised bunch and Kenneth should know - he had spent plenty of time observing their antics. Why, only the other day he had watched many of them sitting in their little metal boxes on a the road in Eastphalia. They moved very slowly up towards the traffic lights, but the queue seemed to stretch all the way back to the beach - it was a very strange state of affairs, and Kenneth was very glad that he didn't have to sit about in a queue like that on a warm day. No, he was pretty certain that the species which had organised this was not running the planet. If any of the species down on the ground was running the planet Kenneth thought it was probably the cats. He had seen them lying around doing nothing all day, and they didn't even have to look for food - everything was laid on for them. Each of them seemed to have trained their own personal Provider to handle the catering arrangements, and any time a Provider went away for a few days a neighbouring Provider took care of their feeding duties. It seemed like a very efficient system, and Kenneth was quite jealous of the way these furry layabouts had organised everything exactly to suit them. Yes, the more he thought about it the more logical it seemed - the cats were in charge.
Another idea concerning the Providers was Darwinism. Kenneth had heard about it, of course; what seagull hadn't? This was the mad notion that they were some kind of distant relationship between the Providers and other species, but Kenneth was very sceptical. He just couldn't see the likeness. The only behaviour that was vaguely similar was the way the Providers regurgitated their food late at night around the harbourside, but they didn't do it when their young were around, so Kenneth couldn't see the benefit in that. Some of the more radical gulls said there were far too many Providers around, and that there should be some kind of cull, but Kenneth thought this was a bit drastic. He preferred the other option, which was to let the stupid ones eat too much and die off earlier. Some gulls said this was 'natural selection', and that it was connected to Darwinism, but whenever the discussion began to get more serious Kenneth found he was usually distracted by a bundle of chip papers or the remains of Sainsbury's lasagne, so he lost the thread of the argument and never really got to fully understand what was going on around him.
Oh well, thought Kenneth, as he started lazily running for take-off, I suppose some
day everything will become clear and I'll finally understand what's going on around here. He flapped his wings a few time to get airborne, and continued to flap to get a bit more height. He was soon gliding effortlessly towards the town centre, keeing his eye out for the black binliner that would provide breakfast. Just as he was approaching the Town Hall Kenneth felt a rumbling in his lower intestine. Hmm, I don't think the spicy contents of those foil trays that I ate last night have agreed with me, he thought. With a small movement of the muscles at the rear end of his body he evacuated the problem. Ooh, that feels better, he thought. Once the offending remains had left Kenneth's body he didn't give them a second thought. This was unfortunate, because Kenneth, a thoughtful and rather philosophical seagull, would probably have appreciated the irony of what followed. A man on the ground had just parked his car, and hearing the Kenneth's squawk of relief, looked up. Splat!! The brown mess covered the man's glasses. If Kenneth had looked down at that moment he would have seen a rather angry man standing next to a small car in a parking bay where the word 'MAYOR' was just about visible on the wall.
Kenneth was shaken out of his reverie by the noise of the first few Providers who were starting to appear from their houses below, and he began thinking about some of the crazy theories he had heard about them. Craziest by far was the idea that the Providers were actually the dominant species on the planet. Kenneth didn't believe this for one simple reason: it was the fact that he often saw the Providers out picking up fresh dog's mess, and in his small seagull-sized brain he figured that before any species could really be classed as truly dominant it would have to stop going around picking up the warm excrement of other species and casually slipping it in their pocket. True, the Providers seemed to have invented quite a lot of useful stuff, but they were a weird disorganised bunch and Kenneth should know - he had spent plenty of time observing their antics. Why, only the other day he had watched many of them sitting in their little metal boxes on a the road in Eastphalia. They moved very slowly up towards the traffic lights, but the queue seemed to stretch all the way back to the beach - it was a very strange state of affairs, and Kenneth was very glad that he didn't have to sit about in a queue like that on a warm day. No, he was pretty certain that the species which had organised this was not running the planet. If any of the species down on the ground was running the planet Kenneth thought it was probably the cats. He had seen them lying around doing nothing all day, and they didn't even have to look for food - everything was laid on for them. Each of them seemed to have trained their own personal Provider to handle the catering arrangements, and any time a Provider went away for a few days a neighbouring Provider took care of their feeding duties. It seemed like a very efficient system, and Kenneth was quite jealous of the way these furry layabouts had organised everything exactly to suit them. Yes, the more he thought about it the more logical it seemed - the cats were in charge.
Another idea concerning the Providers was Darwinism. Kenneth had heard about it, of course; what seagull hadn't? This was the mad notion that they were some kind of distant relationship between the Providers and other species, but Kenneth was very sceptical. He just couldn't see the likeness. The only behaviour that was vaguely similar was the way the Providers regurgitated their food late at night around the harbourside, but they didn't do it when their young were around, so Kenneth couldn't see the benefit in that. Some of the more radical gulls said there were far too many Providers around, and that there should be some kind of cull, but Kenneth thought this was a bit drastic. He preferred the other option, which was to let the stupid ones eat too much and die off earlier. Some gulls said this was 'natural selection', and that it was connected to Darwinism, but whenever the discussion began to get more serious Kenneth found he was usually distracted by a bundle of chip papers or the remains of Sainsbury's lasagne, so he lost the thread of the argument and never really got to fully understand what was going on around him.
Oh well, thought Kenneth, as he started lazily running for take-off, I suppose some
day everything will become clear and I'll finally understand what's going on around here. He flapped his wings a few time to get airborne, and continued to flap to get a bit more height. He was soon gliding effortlessly towards the town centre, keeing his eye out for the black binliner that would provide breakfast. Just as he was approaching the Town Hall Kenneth felt a rumbling in his lower intestine. Hmm, I don't think the spicy contents of those foil trays that I ate last night have agreed with me, he thought. With a small movement of the muscles at the rear end of his body he evacuated the problem. Ooh, that feels better, he thought. Once the offending remains had left Kenneth's body he didn't give them a second thought. This was unfortunate, because Kenneth, a thoughtful and rather philosophical seagull, would probably have appreciated the irony of what followed. A man on the ground had just parked his car, and hearing the Kenneth's squawk of relief, looked up. Splat!! The brown mess covered the man's glasses. If Kenneth had looked down at that moment he would have seen a rather angry man standing next to a small car in a parking bay where the word 'MAYOR' was just about visible on the wall.
Chapter 55 In which Pangloss and Hatter decide to shake things up
It was a pleasant August morning that found Dr Pangloss busy at his desk in the Town Hall. In Westphalia-on-Sea 'a pleasant August morning' meant that the rain was nothing more than a fine drizzle and motorists didn't need to have their headlights on in the morning. Of course, it was far too windy for the balloon to be flying, and nobody was allowed in the sea because of the recent 'turd warning', but apart from that the Westphalians had very little to complain about. There was a knock at the door, and before Pangloss could shout 'come in', his faithful deputy, Ahmad Hatter, appeared before him.
"'Ey up, Pangloss," said Hatter, "'Aven't seem my masonic regalia, 'ave you? I'm supposed to be down at the Lodge in half an hour and I can't find my apron, my tie-pin or my pointy hat."
"Sorry old chap, I haven't. I must say I've never really seen the attraction in your little secret society. Can't you just cut a couple of eyeholes in a sheet and rig something temporary up?"
"Cut a bloody sheet up?! This is the Freemasons, not a bloody fancy dress party or a primary school play! Oh, you just don't understand. Anyway, what's tha doin' with that list?"
"Oh, I'm just sorting out the photo shoots we need to do this week for the Westphalia Express. Let's see, they want someone to wave a flag in front of the land train - I think that's definitely one for me - they'll want a smiley face. Certificate presentations to volunteers, ditto, and an awards presentation over at Soldaway Mansion; me again. Now, the horrendous cost of repairing Wreck Walk; I think that's more your thing - they'll be wanting a serious face, and you've got the moustache for it. Oh, another story about Wreck Walk - how it's one of my greatest achievements - I'll do that, another smiley face. Now what about this business about selling off the Downs? The locals seem to be kicking up a fuss, so I think that's another one for you."
"Bloody locals. I tell you one thing: this place would be a lot off better all round if we just got of the bloody locals. They're just a bunch of wingeing bastards trying to stop the march of progress. They don't appreciate bricks and bloody mortar, that's their trouble. Too bloody sentimental about a bit of grass and a play park. I'm sick to bloody death of their 'where are the kids going play?' and 'will these new houses spoil my view?' and all the rest of it."
"Now, now Ahmad, don't go upsetting yourself. You know I don't like the locals any more than you do, but they're an irritating fact of life that we just have to accept. Try to think of them as tourists that refuse to go home or something. We've jst got to keep focused and remain in control. I know - why don't you go off to your little meeting with the Grand Wizard and all the rest of them, and when you come back we'll do something wacky. You know, mix things up a bit, let everyone know that we're still in charge and not to be messed with."
"You mean a little show of strength? Now you're talking my language. What shall we do? Find some more covenants to break? Sell another beach?"
"No, we've already done all that. We need something new. I know. Let's find someone who's doing a good job and sack them."
"Oh, the old reshuffle joke?" asked Hatter. "That would work. It's always been a favourite of mine. Keeps people on their toes and stops them getting too big for their boots as well. Any ideas who?"
"Well the Head of Tourism seems to be doing a good job ..."
"Right, let's take her out then. That should send out the message loud and clear that we are mad, bad and dangerous to know."
"Yes, that should wrong-foot just about everyone," agreed the Mayor. "God, I love this job, and I've still got over two and a half years in office left!"
"'Ey up, Pangloss," said Hatter, "'Aven't seem my masonic regalia, 'ave you? I'm supposed to be down at the Lodge in half an hour and I can't find my apron, my tie-pin or my pointy hat."
"Sorry old chap, I haven't. I must say I've never really seen the attraction in your little secret society. Can't you just cut a couple of eyeholes in a sheet and rig something temporary up?"
"Cut a bloody sheet up?! This is the Freemasons, not a bloody fancy dress party or a primary school play! Oh, you just don't understand. Anyway, what's tha doin' with that list?"
"Oh, I'm just sorting out the photo shoots we need to do this week for the Westphalia Express. Let's see, they want someone to wave a flag in front of the land train - I think that's definitely one for me - they'll want a smiley face. Certificate presentations to volunteers, ditto, and an awards presentation over at Soldaway Mansion; me again. Now, the horrendous cost of repairing Wreck Walk; I think that's more your thing - they'll be wanting a serious face, and you've got the moustache for it. Oh, another story about Wreck Walk - how it's one of my greatest achievements - I'll do that, another smiley face. Now what about this business about selling off the Downs? The locals seem to be kicking up a fuss, so I think that's another one for you."
"Bloody locals. I tell you one thing: this place would be a lot off better all round if we just got of the bloody locals. They're just a bunch of wingeing bastards trying to stop the march of progress. They don't appreciate bricks and bloody mortar, that's their trouble. Too bloody sentimental about a bit of grass and a play park. I'm sick to bloody death of their 'where are the kids going play?' and 'will these new houses spoil my view?' and all the rest of it."
"Now, now Ahmad, don't go upsetting yourself. You know I don't like the locals any more than you do, but they're an irritating fact of life that we just have to accept. Try to think of them as tourists that refuse to go home or something. We've jst got to keep focused and remain in control. I know - why don't you go off to your little meeting with the Grand Wizard and all the rest of them, and when you come back we'll do something wacky. You know, mix things up a bit, let everyone know that we're still in charge and not to be messed with."
"You mean a little show of strength? Now you're talking my language. What shall we do? Find some more covenants to break? Sell another beach?"
"No, we've already done all that. We need something new. I know. Let's find someone who's doing a good job and sack them."
"Oh, the old reshuffle joke?" asked Hatter. "That would work. It's always been a favourite of mine. Keeps people on their toes and stops them getting too big for their boots as well. Any ideas who?"
"Well the Head of Tourism seems to be doing a good job ..."
"Right, let's take her out then. That should send out the message loud and clear that we are mad, bad and dangerous to know."
"Yes, that should wrong-foot just about everyone," agreed the Mayor. "God, I love this job, and I've still got over two and a half years in office left!"
Chapter 54 In which Dr Pangloss suggests the Westphalia Express prints more 'feel good' stories
In between the rain showers one July morning the Mayor decided to stroll over and see his old friend the editor at the Westphalia Express. It wasn't just a social call, as Dr Pangloss had become increasingly alarmed by some of the stories he had been reading lately and was intent on berating the editor once more about the content of his newspaper.
"What happened to your promise to print positive stories?" demanded Dr Pangloss.
"I don't remember promising," said the editor. "We do our best, but you do make things difficult for us; sometimes it's hard to see where one cock-up ends and the next one begins."
"Well Mr Editor, I think many problems arise through the language you use. What you call 'cock-ups' I refer to as 'years of neglect inherited from past administrations', and I think if you started to use that phrase a little more you'd find things weren't quite so bad as you sometimes make out."
"Hmm, I'm not convinced. What about the half a million pounds in redundancy payments to council officers - we can't really put that in a very good light, can we?"
"Of course you can - it's a cost-cutting exercise. We'll save thousands."
"But why is everyone paid so much in the first place?"
"Because they've got top notch brains, that's why."
"So why are you getting rid of them?"
"Well that's obvious. The officers who have left were very good, but we probably need people with different qualities for the commissioners roles. We want to get the council working properly, and in that context half a million pounds is worth it to get the job right. "
"Different qualities? What does that mean? Does this mean these people are crap and overpaid, and haven't been doing their jobs properly?"
"Look, Mr Editor, I think we've spent long enough discussing this as it is. Now what I would like to see on your front page is something a bit more cheerful. You know, the sun is out, and everyone's having a lovely time on holiday."
"But it's been pissing with rain!"
"Not all the time - it was lovely at the weekend."
"That was two days. We've had record-breaking rainfall for the month."
"Oh, stop splitting hairs. I know - 'the sun is out and all the hotels are full'. There's your story."
"But they're not full. The new budget one is, but it's taking business away from the smaller hotels."
"Jesus Christ, you're supposed to be on my side. Look, just run the story and stick in a picture of a crowded beach at the seafront."
"Crowded beach? You'll be lucky. There's nowhere to park down there. Wreck Walk, parking restrictions, remember?"
"Well dig a photo out of the archives from the seventies and just airbrush out the old cars. Just give me one positive story. Please."
Just then there was a knock at the door, and the head of John Staedtler appeared.
"Can I have word, boss - in private?"
The editor excused himself and stepped outside. "What is it John?"
His deputy said nothing, but held up two postcards.
"From the blogger?"
"Yep. Numbers five and six. And he's started playing a little game, giving clues about his identity."
"Can you fit it into your next column?"
"It's a bit difficult. I'm planning a large piece about the Deputy Mayor and his weasel words over his next planned development on public space up at the Downs. I was toying with the headline 'Hatter suffering from Downs Syndrome'."
"Hmm, not sure he'd see the funny side of that. Can I see the postcards?"
Staedtler handed him the first one. The picture was of the beach in Westphalia-on-Sea which had been recently sold to property developer and millionaire Pierre De Saveloy. On the beach was a sign saying 'LOCALS - KEEP OUT'. The Editor turned the card over and read the rhyme on the reverse:
Six postcards now you have received
Some showing plans so ill-conceived
Fifteen more are yet to come
Then you will have all twenty-one.
(We did consider thirty-six,
And throwing nought into the mix.)
To solve the clues help is at hand –
Your readers, up and down the land.
So ask them now to join the fun
And ponder on those ‘twenty-one’.
The answer must be printed here
Or postcard seven won’t appear.
So hurry, print that cryptic clue
It really would be wise of you.
Our happy band as yet concealed
Through riddles solved will be revealed.
And do not spoil this treasure hunt
Or you will look like an old misery.
"What happened to your promise to print positive stories?" demanded Dr Pangloss.
"I don't remember promising," said the editor. "We do our best, but you do make things difficult for us; sometimes it's hard to see where one cock-up ends and the next one begins."
"Well Mr Editor, I think many problems arise through the language you use. What you call 'cock-ups' I refer to as 'years of neglect inherited from past administrations', and I think if you started to use that phrase a little more you'd find things weren't quite so bad as you sometimes make out."
"Hmm, I'm not convinced. What about the half a million pounds in redundancy payments to council officers - we can't really put that in a very good light, can we?"
"Of course you can - it's a cost-cutting exercise. We'll save thousands."
"But why is everyone paid so much in the first place?"
"Because they've got top notch brains, that's why."
"So why are you getting rid of them?"
"Well that's obvious. The officers who have left were very good, but we probably need people with different qualities for the commissioners roles. We want to get the council working properly, and in that context half a million pounds is worth it to get the job right. "
"Different qualities? What does that mean? Does this mean these people are crap and overpaid, and haven't been doing their jobs properly?"
"Look, Mr Editor, I think we've spent long enough discussing this as it is. Now what I would like to see on your front page is something a bit more cheerful. You know, the sun is out, and everyone's having a lovely time on holiday."
"But it's been pissing with rain!"
"Not all the time - it was lovely at the weekend."
"That was two days. We've had record-breaking rainfall for the month."
"Oh, stop splitting hairs. I know - 'the sun is out and all the hotels are full'. There's your story."
"But they're not full. The new budget one is, but it's taking business away from the smaller hotels."
"Jesus Christ, you're supposed to be on my side. Look, just run the story and stick in a picture of a crowded beach at the seafront."
"Crowded beach? You'll be lucky. There's nowhere to park down there. Wreck Walk, parking restrictions, remember?"
"Well dig a photo out of the archives from the seventies and just airbrush out the old cars. Just give me one positive story. Please."
Just then there was a knock at the door, and the head of John Staedtler appeared.
"Can I have word, boss - in private?"
The editor excused himself and stepped outside. "What is it John?"
His deputy said nothing, but held up two postcards.
"From the blogger?"
"Yep. Numbers five and six. And he's started playing a little game, giving clues about his identity."
"Can you fit it into your next column?"
"It's a bit difficult. I'm planning a large piece about the Deputy Mayor and his weasel words over his next planned development on public space up at the Downs. I was toying with the headline 'Hatter suffering from Downs Syndrome'."
"Hmm, not sure he'd see the funny side of that. Can I see the postcards?"
Staedtler handed him the first one. The picture was of the beach in Westphalia-on-Sea which had been recently sold to property developer and millionaire Pierre De Saveloy. On the beach was a sign saying 'LOCALS - KEEP OUT'. The Editor turned the card over and read the rhyme on the reverse:
Six postcards now you have received
Some showing plans so ill-conceived
Fifteen more are yet to come
Then you will have all twenty-one.
(We did consider thirty-six,
And throwing nought into the mix.)
To solve the clues help is at hand –
Your readers, up and down the land.
So ask them now to join the fun
And ponder on those ‘twenty-one’.
The answer must be printed here
Or postcard seven won’t appear.
So hurry, print that cryptic clue
It really would be wise of you.
Our happy band as yet concealed
Through riddles solved will be revealed.
And do not spoil this treasure hunt
Or you will look like an old misery.
"Hmm, interesting," said the Editor. "So he wants you to print this stuff and solve the clues, does he? Let's see the other one." He turned the second postcard over and stared at it for a few moments. "So this is a clue is it? Well, it means nothing to me. You got any ideas?"
"Nothing's ringing any bells at the moment, boss. What do think, shall we print it? See if any of the readers can shed any light on it?"
"It's up to you John. I've got enough on my plate with him in there." The editor lowered his voice as he said this and nodded towards his office door. "I'll trust your judgement on this one."
Chapter 53 In which John Staedtler goes after the blogger
In the world of national newspaper journalism the silly season begins in August when Parliament takes its summer recess and there is little important news to report. It is known as "Mätäkuun juttu" in Finland (literally meaning 'rotting-month story', and "Komkommertijd" or cucumber time in Holland, for reasons best known to the Dutch. In the world of local newpapers, however, it is pretty much silly season all year round. In local newspapers any old rubbish could find its way onto the front page, which is why John Staedtler, the Deputy Editor of the Westphalia Express was walking briskly down the High Street. He was on the trail of the elusive 'Piddlebackside Blogger', and had the name of someone who he thought could help him. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and checked the address. Looking up at the shopfronts he realised he was on the wrong side of the street. He stepped into the road and was startled by blaring horn of a double decker bus. 'Watch where you're going mate!' Shouted the angry driver. 'Sorry,' mumbled Staedtler, 'I thought this had all been pedestrianised.'
Reaching the other side of the road in one piece Staedtler pushed open the door of the new healthy juice bar PearWater. 'French,' said Staedtler to the girl behind the counter, 'I'm looking for Paul French.' 'Through the door,' she replied, nodding to her right. 'Go on in, he ain't busy.' Staedtler knocked and opened the door at the same time. Sitting at the desk was a dapper little man. With the nicotine stained fingers of one hand he was twisting his moustache; with the other he carelessly dropped cigarette ash from a Gitane.
'You French?' asked Staedtler.
'No, it's just a lisp; had it since I was a kid.'
'Spare me the funnies, wiseguy, said Staedtler. 'I hear you're something of a part-time dick.'
'Yeah? Well maybe you're a bit of a twat, yourself.'
'I meant a private investigator. It's an American ...'
'Yeah, I know. I'm just messing with you. Having a laugh. Well, you got to in this town, right? Now what can I do for you, John?'
'How did you know my name?' asked Staedtler.
'I make it my business to know,' replied French. When you've kicked around this place as long as I have you hear stuff. Besides, I read the local rag.'
'OK Clever Dick, what about the Piddlebackside Blogger; do you know him?'
'Maybe I do and maybe I don't. Depends who wants to know. Anyways, who says it's a him? Could be a her or a them.' But why are you so keen to know? They ain't done nothing illegal, have they?'
'No he hasn't,' persisted Staedtler, 'he's just beginning to piss me off, that's all.'
'Well it happens to us all, I'm afraid Mr Staedtler. We're all just pubic hairs on the toilet bowl of life - sooner or later we get pissed off. Now let me get this straight - you want to pay me to reveal person or persons unknown, is that correct?'
'That's it, yes.'
'Well, before I take the case I like to know who I'm working for.'
'Well, for me of course,' said Staedtler.
'You don't expect me to believe that, do you? You come in here playing the journo after a story, but who's to say there isn't someone bigger behind this investigation?'
'Like who, the Mayor?'
'Maybe him. Or maybe Charlie Windsor. Or maybe Ahmad Hatter. Ain't he the one pulling the strings down at the Town Hall?'
'Well, I don't know. You'd have to ask him about ...'
'Well he ain't here John, so I'm asking you. What do you think? What's your op-in-i-on?' French pronounced every syllable of the word slowly and deliberately.
'Look, I'm not employed to give my opinion. I'm neutral, straight down the middle, you know that.'
'Oh yes, very convenient. Well, I'm not going to sit here arguing about it all day. Look, my fee's £300 a day plus expenses. If you want to pay those rates I'll take the case.'
'Three hundred a day? That's even more than Dr Pangloss earns!'
'Take it or leave it, it's your call. But let me ask you this - are you sure you want to get into this, John? Piddlebackside can be a nasty place, and once you go in it's not so easy to get out.'
'What are you talking about? It's just fiction. Make believe.'
'Is it John? Or is there a lot truth in the whole thing? I'm telling you John, if you start chasing the story you could end up giving it the oxygen of publicity which you have so far tried to deny it. It's a high risk strategy; you could suddenly find yourself centre stage.'
'Look French. I was raised in a suburb of Westphalia-on-Sea called Hell, so that should tell you something. I'll take my chances on the mean streets of Piddlebackside.'
'OK John, but don't say I didn't warning you. Now let me see those three postcards you received.'
'Four.'
'Four? In your column in the paper you said it was three. From Liverpool, Nantwich and the Potteries.'
'Yes, well the fourth one had a different message. It just said 'read http://www.westphalia-on-sea.blogspot.com/ and I didn't want to print that in the newspaper.
'Where was it from?'
'It was one of Westphalia-on-Sea by night. And it was posted from here too.'
'There, you see what I mean John? You'll already playing with fire and gettin' your fingers burnt and we ain't hardly started. What if people start calling you up, asking if you're witholding other parts of the story? What will you tell them?'
'I'll tell them the fourth postcard arrived later, after the story had gone to print - they'll believe me, they know I'm an honest guy. And I'll promise to print news of any other postcards as soon as I receive them.'
'Well, I just hope you're right John, and I hope you're as good as your word.' French picked up the postcards and turned them over one by one. 'Now let me see, Nantwich - wasn't there a by-election there recently?'
'Yes, there was. Are you thinking this is from someone attached to a political party?'
'Could be. Or a journalist covering the story - there was a lot of media interest. Know of any hacks who you've done the dirty on in your time? Any that may still bear a grudge?'
Staedtler looked out the window. You didn't get to the top (or nearly the top) of the greasy poll in journalism without standing on a few heads on your way up. He must have pissed off half of the NUJ, but at the moment his mind had gone blank. 'No names are jumping out at me, but I'll give it some thought. I've been in this game a long time, and I'll have to really start dredging the old memory.'
'OK, you do that,' said French, 'and be sure to give me a call the moment something or someone occurs to you.'
Reaching the other side of the road in one piece Staedtler pushed open the door of the new healthy juice bar PearWater. 'French,' said Staedtler to the girl behind the counter, 'I'm looking for Paul French.' 'Through the door,' she replied, nodding to her right. 'Go on in, he ain't busy.' Staedtler knocked and opened the door at the same time. Sitting at the desk was a dapper little man. With the nicotine stained fingers of one hand he was twisting his moustache; with the other he carelessly dropped cigarette ash from a Gitane.
'You French?' asked Staedtler.
'No, it's just a lisp; had it since I was a kid.'
'Spare me the funnies, wiseguy, said Staedtler. 'I hear you're something of a part-time dick.'
'Yeah? Well maybe you're a bit of a twat, yourself.'
'I meant a private investigator. It's an American ...'
'Yeah, I know. I'm just messing with you. Having a laugh. Well, you got to in this town, right? Now what can I do for you, John?'
'How did you know my name?' asked Staedtler.
'I make it my business to know,' replied French. When you've kicked around this place as long as I have you hear stuff. Besides, I read the local rag.'
'OK Clever Dick, what about the Piddlebackside Blogger; do you know him?'
'Maybe I do and maybe I don't. Depends who wants to know. Anyways, who says it's a him? Could be a her or a them.' But why are you so keen to know? They ain't done nothing illegal, have they?'
'No he hasn't,' persisted Staedtler, 'he's just beginning to piss me off, that's all.'
'Well it happens to us all, I'm afraid Mr Staedtler. We're all just pubic hairs on the toilet bowl of life - sooner or later we get pissed off. Now let me get this straight - you want to pay me to reveal person or persons unknown, is that correct?'
'That's it, yes.'
'Well, before I take the case I like to know who I'm working for.'
'Well, for me of course,' said Staedtler.
'You don't expect me to believe that, do you? You come in here playing the journo after a story, but who's to say there isn't someone bigger behind this investigation?'
'Like who, the Mayor?'
'Maybe him. Or maybe Charlie Windsor. Or maybe Ahmad Hatter. Ain't he the one pulling the strings down at the Town Hall?'
'Well, I don't know. You'd have to ask him about ...'
'Well he ain't here John, so I'm asking you. What do you think? What's your op-in-i-on?' French pronounced every syllable of the word slowly and deliberately.
'Look, I'm not employed to give my opinion. I'm neutral, straight down the middle, you know that.'
'Oh yes, very convenient. Well, I'm not going to sit here arguing about it all day. Look, my fee's £300 a day plus expenses. If you want to pay those rates I'll take the case.'
'Three hundred a day? That's even more than Dr Pangloss earns!'
'Take it or leave it, it's your call. But let me ask you this - are you sure you want to get into this, John? Piddlebackside can be a nasty place, and once you go in it's not so easy to get out.'
'What are you talking about? It's just fiction. Make believe.'
'Is it John? Or is there a lot truth in the whole thing? I'm telling you John, if you start chasing the story you could end up giving it the oxygen of publicity which you have so far tried to deny it. It's a high risk strategy; you could suddenly find yourself centre stage.'
'Look French. I was raised in a suburb of Westphalia-on-Sea called Hell, so that should tell you something. I'll take my chances on the mean streets of Piddlebackside.'
'OK John, but don't say I didn't warning you. Now let me see those three postcards you received.'
'Four.'
'Four? In your column in the paper you said it was three. From Liverpool, Nantwich and the Potteries.'
'Yes, well the fourth one had a different message. It just said 'read http://www.westphalia-on-sea.blogspot.com/ and I didn't want to print that in the newspaper.
'Where was it from?'
'It was one of Westphalia-on-Sea by night. And it was posted from here too.'
'There, you see what I mean John? You'll already playing with fire and gettin' your fingers burnt and we ain't hardly started. What if people start calling you up, asking if you're witholding other parts of the story? What will you tell them?'
'I'll tell them the fourth postcard arrived later, after the story had gone to print - they'll believe me, they know I'm an honest guy. And I'll promise to print news of any other postcards as soon as I receive them.'
'Well, I just hope you're right John, and I hope you're as good as your word.' French picked up the postcards and turned them over one by one. 'Now let me see, Nantwich - wasn't there a by-election there recently?'
'Yes, there was. Are you thinking this is from someone attached to a political party?'
'Could be. Or a journalist covering the story - there was a lot of media interest. Know of any hacks who you've done the dirty on in your time? Any that may still bear a grudge?'
Staedtler looked out the window. You didn't get to the top (or nearly the top) of the greasy poll in journalism without standing on a few heads on your way up. He must have pissed off half of the NUJ, but at the moment his mind had gone blank. 'No names are jumping out at me, but I'll give it some thought. I've been in this game a long time, and I'll have to really start dredging the old memory.'
'OK, you do that,' said French, 'and be sure to give me a call the moment something or someone occurs to you.'
Chapter 52 In which Pangloss reflects on his inflated achievement
Dr Pangloss was sat at home with his feet up, flicking through the pages of the Westphalia Express. Chairman Miaow lazed contentedly at his side and purred as he turned the pages of the newspaper. 'Do you know,' Pangloss said, addressing the cat, 'I really think this balloon business has gone rather well. Considering that awful Brolly woman has been bombarding anyone and everyone with health and safety issues from day one I think we've done a jolly good job. And I must say our friends down at the Westphalia Express have really come up trumps. They seem to have found plenty of people willing to say they love it, and they've got some great pictures. And look at the letters page - some of my friends have written in support after I asked them nicely. And, oh look, here's one old lady who has been so moved by the spectacle she has written a little poem.'
Pangloss cleared his throat; Chairman Miaow pricked up his ears and for a moment seemed to understand his master's every word. 'Listen to this puss,' he said, 'these amateur poets are often rather good,' and he began to read aloud:
'It looks so majestic up there in the sky
That bubble of helium floating on high.
Spectacular views to the west and the east
Now strings have been pulled and palms have been greased.
Old Dr Pangloss sure gets things done
They said he's a loser but I think he's won.
He said 'can we stick it on this bit of land?'
And waved a brown envelope containing a grand.
The moaners as usual were all out in force
Hysterical old Brolly the noisiest, of course.
You've spoilt our views, our walks on the front,
It's a daft place to put it, you silly ol...' RING! RING! Pangloss was suddenly interrupted by the persistent ring of the phone, which he reached out for; it was Charlie Windsor.
'Hullo, what do you want, Charlie?' asked Pangloss.
'Oh, you know, just checking to see how things are going. Actually, I just wondered if you had any good news that I could focus on in a letter to the paper or something. Wanted to raise my profile a bit you know, after the Tory win in London.'
'Good news ...good news...' pondered Pangloss. 'Nothing really jumps to mind,' he said. 'It's pretty much been one demonstration after another lately. Can't you just carry on with your blog?'
'Well I am, but who bloody reads that? One man and his dog, by the looks of things. And anyway, I'd just started developing a bit of a crusade against old Localbloke being on the gravy train and now News of the World uncovers all the bloody Tory MEPs doing it. And that's after that Conway bloke. It makes it ruddy dificult for me to keep banging on about it now. I tell you, I am going to be so gutted if Tories win seats all over the country and I still don't get in in Westphalia-on-Sea.'
'Oh, don't be so negative, said Pangloss.
'Well, I'm trying to stay upbeat, but it's hard. I'm having a fundraiser at the weekend. Old Freddie Forsyth is coming down.'
'Crikey, that should be fun, he's a bit of a loose cannon. Will I be sitting on his table?'
'Er, not exactly.'
'Nearby?'
'No. Look, I'd really rather you didn't come, old man.'
'Why ever not? I'm a Tory. I'm probably more Tory than you. Apart from when I was a Lib Dem. Anyway, I'm the Tory mayor, why wouldn't you want me there?'
'Well, to put it in a nutshell, because you're so jolly unpopular. I've got to try and put a bit of clear blue water between us if I'm to have any chance of getting elected. I helped you get in, I supported you, and at the moment I still do. But opposition to you is growing all the time. And they're getting access to the media: radio, TV and the local paper. It's not just the Internet anymore. I tell you Pangloss, I'm getting jittery. Cameron might not get a big enough swing, or Westphalia-on-Sea might buck the national trend, and if I don't win I'll be finished. They'll never let me have a third go. Look, I just wanted you to know that I might not be able to keep on supporting you the way I have ..., if you start to go down.'
'What do you mean, go down?' asked Pangloss.
'Oh, I don't know, said Charlie. 'Being constantly asked to resign, or losing the support of the Westphalia Express, or someone getting hurt down on the road near the balloon, something like that. There comes a point where it's every man for himself, and that point for me is when my chance of a fat MP's salary starts to look like it's in jeopardy.'
'OK, Charlie,' said Pangloss in a quiet voice. His hand was shaking as he replaced the receiver, and he could feel the blood draining from his face. For the first time since he was elected he started to contemplate the horror of having to resign.
Pangloss cleared his throat; Chairman Miaow pricked up his ears and for a moment seemed to understand his master's every word. 'Listen to this puss,' he said, 'these amateur poets are often rather good,' and he began to read aloud:
'It looks so majestic up there in the sky
That bubble of helium floating on high.
Spectacular views to the west and the east
Now strings have been pulled and palms have been greased.
Old Dr Pangloss sure gets things done
They said he's a loser but I think he's won.
He said 'can we stick it on this bit of land?'
And waved a brown envelope containing a grand.
The moaners as usual were all out in force
Hysterical old Brolly the noisiest, of course.
You've spoilt our views, our walks on the front,
It's a daft place to put it, you silly ol...' RING! RING! Pangloss was suddenly interrupted by the persistent ring of the phone, which he reached out for; it was Charlie Windsor.
'Hullo, what do you want, Charlie?' asked Pangloss.
'Oh, you know, just checking to see how things are going. Actually, I just wondered if you had any good news that I could focus on in a letter to the paper or something. Wanted to raise my profile a bit you know, after the Tory win in London.'
'Good news ...good news...' pondered Pangloss. 'Nothing really jumps to mind,' he said. 'It's pretty much been one demonstration after another lately. Can't you just carry on with your blog?'
'Well I am, but who bloody reads that? One man and his dog, by the looks of things. And anyway, I'd just started developing a bit of a crusade against old Localbloke being on the gravy train and now News of the World uncovers all the bloody Tory MEPs doing it. And that's after that Conway bloke. It makes it ruddy dificult for me to keep banging on about it now. I tell you, I am going to be so gutted if Tories win seats all over the country and I still don't get in in Westphalia-on-Sea.'
'Oh, don't be so negative, said Pangloss.
'Well, I'm trying to stay upbeat, but it's hard. I'm having a fundraiser at the weekend. Old Freddie Forsyth is coming down.'
'Crikey, that should be fun, he's a bit of a loose cannon. Will I be sitting on his table?'
'Er, not exactly.'
'Nearby?'
'No. Look, I'd really rather you didn't come, old man.'
'Why ever not? I'm a Tory. I'm probably more Tory than you. Apart from when I was a Lib Dem. Anyway, I'm the Tory mayor, why wouldn't you want me there?'
'Well, to put it in a nutshell, because you're so jolly unpopular. I've got to try and put a bit of clear blue water between us if I'm to have any chance of getting elected. I helped you get in, I supported you, and at the moment I still do. But opposition to you is growing all the time. And they're getting access to the media: radio, TV and the local paper. It's not just the Internet anymore. I tell you Pangloss, I'm getting jittery. Cameron might not get a big enough swing, or Westphalia-on-Sea might buck the national trend, and if I don't win I'll be finished. They'll never let me have a third go. Look, I just wanted you to know that I might not be able to keep on supporting you the way I have ..., if you start to go down.'
'What do you mean, go down?' asked Pangloss.
'Oh, I don't know, said Charlie. 'Being constantly asked to resign, or losing the support of the Westphalia Express, or someone getting hurt down on the road near the balloon, something like that. There comes a point where it's every man for himself, and that point for me is when my chance of a fat MP's salary starts to look like it's in jeopardy.'
'OK, Charlie,' said Pangloss in a quiet voice. His hand was shaking as he replaced the receiver, and he could feel the blood draining from his face. For the first time since he was elected he started to contemplate the horror of having to resign.
Chapter 51 In which the Westphalians have a demonstration of local government in action
Dr Pangloss looked around and almost had to pinch himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming. He was staring out at over a hundred faces of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea, who had all come to register their displeasure at what he was doing. The meeting was being held in the grandest building in all of the Cote de Westphalia, Soldaway Mansion. The building was considered part of the local heritage and everyone thought it should remain so, for future generations to enjoy. However, some of the more backward people thought this would be best achieved by keeping it within the ownership of the council, and other more visionary individuals thought this would best be achieved by selling it to a private company who could turn it into a hotel and sauna. But, dear readers, we must not digress and begin talking about putting tasteful en-suite bathrooms and trouser presses into listed buildings; there will be plenty of time for that in the future. For the moment Soldaway Mansion was very much in the ownership of the Council, and so there was the coat of arms on the wall above the Mayor's head, and below it the new town motto. It had been decided by the consultants that the old motto "Salus et Felicitas" meaning 'Health and Happiness' was a little bit too '19th-century seaside resort', and that a new slogan should really encapsulate what the dynamic council of the 21st century was all about. They thought long and hard for something which would truly represent the council's approach. Brainstorming sessions were held where people jotted down all the adjectives they could think of to describe the council and then they tried to create a Latin motto from the ideas. Two of the best ideas were "leviculus populus iligitimus" and "Nil democratia in nostrum urbs" but people just didn't think they sounded quite right, so they finally settled on "Nusquam est paro in calx", which even the poorest scholars of the classics will know translates as "Nothing is set in stone". It was felt that this phrase encapsulated the very essence of the Mayor and his cabinet, the phrase which you could utter when challenged about any plan. It was so beautifully ambiguous. 'Are you going to sell this land off cheap to a developer?' 'Nothing is set in stone.' 'Are you going to build something unpleasant here?' 'Nothing is set in stone.' The mayor liked the phrase, but the deputy mayor liked it the most. He made a point of saying it at least once a day, and there was rumour that he had had it tattooed around his left bicep in Celtic calligraphy. What they most liked about it was the fact that it wasn't 'yes' and it wasn't 'no'. It acknowledged that something had been suggested, but avoided having to get into an awkward discussion about details of plans, and money and that sort of thing.
As the Deputy Mayor read through the list of land to be sold off and dismissed any objections to the plans the occasional mutter rose from the public. As the mutterings became louder Dr Pangloss felt his blood pressure rise, and he finally had to tell everyone how the democratic process worked. 'Now look here,' he said, 'you have got to jolly well shut up and listen to me. If you wanted to say something about all of this you should jolly well have written to the council five working days ago and asked to see a copy of Appendix C list xiv. From there you could have filled in form D24x/ab in triplicate, got it countersigned by either a member of the armed forces or the clergy, left one copy on file at the Town Hall, kept the blue copy for your own reference and handed the pink copy to the clerk at the door tonight. You would then have been allowed to speak for three whole minutes. You can't just come along, put your hand up and expect to speak, just because you've spent ages getting the views of local people and getting them to sign petitions. Good God! Where the Devil would we be if we employed a system which involved geeting the views of the people? Off to Hell in a handcart - that's where we'd be. No, under our democratic system the Deputy Mayor can ask each member of the Council for their opinion, and then politely explain the consequences if that opinion does not very closely ressemble his own opinion. I think you'll agree that it's both simple and effective, and saves everyone an awful lot of bother in the long run.'
As the Deputy Mayor read through the list of land to be sold off and dismissed any objections to the plans the occasional mutter rose from the public. As the mutterings became louder Dr Pangloss felt his blood pressure rise, and he finally had to tell everyone how the democratic process worked. 'Now look here,' he said, 'you have got to jolly well shut up and listen to me. If you wanted to say something about all of this you should jolly well have written to the council five working days ago and asked to see a copy of Appendix C list xiv. From there you could have filled in form D24x/ab in triplicate, got it countersigned by either a member of the armed forces or the clergy, left one copy on file at the Town Hall, kept the blue copy for your own reference and handed the pink copy to the clerk at the door tonight. You would then have been allowed to speak for three whole minutes. You can't just come along, put your hand up and expect to speak, just because you've spent ages getting the views of local people and getting them to sign petitions. Good God! Where the Devil would we be if we employed a system which involved geeting the views of the people? Off to Hell in a handcart - that's where we'd be. No, under our democratic system the Deputy Mayor can ask each member of the Council for their opinion, and then politely explain the consequences if that opinion does not very closely ressemble his own opinion. I think you'll agree that it's both simple and effective, and saves everyone an awful lot of bother in the long run.'
Chapter 50 In which the Westphalia Express comes to the rescue
Down at the offices of the Westphalia Express all the columnists were sitting around, sandwiches in hand, waiting for the editor to start the special meeting he had called.
'Are we all here? Right, now listen up everybody. Dr Pangloss is in a bit of a pickle over this Vision, so I've said we'll help him out. Support for him on the letters page is pretty thin on the ground, so we need to stick something in the regular columns to boost his morale a bit.'
A collective groan went around the room.
'What's the matter with you lot? It's not like I'm asking you to write a positive review of Mein Kampf. It's the Mayoral Vision - remember? The big plan that is going to turn this town into a thriving resort once again.'
'City,' said a female voice from the back.
'What?' asked the editor.
'I thought we were a city now.'
'Not yet, you dozy cow - we're still a town at the moment.'
'Well when are we going to be a city?'
'When some more people come to live here, I think. I don't bloody know. Anyway, that's not important right now. Now get back to your desks and write something positive.'
Another groan went around the room.
'Look, what's your bloody problem exactly?'
'Well, we don't really like it,' said Gus Hackson in a rather timid voice.
'Don't like the Mayoral Vision?' thundered the editor. 'What's the fucking matter with you?' Jesus Christ, give me strength. OK, what's your problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'Er, all the high-rise stuff around the harbour - it's terrifying.' said the female voice.
'Oh yeah, all right, I'll grant you that,' said the editor. 'High-rise around the harbour, that is a shit idea. But apart from the high-rise around the harbour, what's you problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'Building on Eastphalia seafront?' suggested a slightly emboldened Gus Hackson.
'OK, apart from the high-rise around the harbour and building on Eastphalia seafront, what's your problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'The balloon!' piped up Deputy Editor John Staedtler. 'It's in completely the wrong place.'
'Right, apart from the high-rise, Eastphalia seafront and the balloon in the wrong place ...'
'And the casino! That's in the wrong place too!' added Staedtler, evidently warming to his theme.
'Christ, John,' said the editor, 'you're supposed to be on my side. OK, apart from ...'
'Wreck Walk!' shouted Staedtler, jumping up from the desk on which he had been perched. 'A full blown fucking disaster if ever I saw one. Will it ever be restored to its former glory as promised?'
'OK, now just calm down, John ...' said the editor. He had never seen his deputy quite like this, and was growing a little anxious.
'Selling our open spaces! I have concerns about that too!' Staedtler was becoming so animated he was beginning to spill his coffee. 'Parking meters!' he continued. 'They'll never pay their way!'
'Right, this is getting serious,' said the editor, suddenly thankful for all those 'First Aid in the Workplace courses he had been on. I'm going to stun him and put him in the recovery position. Gus, you get the straightjacket.'
Thirty minutes later John Staedtler was sitting at his desk feeling much calmer. 'Phew, I don't know what came over me, guv,' he said, as his his fingers flew across the keyboard. I've snapped out of it though, and I think I can write a nice positive piece, because apart from the balloon, the casino, Wreck Walk, selling open spaces and parking meters there are some great ideas there and I'm right behind them. 'The editor looked affectionately across the desk at his number two. 'It's good to have you back, John'. he said. 'For a moment there I thought we'd lost you.'
'Are we all here? Right, now listen up everybody. Dr Pangloss is in a bit of a pickle over this Vision, so I've said we'll help him out. Support for him on the letters page is pretty thin on the ground, so we need to stick something in the regular columns to boost his morale a bit.'
A collective groan went around the room.
'What's the matter with you lot? It's not like I'm asking you to write a positive review of Mein Kampf. It's the Mayoral Vision - remember? The big plan that is going to turn this town into a thriving resort once again.'
'City,' said a female voice from the back.
'What?' asked the editor.
'I thought we were a city now.'
'Not yet, you dozy cow - we're still a town at the moment.'
'Well when are we going to be a city?'
'When some more people come to live here, I think. I don't bloody know. Anyway, that's not important right now. Now get back to your desks and write something positive.'
Another groan went around the room.
'Look, what's your bloody problem exactly?'
'Well, we don't really like it,' said Gus Hackson in a rather timid voice.
'Don't like the Mayoral Vision?' thundered the editor. 'What's the fucking matter with you?' Jesus Christ, give me strength. OK, what's your problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'Er, all the high-rise stuff around the harbour - it's terrifying.' said the female voice.
'Oh yeah, all right, I'll grant you that,' said the editor. 'High-rise around the harbour, that is a shit idea. But apart from the high-rise around the harbour, what's you problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'Building on Eastphalia seafront?' suggested a slightly emboldened Gus Hackson.
'OK, apart from the high-rise around the harbour and building on Eastphalia seafront, what's your problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'The balloon!' piped up Deputy Editor John Staedtler. 'It's in completely the wrong place.'
'Right, apart from the high-rise, Eastphalia seafront and the balloon in the wrong place ...'
'And the casino! That's in the wrong place too!' added Staedtler, evidently warming to his theme.
'Christ, John,' said the editor, 'you're supposed to be on my side. OK, apart from ...'
'Wreck Walk!' shouted Staedtler, jumping up from the desk on which he had been perched. 'A full blown fucking disaster if ever I saw one. Will it ever be restored to its former glory as promised?'
'OK, now just calm down, John ...' said the editor. He had never seen his deputy quite like this, and was growing a little anxious.
'Selling our open spaces! I have concerns about that too!' Staedtler was becoming so animated he was beginning to spill his coffee. 'Parking meters!' he continued. 'They'll never pay their way!'
'Right, this is getting serious,' said the editor, suddenly thankful for all those 'First Aid in the Workplace courses he had been on. I'm going to stun him and put him in the recovery position. Gus, you get the straightjacket.'
Thirty minutes later John Staedtler was sitting at his desk feeling much calmer. 'Phew, I don't know what came over me, guv,' he said, as his his fingers flew across the keyboard. I've snapped out of it though, and I think I can write a nice positive piece, because apart from the balloon, the casino, Wreck Walk, selling open spaces and parking meters there are some great ideas there and I'm right behind them. 'The editor looked affectionately across the desk at his number two. 'It's good to have you back, John'. he said. 'For a moment there I thought we'd lost you.'
Chapter 49 In which Hatter deals with the tosspot petitioner
Ahmad Hatter rapped firmly on Dr Pangloss's door, and on hearing a croaky 'come in' he pushed it open.
''Ey up,' said Ahmad. 'Are tha feeling any better?'
'A bit,' croaked Dr Pangloss, curled up on the sofa wrapped in a duvet with Chairman Miaow on his lap, 'but I certainly won't be able to come out in public for a while.'
'Oh, don't you worry about that, replied Ahmad. 'I've been filling in, and making a pretty good job of it.'
'Really? What have you been doing?'
'Well, I gave an official response to that little tosspot with the petition.'
'Oh, yes, now that was a tricky situation which we were wondering how to play. Needed a bit of sensitive handling. What did you say?'
'I told him he could stick 'is foocking petition up 'is arse, for all we care.'
'You did what?' said Pangloss, suddenly sitting up. 'Not in such colourful terms, I hope?'
'Oh no, I were all tactful, like. I said it didn't matter if they got 10,000 signatures, because it's all done.'
'But that's nearly twice as many votes as i got. You can't just dismiss that amount of people. They'll say I'm being autocratic.'
'Auto- what?'
'Autocratic. Oh, for God's sake. Did you ever go to school? Someone who conducts affairs without reference to the wishes of others. A bloody dictator.'
'They can't say that. You won the election, fair and square.'
'Yes, and so did Hitler the first time, but he isn't exactly remembered fondly, is he? I may have won, but not many people voted for me.'
'Hey, don't you go going soft on me,' said Ahmad. It's time for the iron fist, not the velvet glove. Where I come from you build first and ask question later. Especially if one of those questions is 'is it OK to build on this land? No, up north you put you hard hat on, get your theodolite out and start taking levels before the protesters have had time to fill a bloody thermos.'
'Get your what out?'
'Theodolite. Oh, not so bloody clever now, are we, Mr university boy? It's an instrument used by surveyors.'
'Oh, I see. And the people who have signed the petition, what are they saying?'
'Oh the usual stuff about a corrupt political leader who's trying to hang on to power even though he's lost the support of the people and his former political allies.'
'I don't mean what's happening in Zimbabwe, I mean what's happening in Westphalia-on-Sea?'
'I know. That's what I'm talking about.'
'Oh my God, I think I can feel one of my turns coming on. I feel cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drum. Run to the bedroom, in the suitcase on the left you'll find my favourite pills. Don't look so frightened, Hatter, this is just a passing phase, just one of my bad days. Now go out and don't disturb me.'
'OK, said Ahmad, quite relieved to be leaving. 'When do you think you'll be ready to come back?'
'The way I'm feeling right now, I'd say twenty-eleven.'
'You mean eleven minutes past eight tonight?' asked Hatter.
'No, I mean 2011. Just in time for the election.'
''Ey up,' said Ahmad. 'Are tha feeling any better?'
'A bit,' croaked Dr Pangloss, curled up on the sofa wrapped in a duvet with Chairman Miaow on his lap, 'but I certainly won't be able to come out in public for a while.'
'Oh, don't you worry about that, replied Ahmad. 'I've been filling in, and making a pretty good job of it.'
'Really? What have you been doing?'
'Well, I gave an official response to that little tosspot with the petition.'
'Oh, yes, now that was a tricky situation which we were wondering how to play. Needed a bit of sensitive handling. What did you say?'
'I told him he could stick 'is foocking petition up 'is arse, for all we care.'
'You did what?' said Pangloss, suddenly sitting up. 'Not in such colourful terms, I hope?'
'Oh no, I were all tactful, like. I said it didn't matter if they got 10,000 signatures, because it's all done.'
'But that's nearly twice as many votes as i got. You can't just dismiss that amount of people. They'll say I'm being autocratic.'
'Auto- what?'
'Autocratic. Oh, for God's sake. Did you ever go to school? Someone who conducts affairs without reference to the wishes of others. A bloody dictator.'
'They can't say that. You won the election, fair and square.'
'Yes, and so did Hitler the first time, but he isn't exactly remembered fondly, is he? I may have won, but not many people voted for me.'
'Hey, don't you go going soft on me,' said Ahmad. It's time for the iron fist, not the velvet glove. Where I come from you build first and ask question later. Especially if one of those questions is 'is it OK to build on this land? No, up north you put you hard hat on, get your theodolite out and start taking levels before the protesters have had time to fill a bloody thermos.'
'Get your what out?'
'Theodolite. Oh, not so bloody clever now, are we, Mr university boy? It's an instrument used by surveyors.'
'Oh, I see. And the people who have signed the petition, what are they saying?'
'Oh the usual stuff about a corrupt political leader who's trying to hang on to power even though he's lost the support of the people and his former political allies.'
'I don't mean what's happening in Zimbabwe, I mean what's happening in Westphalia-on-Sea?'
'I know. That's what I'm talking about.'
'Oh my God, I think I can feel one of my turns coming on. I feel cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drum. Run to the bedroom, in the suitcase on the left you'll find my favourite pills. Don't look so frightened, Hatter, this is just a passing phase, just one of my bad days. Now go out and don't disturb me.'
'OK, said Ahmad, quite relieved to be leaving. 'When do you think you'll be ready to come back?'
'The way I'm feeling right now, I'd say twenty-eleven.'
'You mean eleven minutes past eight tonight?' asked Hatter.
'No, I mean 2011. Just in time for the election.'
Chapter 48 In which Dr Pangloss feels another holiday might be in order
Easter 2008 was not a happy time for Dr Pangloss. Pleasant as his holiday had been, his cruise up the Panama Canal with a gaggle of friends was but a distant memory now. He had come back to face abuse from the traders who were moaning about the bloody road being closed, and now there was more grief on the horizon. He got on the phone to Derek Poundsign, head of the firm of consultants he was beginning to wish he'd never heard of.
'Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions, Fanny speaking, how may I help you?' came the syrupy voice of Mr Poundsign's PA.
'Put me through to Derek Poundsign please,' said Pangloss curtly, 'it's urgent.'
After a brief pause Mr Poundsign came on the line. 'Pangloss, how the hell are you? I was just think of you as I was flicking through the thesaurus for some inspiration. Hey, what do you of 'beach pods' instead of 'beach huts'? Sounds pretty space age, eh? I'm thinking 21st century, mayoral vision-type concept thingy. I've just doodled something on the back of a fag packet, which I'm pretty excited about - rounded edges and oval windows. I'll get our boys to stick it in a presentation and show you next time we ...'
'My God, don't you ever stop churning out this shit?' interrupted Pangloss. 'Now why have you agreed to do three more presentations on the Cote de Westphalia? I know Jesus got a rough deal at Easter, but at least they only crucified him once.'
'Well, I couldn't really get out of it,' replied Poundsign. 'Your friend Mrs Brolly is quite persuasive, you know.'
'I know how persuasive she is, she's like a dog with a bloody bone, and she is certainly not my friend.'
'Oh, I thought she was part of your team ...'
'No you fool, she's planning on fillng three venues with awkward bastards who are going to pull your stupid bloody vision apart.'
'Now steady on there, Pangloss. We put our heart and soul into that project.'
'Oh, I know, I signed the bloody cheques, if you remember. But I told you all that Garden City and Creative Harbour stuff was crap at the time. I told you people wouldn't forget bullshit on such a grand scale in a hurry. Now when are these meetings scheduled for?'
'Just a minute, I'll have to buzz my PA.' 'Miss Batter, when are those Cote de Westphalia presentations scheduled for?'
'April 1st, April 9th and April 23rd.'
'April ...' began Poundsign.
'Yes, I heard, said Pangloss. 'April Fools' Day? Are you having a laugh?'
'Oh, it'll be fine. We'll be able to answer any ...'
'We? We? Don't think I'm coming to a discussion of the Mayoral Vision on April-bloody-Fools' Day; they'll eat me alive - that Brolly woman is vicious. I'll get Ahmad Hatter to go.'
'But you'll have to come to at least one,' protested Poundsign.
'Why do I? You bloody arranged it.'
'Because it's the Mayoral Vision, remember?'
'Well, we both know the truth about that. Christ, I wish I'd never listened to you lot. OK, look, if I have to go to one I'll go to the one in Eastphalia. I might get a bit more sympathy on my own patch. But if you ask me, it's going to be hell. You can bet Mrs Brolly and her cronies will have been cutting our quotes out of the newspaper for the last six months and will throw them all back at us. It won't just be bloody developers all sipping champagne and tucking into the finger buffet waiting for a chance to get in on the land-grab. It'll be rows of bloody pensioners saying things like 'oh, it's not like it used to be', and 'we don't want to pay to park; we just want to eat our sandwiches and look at the sea.' Thank God we've had the Town Hall soundproofed, that's all I can say. We certainly don't want any leaks now the shit's about to hit the fan. Hang on, I've got an idea - I've been back a fortnight already. I must be due another holiday by now. Derek, I'll call you back.'
Pangloss put the phone down in a hurry and buzzed his secretary. 'Jenny, can you tell me how much holiday I've taken this year?'
'Sure, Dr Pangloss, let me check. ...Er, according to the diary it looks like seven weeks and three days since last April.'
'Right,' said Pangloss. 'Be a love and check if there are any vacancies at Hedonism in Jamaica for April would you? I really feel I need to de-stress.'
'Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions, Fanny speaking, how may I help you?' came the syrupy voice of Mr Poundsign's PA.
'Put me through to Derek Poundsign please,' said Pangloss curtly, 'it's urgent.'
After a brief pause Mr Poundsign came on the line. 'Pangloss, how the hell are you? I was just think of you as I was flicking through the thesaurus for some inspiration. Hey, what do you of 'beach pods' instead of 'beach huts'? Sounds pretty space age, eh? I'm thinking 21st century, mayoral vision-type concept thingy. I've just doodled something on the back of a fag packet, which I'm pretty excited about - rounded edges and oval windows. I'll get our boys to stick it in a presentation and show you next time we ...'
'My God, don't you ever stop churning out this shit?' interrupted Pangloss. 'Now why have you agreed to do three more presentations on the Cote de Westphalia? I know Jesus got a rough deal at Easter, but at least they only crucified him once.'
'Well, I couldn't really get out of it,' replied Poundsign. 'Your friend Mrs Brolly is quite persuasive, you know.'
'I know how persuasive she is, she's like a dog with a bloody bone, and she is certainly not my friend.'
'Oh, I thought she was part of your team ...'
'No you fool, she's planning on fillng three venues with awkward bastards who are going to pull your stupid bloody vision apart.'
'Now steady on there, Pangloss. We put our heart and soul into that project.'
'Oh, I know, I signed the bloody cheques, if you remember. But I told you all that Garden City and Creative Harbour stuff was crap at the time. I told you people wouldn't forget bullshit on such a grand scale in a hurry. Now when are these meetings scheduled for?'
'Just a minute, I'll have to buzz my PA.' 'Miss Batter, when are those Cote de Westphalia presentations scheduled for?'
'April 1st, April 9th and April 23rd.'
'April ...' began Poundsign.
'Yes, I heard, said Pangloss. 'April Fools' Day? Are you having a laugh?'
'Oh, it'll be fine. We'll be able to answer any ...'
'We? We? Don't think I'm coming to a discussion of the Mayoral Vision on April-bloody-Fools' Day; they'll eat me alive - that Brolly woman is vicious. I'll get Ahmad Hatter to go.'
'But you'll have to come to at least one,' protested Poundsign.
'Why do I? You bloody arranged it.'
'Because it's the Mayoral Vision, remember?'
'Well, we both know the truth about that. Christ, I wish I'd never listened to you lot. OK, look, if I have to go to one I'll go to the one in Eastphalia. I might get a bit more sympathy on my own patch. But if you ask me, it's going to be hell. You can bet Mrs Brolly and her cronies will have been cutting our quotes out of the newspaper for the last six months and will throw them all back at us. It won't just be bloody developers all sipping champagne and tucking into the finger buffet waiting for a chance to get in on the land-grab. It'll be rows of bloody pensioners saying things like 'oh, it's not like it used to be', and 'we don't want to pay to park; we just want to eat our sandwiches and look at the sea.' Thank God we've had the Town Hall soundproofed, that's all I can say. We certainly don't want any leaks now the shit's about to hit the fan. Hang on, I've got an idea - I've been back a fortnight already. I must be due another holiday by now. Derek, I'll call you back.'
Pangloss put the phone down in a hurry and buzzed his secretary. 'Jenny, can you tell me how much holiday I've taken this year?'
'Sure, Dr Pangloss, let me check. ...Er, according to the diary it looks like seven weeks and three days since last April.'
'Right,' said Pangloss. 'Be a love and check if there are any vacancies at Hedonism in Jamaica for April would you? I really feel I need to de-stress.'
Chapter 47 In which the Westphalians listen to the wise words of the Mayor
The little restaurant on the harbourside was packed with the small business owners of Westphalia-on-Sea as they waited in anticipation for the Mayor, his deputy and the Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups to explain how they were going to make amends for their disastrous handling of the cliff face fiasco, which had been reported in the Westphalia Express as 'We Got It Right'. The chairman, Mr Cochran, sensing the bloodlust of the people in the room, asked for people to be respectful in their comments. After the introduction by the chairman, in which he succinctly summarised the problems, it was Dr Pangloss's turn: "When I look around and see the wonderful things that are happening in Fishhole and Eastphalia thanks to the Mayoral Vision ...," he began, but was quickly cut short. The mood in the place was certainly angry. People had lost thousands of pounds and the future still looked bleak. It was quickly established that council had not told everyone the road was going to be closed, and that the Councillor FUC-U had not covered himself in glory with his diversion signs - one businessman said a first-year student in town planning could have worked out a better strategy on the back of a fag packet. Deputy Mayor Ahmad Hatter stood up and said something about black pudding and whippets but nobody could really understand him so he sat down again. The Mayor began to look a little flushed as the temperature in the room began to rise, but it may have just been the tan he had acquired on his short break. Even though a little flustered he soon got into his stride, and began deflecting questions in the time honoured way of talking about the mayoral vision as if it was all actually going to happen. The business community asked for some compensation from the Council, and the Mayor said no. They then asked for free car parking to entice people back to the town. The Mayor said no, because it would upset NCP who ran one of the car parks. Then they asked if they could stop so many buses driving through the pedestrianised area of the town.
At this point the Fat Controller was wheeled out. "No buses driving through the town?" he thundered. "You're all off your fookin' 'eads, the lot of you. I'm in charge of more buses than you've 'ad 'ot dinners, and buses through the town is a fookin' marvellous idea. If you want financial ruin take out the buses, but you'll do it over my dead fookin' body." Most people agreed that the Fat Controller was a man of great charm and charisma mixed with a flair for thoughtful diplomacy. The meeting continued with a lot of discussion going round in circles, but Dr Pangloss did manage to mention his big balloon, which would cost £14 and attract inquisitive high spending visitors wondering if that shitty-looking seafront looked any better from the air.
After the meeting, as the happy band were heading back to their car, Dr Pangloss turned to Ahmad Hatter and said "I thought that went rather well, all things considered. We told them they couldn't have any money from the council, they couldn't have free or even slightly reduced car parking. I'm not going to say the council was negligent, so basically it's business as usual. Oh, except we've got to put some better signs up, and have a meeting before we blow their bus ideas out of the water."
Ahmad Hatter nodded in agreement. "You know Ahmad," continued Pangloss, what these people have got to realise is that when you're planning a grand mayoral vision for the future you haven't got time to listen to people whine on about impending bancruptcy because everything's a disgraceful mess. These miserable so-and-sos have brought most of this on themselves by being so bloody negative. I say a few bancruptcies around the harbour will be a good thing; it'll free up land for us to sell to developers, and we'l be able to crack on with a few high-rise executive apartments. We've got to look at the bigger picture, plan long-term. What do I care if their silly shops selling cut-price tat go under? Let them print their bloody flyers and have their little meetings. If they think they can influence me they'd better think again. Entrepreneurs? Don't make me laugh. I'll still be earning fifty grand a year when those tossers are on the dole. And who was that irksome little man with the scouse accent haranguing me about parking metres? He called me a dictator. Make a note, Ahmad. I want the first parking metre in Westphalia-on-Sea right outside his shop, and I will personally go down and unveil it."
At this point the Fat Controller was wheeled out. "No buses driving through the town?" he thundered. "You're all off your fookin' 'eads, the lot of you. I'm in charge of more buses than you've 'ad 'ot dinners, and buses through the town is a fookin' marvellous idea. If you want financial ruin take out the buses, but you'll do it over my dead fookin' body." Most people agreed that the Fat Controller was a man of great charm and charisma mixed with a flair for thoughtful diplomacy. The meeting continued with a lot of discussion going round in circles, but Dr Pangloss did manage to mention his big balloon, which would cost £14 and attract inquisitive high spending visitors wondering if that shitty-looking seafront looked any better from the air.
After the meeting, as the happy band were heading back to their car, Dr Pangloss turned to Ahmad Hatter and said "I thought that went rather well, all things considered. We told them they couldn't have any money from the council, they couldn't have free or even slightly reduced car parking. I'm not going to say the council was negligent, so basically it's business as usual. Oh, except we've got to put some better signs up, and have a meeting before we blow their bus ideas out of the water."
Ahmad Hatter nodded in agreement. "You know Ahmad," continued Pangloss, what these people have got to realise is that when you're planning a grand mayoral vision for the future you haven't got time to listen to people whine on about impending bancruptcy because everything's a disgraceful mess. These miserable so-and-sos have brought most of this on themselves by being so bloody negative. I say a few bancruptcies around the harbour will be a good thing; it'll free up land for us to sell to developers, and we'l be able to crack on with a few high-rise executive apartments. We've got to look at the bigger picture, plan long-term. What do I care if their silly shops selling cut-price tat go under? Let them print their bloody flyers and have their little meetings. If they think they can influence me they'd better think again. Entrepreneurs? Don't make me laugh. I'll still be earning fifty grand a year when those tossers are on the dole. And who was that irksome little man with the scouse accent haranguing me about parking metres? He called me a dictator. Make a note, Ahmad. I want the first parking metre in Westphalia-on-Sea right outside his shop, and I will personally go down and unveil it."
Chapter 46 In which a Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups is appointed
As the month of February drew to a close and the days began to get longer and lighter the people of Westphalia-on-Sea saw the first signs of spring and allowed a little optimism to enter their lives. Having once been a great summer seaside resort to which the great British unwashed would flock in their thousands, the spring was always the time for blind optimism. Some time in March an amateur meteorologist would usually consult a shrivelled up old bit of seaweed hanging outside his back door and declare a summer of soaring temperatures. This would then be front page news, and hoteliers, publicans, amusement arcade owners and purveyors of tat would rub their hands together at the thought of a bumper summer, even though more often than not people had to get their tans from standing in the English rain.
Unfortunately any optimism that had appeared with the daffodils in the spring of 2008 quickly evaporated, and pretty soon optimism in Westphalia-on-Sea was as rare as rocking horse shit. The reason for this was that a picturesque cliff walk on the seafront had been deemed unsafe, and it was believed there may be a few undesirable drug addicts lurking in the bushes, so Dr Pangloss and his happy band of councillors decided that every piece of vegetation should be unceremoniously ripped from the cliff face until it looked like a patch of Vietnamese jungle after a particularly vicious napalm attack. While this area of outstanding natural beauty was undergoing its health and safety rationalisation the whole road had to be closed, blocking access to the harbour and a large part of the town centre. And when every living thing had been ripped out by the roots it was declared that the road would remain closed for quite a while longer because there were still some safety issues regarding the cliff. Well, as you can imagine, many of the local residents became rather irate at this news, particularly those whose shops had been effectively cordoned off from any passing trade. There were meetings organised and letters written, and it was headline news practically every day in the Westphalia Express. In fact no-one could remember so many column inches being devoted to just one subject since the election of Dr Pangloss and the promise of the best of all possible worlds. Business owners began to say that they would have to close down, and it became obvious that something would have to be done, so Dr Pangloss swung into action and resolved never to have his photo appear in the paper next to one of the stories about the cliff face. His obedient servant, deputy and all round whipping boy Ahmad Hatter would be the cliff 'face', aided and abetted by another councillor, who was given the impressive title of 'Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups'. Between the two of them they would field any difficult questions and generally take the flak, leaving Dr Pangloss holed up in his bunker to devote the machinations of his outsized brain to casinos and balloons. It was a jolly good plan, but like many of Dr Pangloss's good plans, it needed an outside professional to give it a veneer of respectability, so an expert was brought in to tell everyone how the 'napalm approach' to landscape gardening was essential in this case. The reason it was essential, he said, was basically safety. The cliff face had been there for years and years, but there was imminent danger of large boulders coming crashing down on people's heads. Anything other than a scorched earth policy would have been negligent, and this council certainly wasn't negligent. These wise words were repeated by the Councillor FUC-U, and all the residents were mightily relieved that an unimaginable disaster had been averted by the quick thinking and decisive action of Councillor FUC-U. In fact some of the residents were so old they could remember a time when a local beach had suffered a similar fate. Rock falls were predicted, so the only solution was to think of everyone's safety and close the whole beach, ripping up the access path to it in the process. Luckily that beach was now an empty and derelict eyesore which could now be viewed from the perfect safety of the clifftop, and it was very much hoped that a similar solution could be found for the seafront.
One local businessman, a Mr Eddie Cochran, was becoming a particular thorn in Dr Pangloss's side. He was already talking about the 'Summertime Blues' and with his rallying cry of 'C'mon Everybody' he was organising meetings to put pressure on the council to act. He didn't just want half price car parking, he wanted 'Something Else'. (That's enough Eddie Cochran song titles, Ed.) Dr Pangloss was once again exasperated by the general ingratitude of the inhabitants of Westphalia-on-Sea. Here he was, making the seafront safe for everyone to enjoy, reducing street crime and litter into the bargain by closing the area off, and all he read in the newspaper was people whining about 'you've made the whole cliff face unstable', 'my business is going down the toilet', and 'it's all a massive cock-up'. Well, Dr Pangloss had to disagree. He was willing to admit that during his time in office he had had a few cock-ups, but this wasn't one of them - it was all about safety, and if a safe seafront was a closed seafront, then closed it would be. No wealthy casino-goers were going to be crushed to death by falling boulders on his watch - absolutely not!
Unfortunately any optimism that had appeared with the daffodils in the spring of 2008 quickly evaporated, and pretty soon optimism in Westphalia-on-Sea was as rare as rocking horse shit. The reason for this was that a picturesque cliff walk on the seafront had been deemed unsafe, and it was believed there may be a few undesirable drug addicts lurking in the bushes, so Dr Pangloss and his happy band of councillors decided that every piece of vegetation should be unceremoniously ripped from the cliff face until it looked like a patch of Vietnamese jungle after a particularly vicious napalm attack. While this area of outstanding natural beauty was undergoing its health and safety rationalisation the whole road had to be closed, blocking access to the harbour and a large part of the town centre. And when every living thing had been ripped out by the roots it was declared that the road would remain closed for quite a while longer because there were still some safety issues regarding the cliff. Well, as you can imagine, many of the local residents became rather irate at this news, particularly those whose shops had been effectively cordoned off from any passing trade. There were meetings organised and letters written, and it was headline news practically every day in the Westphalia Express. In fact no-one could remember so many column inches being devoted to just one subject since the election of Dr Pangloss and the promise of the best of all possible worlds. Business owners began to say that they would have to close down, and it became obvious that something would have to be done, so Dr Pangloss swung into action and resolved never to have his photo appear in the paper next to one of the stories about the cliff face. His obedient servant, deputy and all round whipping boy Ahmad Hatter would be the cliff 'face', aided and abetted by another councillor, who was given the impressive title of 'Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups'. Between the two of them they would field any difficult questions and generally take the flak, leaving Dr Pangloss holed up in his bunker to devote the machinations of his outsized brain to casinos and balloons. It was a jolly good plan, but like many of Dr Pangloss's good plans, it needed an outside professional to give it a veneer of respectability, so an expert was brought in to tell everyone how the 'napalm approach' to landscape gardening was essential in this case. The reason it was essential, he said, was basically safety. The cliff face had been there for years and years, but there was imminent danger of large boulders coming crashing down on people's heads. Anything other than a scorched earth policy would have been negligent, and this council certainly wasn't negligent. These wise words were repeated by the Councillor FUC-U, and all the residents were mightily relieved that an unimaginable disaster had been averted by the quick thinking and decisive action of Councillor FUC-U. In fact some of the residents were so old they could remember a time when a local beach had suffered a similar fate. Rock falls were predicted, so the only solution was to think of everyone's safety and close the whole beach, ripping up the access path to it in the process. Luckily that beach was now an empty and derelict eyesore which could now be viewed from the perfect safety of the clifftop, and it was very much hoped that a similar solution could be found for the seafront.
One local businessman, a Mr Eddie Cochran, was becoming a particular thorn in Dr Pangloss's side. He was already talking about the 'Summertime Blues' and with his rallying cry of 'C'mon Everybody' he was organising meetings to put pressure on the council to act. He didn't just want half price car parking, he wanted 'Something Else'. (That's enough Eddie Cochran song titles, Ed.) Dr Pangloss was once again exasperated by the general ingratitude of the inhabitants of Westphalia-on-Sea. Here he was, making the seafront safe for everyone to enjoy, reducing street crime and litter into the bargain by closing the area off, and all he read in the newspaper was people whining about 'you've made the whole cliff face unstable', 'my business is going down the toilet', and 'it's all a massive cock-up'. Well, Dr Pangloss had to disagree. He was willing to admit that during his time in office he had had a few cock-ups, but this wasn't one of them - it was all about safety, and if a safe seafront was a closed seafront, then closed it would be. No wealthy casino-goers were going to be crushed to death by falling boulders on his watch - absolutely not!
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