After all the excitement, and controversy, of the Mayoral Vision project it's good to stand back and take note of all the achievements of the last couple of years, topped off by the excellent news that the Cote de Westphalia is back at the top of the league.
I refer, of course, to today's news that we have the highest teenage pregnancy rates in the country outside London. This is a marvellous shot in the arm for the area, and we should all be very grateful to these schoolchildren for sacrificing their youth in order to provide the next generation of workers to fill the vacancies that we will undoubtedly create. Yes, instead of going out partying in the few pubs and bars that remain open in the town centre, these teenagers will be at home caring for the croupiers and balloon operators of tomorrow. Some may think they're mad, starting families at such a tender age, but who can blame them? With such a dynamic programme unfolding in Westphalia-on-Sea is it any wonder that they want to have more family members who can benefit from the 'trickle down wealth' effect that all this investment will surely bring? Yes, by the time these Westphalian infants reach adulthood they will almost certainly be able to walk along the seafront without a hard hat. And their parents will look up at the cliff, point and say: 'I can remember when that ugly and dangerous cliff face was covered in beautiful trees and illuminated with coloured lights'.
But I digress. Today, coming rather aptly as it does two days before Mothers' Day, is a celebration of birth, life, families, regeneration and renaissance. It is not about about silly indiscretions after half a bottle of Lambrusco. At a time when the country as a whole is suffering from a declining birthrate, here in Westphalia-on-Sea our teenagers are popping them out like there's no tomorrow. We are bucking the trend, and sending out a strong message to the rest of the country: 'Westphalia-on-Sea is open for business, and a bit of how's-your-father as well.' We should make the most of this boost in publicity, and I have just the idea for another visionary project which cashes in on our obvious strength in this area - fertility clinics and sperm banks.
I can just see the slogans now: 'SEA AIR PUTS LEAD IN YOUR PENCIL' and 'THE PLACE TO GET PREGGERS'. People will flock back here if they think the place is associated with virility and manliness, and I think that is the image I have created since my time in office began. A sperm bank, right on the seafront, halfway between the dangerous cliff face and the balloon, will be an obvious attraction to any professional women who have left it a little bit late to get pregnant by more, ahem, conventional means. With the fashion for designer babies, we would obviously have a celebrity section in the bank, where the rich and famous can come along after spending a terrific night at the casino and leave a donation. I believe there is also considerable demand for the sperm of people with exceptionally high IQs, so yours truly may be making a donation soon as well - I just hope the newspapers don't turn the event into some cheap story with a tasteless headline.
Yes, this really is a great day, and once again we have proved the naysayers wrong. It won't happen overnight, but I foresee a time in Westphalia-on-Sea when all our girls are pregnant when they leave school, even the fat mingers. So it's not just casinos, balloons, beach resorts and new hotels - there will be something for everybody in the Westphalia-on-Sea of tomorrow.
Dr Pangloss
Mayor of Westphalia-on-Sea
Chapter 45 In which Pangloss realises that nobody can stop him
As February was drawing to a close Dr Pangloss had good reason to feel rather pleased with himself. In the face of great adversity, with all those moaning minnies writing to the paper every five minutes complaining about his redevelopment plans, he had managed to get all the developers down to a hotel to hear about how the grand sell-off would proceed - after Mr De Saveloy had bagged himself a whole beach and a good bit of the cliffs as well word soon got around that there would be rich pickings in Westphalia-on-Sea. But the most impressive piece of work was still the Mayoral Vision. He now realised that the very title was a stroke of genius by the consultants, as it gave the impression that he, Dr Pangloss, could actually see into the future. Of course, the reality was that Dr Pangloss couldn't see further than the end of his own nose, and he couldn't even see that far without his glasses. Yes, he thought, there had been a few worrying moments at the beginning when people said this isn't your vision, it's just a load of ill-thought out random ideas chucked together by some consultants who are now charging the earth, but Pangloss now realised that there was a lot of truth in the old saying about today's newspaper being tomorrow's chip paper. It had dawned on him that unless the locals actually formed themselves into some kind of formal opposition group they could write all the letters in the world about the problems of the little people and it wouldn't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Since the cat was well and truly out of bag regarding whose idea the Mayoral Vision actually was, Dr Pangloss had taken the bold step of actually naming Derek Poundsign of Complete Commercial Upgrades and New Town Solutions as the true visionary (he could look around a down-at-heel town and see six-figure sums where mere mortals could only see fast food wrappers blowing around the deserted streets) in his newspaper column. The Mayoral Vision was actually a Consultant's Dream, or, if you listened to some of the more vocal locals, the Residents' Nightmare, but it didn't really matter a jot - as long as these windbags put all their efforts into letters and blogs he could carry on picking up his hefty salary and flogging prime real estate for high-rise harbourside development. Phrases such as 'benefiting from stunning views across the Bay' and 'just a stone's throw away from Westphalia-on-Sea's own Sydney Opera House' starting coming to mind as his natural estate agent's impulses kicked in - he really was as happy as a pig in a traditional porcine environment.
The lesson that Pangloss had learnt from the consultants was worth every penny of the locals' money, and it was this: it's not what you say but how you say it. Derek Poundsign and his team had proved that you could dress up a ridiculous idea and sell it to a gullible public provided it was presented in the right way, and like religion, if the facts and figures didn't stack up under close scrutiny you had to rely on faith and some slick marketing tricks. Many people like to believe in some sort of heavenly paradise where they can spend their post-life retirement, and they are quite prepared to ignore all forms of logic in order to keep this idea alive, and so it was with the Mayoral Vision. The believers didn't want to hear that northerners were now heading to all-inclusive Caribbean destinations where you could get cheap 5-star accommodation and the sun shone all day. No, they wanted to believe that with a casino and a balloon they would rush back to Westphalia-on-Sea to sit on one of the beaches that was still open to the public. They didn't want to hear that everybody was spending their money in out-of-town shopping malls or on the internet these days. No, they wanted to believe that people could make a decent living selling scented candles and home-made fudge in quaint little shops if it was called 'niche retail', and that with a little positive mental attitude we could put up a roadblock on the information superhighway and divert everyone back to the town centre. As mad as it all seemed, there were plenty of people who were happy to believe that global warming and a lack of aviation fuel some time in the future would lead to the recreation of the tourism of the 1970s, and that the developers were a bunch of people who went round the country creating wonderful garden cities out of the goodness of their heart. Very few people seemed to realise that the grand plan would end up providing luxury apartments for sale as second homes, and that for most people the end result would be no change, except with a bit more concrete to look at.
With thoughts of his invincibility swishing about his head it was an emboldened mayor who picked up the phone to councillor Norwegian-Blue.
'Ah, Mr Mayor, I trust you have made a decision on the budget for the Civic Chairman by now?' said the obsequious Norwegian-Blue.
'I have indeed,' replied Pangloss. 'The budget stays the same.'
'But we need to make serious cuts, this is a lot of money we're wasting. You were required to fully consider my recommendation,' spluttered Norwegian-Blue.
'I have fully considered it, and my answer is no budget cuts. Look, we need someone to turn up in all those chains at church fetes and school pantos - I'm buggered if I'm going to do it.'
'But £125,000 is a heck of a lot of money.'
'Nonsense. It's a bloody bargain compared to what the consultants cost. Anyway if you're so worried about money get a bloody move on with the parking meters. The sooner we get those in place the sooner we can start taking more cash off everyone. I'm getting fed up having to pussyfoot around all the time.'
'This parking meter scheme doesn't exactly seem popular, you know.'
'Popular? popular? Mussolini wasn't popular, but he got the trains running on time. Now listen to me. I'm in charge, and if I say we're going to waste an eighth of a million pounds on having a Civic Chairman then that's what we're going to do, so stick that in your Overview and Scrutiny Board pipe and smoke it.'
With that Pangloss slammed the phone down; at last he was actually starting to enjoy his job again.
The lesson that Pangloss had learnt from the consultants was worth every penny of the locals' money, and it was this: it's not what you say but how you say it. Derek Poundsign and his team had proved that you could dress up a ridiculous idea and sell it to a gullible public provided it was presented in the right way, and like religion, if the facts and figures didn't stack up under close scrutiny you had to rely on faith and some slick marketing tricks. Many people like to believe in some sort of heavenly paradise where they can spend their post-life retirement, and they are quite prepared to ignore all forms of logic in order to keep this idea alive, and so it was with the Mayoral Vision. The believers didn't want to hear that northerners were now heading to all-inclusive Caribbean destinations where you could get cheap 5-star accommodation and the sun shone all day. No, they wanted to believe that with a casino and a balloon they would rush back to Westphalia-on-Sea to sit on one of the beaches that was still open to the public. They didn't want to hear that everybody was spending their money in out-of-town shopping malls or on the internet these days. No, they wanted to believe that people could make a decent living selling scented candles and home-made fudge in quaint little shops if it was called 'niche retail', and that with a little positive mental attitude we could put up a roadblock on the information superhighway and divert everyone back to the town centre. As mad as it all seemed, there were plenty of people who were happy to believe that global warming and a lack of aviation fuel some time in the future would lead to the recreation of the tourism of the 1970s, and that the developers were a bunch of people who went round the country creating wonderful garden cities out of the goodness of their heart. Very few people seemed to realise that the grand plan would end up providing luxury apartments for sale as second homes, and that for most people the end result would be no change, except with a bit more concrete to look at.
With thoughts of his invincibility swishing about his head it was an emboldened mayor who picked up the phone to councillor Norwegian-Blue.
'Ah, Mr Mayor, I trust you have made a decision on the budget for the Civic Chairman by now?' said the obsequious Norwegian-Blue.
'I have indeed,' replied Pangloss. 'The budget stays the same.'
'But we need to make serious cuts, this is a lot of money we're wasting. You were required to fully consider my recommendation,' spluttered Norwegian-Blue.
'I have fully considered it, and my answer is no budget cuts. Look, we need someone to turn up in all those chains at church fetes and school pantos - I'm buggered if I'm going to do it.'
'But £125,000 is a heck of a lot of money.'
'Nonsense. It's a bloody bargain compared to what the consultants cost. Anyway if you're so worried about money get a bloody move on with the parking meters. The sooner we get those in place the sooner we can start taking more cash off everyone. I'm getting fed up having to pussyfoot around all the time.'
'This parking meter scheme doesn't exactly seem popular, you know.'
'Popular? popular? Mussolini wasn't popular, but he got the trains running on time. Now listen to me. I'm in charge, and if I say we're going to waste an eighth of a million pounds on having a Civic Chairman then that's what we're going to do, so stick that in your Overview and Scrutiny Board pipe and smoke it.'
With that Pangloss slammed the phone down; at last he was actually starting to enjoy his job again.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
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Chapter 44 In which Charlie shows his true colours
As Charlie Windsor had ended their call rather abruptly, Pangloss stared for a few seconds at the now silent telephone receiver still in his hand before pressing the buzzer on his intercom.
'Jenny, can you come through please? I need you to explain a few things to me.'
'What can I do for you, Dr Pangloss?' asked his secretary as she breezed into the office.
'I want to know all about this business in the paper - what's Charlie Windsor been saying about Brian Localbloke?'
'Oh, it's quite simple, ' said Jenny, 'but it all started with this Tory MP called Derek Conway, who lives miles away from Westphalia-on-Sea. Apparently he paid one of his sons £45,000 from public funds while he was a full-time student at Newcastle University. Then it turned out he had paid his elder son £32,000 in similar circumstances. Of course, there are no records of these two twerps doing any work for this money, so in most people's eyes it's a case of embezzlement and theft.'
'Crikey, he sounds a nasty piece of work. Is he going to be banged up? He might have to be someone's bitch in prison - I've heard about that sort of thing.'
'Oh no, he's just been given ten days off work. Anyway that's not all. It seems that over the past six years the Conway family members were paid £374,401 in parliamentary allowances. Oh yes, and one of his sons organised a theme party with the title 'Fuck Off I'm Rich.''
'I see. But what's all this got to do with Charlie Windsor and Brian Localbloke?'
'Well, you know that Charlie Windsor is desperate to get his face in the paper at any opportunity, so he tried to imply that Brian Localbloke is doing something underhand because he employs his wife as his office manager.'
'But that's ridiculous. Even I know that Brian is an honest kind of guy. I must say I didn't quite realise what a greasy little shit Charlie could be. And anyway, everyone knows he's only here to try and get himself an MP's salary and allowances himself - it's not as if he gives a flying fuck about the locals anyway.'
'Yes quite, but it doesn't end there. Apparently Tarquin Pompous-Duffer, the Tory MP for Toadness, has employed his daughter as well, so now he's caught up in it all, and it turns out his last claim for staffing costs was more than Brian Localbloke's.'
'Blimey, old Charlie doesn't want to get on the wrong side of Mr Pompous-Duffer; he'll have him horse-whipped or keel-hauled or something.'
'Yes, well there have been a few letters in the paper pointing out that Charlie's attack on Localbloke is altogether misguided, not to mention downright hypocritical when it's your and his fellow Tories who are busy filling their pockets.'
'Crikey, I don't want to be tarred with the same brush. I wonder if it's time I moved back to Lib-Dems, or tried a different party altogether?'
'How about the Monster Raving Loony Party?' suggested his secretary. 'I'm only kidding - I don't think you'd get in - you're a bit too straight. But look, the locals think you're an overpaid clown sleepwalking from one disaster to another, selling off precious parts of the bay and throwing their hard-earned cash hand over fist at half-witted consultants, but I don't believe they think you're dishonest.'
'Well thank you for that resounding vote of confidence, Jenny,' said Pangloss, and he allowed his face to crack into a little smile, 'that's most reassuring.'
'Jenny, can you come through please? I need you to explain a few things to me.'
'What can I do for you, Dr Pangloss?' asked his secretary as she breezed into the office.
'I want to know all about this business in the paper - what's Charlie Windsor been saying about Brian Localbloke?'
'Oh, it's quite simple, ' said Jenny, 'but it all started with this Tory MP called Derek Conway, who lives miles away from Westphalia-on-Sea. Apparently he paid one of his sons £45,000 from public funds while he was a full-time student at Newcastle University. Then it turned out he had paid his elder son £32,000 in similar circumstances. Of course, there are no records of these two twerps doing any work for this money, so in most people's eyes it's a case of embezzlement and theft.'
'Crikey, he sounds a nasty piece of work. Is he going to be banged up? He might have to be someone's bitch in prison - I've heard about that sort of thing.'
'Oh no, he's just been given ten days off work. Anyway that's not all. It seems that over the past six years the Conway family members were paid £374,401 in parliamentary allowances. Oh yes, and one of his sons organised a theme party with the title 'Fuck Off I'm Rich.''
'I see. But what's all this got to do with Charlie Windsor and Brian Localbloke?'
'Well, you know that Charlie Windsor is desperate to get his face in the paper at any opportunity, so he tried to imply that Brian Localbloke is doing something underhand because he employs his wife as his office manager.'
'But that's ridiculous. Even I know that Brian is an honest kind of guy. I must say I didn't quite realise what a greasy little shit Charlie could be. And anyway, everyone knows he's only here to try and get himself an MP's salary and allowances himself - it's not as if he gives a flying fuck about the locals anyway.'
'Yes quite, but it doesn't end there. Apparently Tarquin Pompous-Duffer, the Tory MP for Toadness, has employed his daughter as well, so now he's caught up in it all, and it turns out his last claim for staffing costs was more than Brian Localbloke's.'
'Blimey, old Charlie doesn't want to get on the wrong side of Mr Pompous-Duffer; he'll have him horse-whipped or keel-hauled or something.'
'Yes, well there have been a few letters in the paper pointing out that Charlie's attack on Localbloke is altogether misguided, not to mention downright hypocritical when it's your and his fellow Tories who are busy filling their pockets.'
'Crikey, I don't want to be tarred with the same brush. I wonder if it's time I moved back to Lib-Dems, or tried a different party altogether?'
'How about the Monster Raving Loony Party?' suggested his secretary. 'I'm only kidding - I don't think you'd get in - you're a bit too straight. But look, the locals think you're an overpaid clown sleepwalking from one disaster to another, selling off precious parts of the bay and throwing their hard-earned cash hand over fist at half-witted consultants, but I don't believe they think you're dishonest.'
'Well thank you for that resounding vote of confidence, Jenny,' said Pangloss, and he allowed his face to crack into a little smile, 'that's most reassuring.'
Chapter 43 In which Pangloss looks for support from an old ally
'Good morning, Lemming Snafu. Charles here, how may I help you?' said Charlie Windsor, answering the phone at his recruitment consultancy.
'Charlie! Good to hear your voice. Pangloss here, it's been a while, hasn't it?'
'Oh, hullo, old man. Yes, I suppose it has. What can I do for you?'
Was he imagining it, or did our illustrious Dr Pangloss detect a little nervousness in Charlie's voice? 'In a nutshell, support,' said Pangloss.'That's what I'm after. The bloody Westphalia Express is starting to abandon me. I could do with some support from some political big-hitters, but as I don't know any I thought I'd ask you as you were my election campaign manager.'
'Well it's very nice that you thought of me, but I'm not sure that would really be in my best interest at the moment. I mean, things have moved on, times have changed, and all that.'
'What do you mean?' asked Pangloss.
'Well, put a little less euphemistically, you've made a complete mess of everything and I can't really afford to be associated with you.'
'What! But you are associated with me. You helped get me elected, you wrote all that stuff supporting my Vision, we're both Tories, we're practically political Siamese twins.'
'Well, not quite. This Siamese twin hasn't got a fifty grand plus salary yet, and if I'm going to jump aboard that gravy train heading for Westminster I can't be seen cosying up to you. I read that story about your U-turn over making blind people pay for their talking books, and then another U-turn story about the parking meters. Things are looking a bit grim for you at the moment, old boy.'
'Christ, a couple of minor incidents where I carefully reconsidered the views of the Westphalians, that's all. And strictly speaking two U-turns means I'm actually heading in the original direction.'
'Look,' said Charlie, 'You know as well as I do that you only changed your mind because of all the negative publicity you were getting, and frankly, I don't think you'd know which direction you were heading in if you had a compass superglued to end of your nose. Now as for me, things are just starting to look up. I've managed to get my face in the Westphalia Express a couple of times recently by sounding off about Brian Localbloke, and I can't afford to lose any momentum by getting involved with you and your daft ideas. I tell you what, I'll give you a ring if you ever dig yourself out of the hole you're in, how's that? Now I've got to go, there's another call waiting. Bye.'
'Charlie! Good to hear your voice. Pangloss here, it's been a while, hasn't it?'
'Oh, hullo, old man. Yes, I suppose it has. What can I do for you?'
Was he imagining it, or did our illustrious Dr Pangloss detect a little nervousness in Charlie's voice? 'In a nutshell, support,' said Pangloss.'That's what I'm after. The bloody Westphalia Express is starting to abandon me. I could do with some support from some political big-hitters, but as I don't know any I thought I'd ask you as you were my election campaign manager.'
'Well it's very nice that you thought of me, but I'm not sure that would really be in my best interest at the moment. I mean, things have moved on, times have changed, and all that.'
'What do you mean?' asked Pangloss.
'Well, put a little less euphemistically, you've made a complete mess of everything and I can't really afford to be associated with you.'
'What! But you are associated with me. You helped get me elected, you wrote all that stuff supporting my Vision, we're both Tories, we're practically political Siamese twins.'
'Well, not quite. This Siamese twin hasn't got a fifty grand plus salary yet, and if I'm going to jump aboard that gravy train heading for Westminster I can't be seen cosying up to you. I read that story about your U-turn over making blind people pay for their talking books, and then another U-turn story about the parking meters. Things are looking a bit grim for you at the moment, old boy.'
'Christ, a couple of minor incidents where I carefully reconsidered the views of the Westphalians, that's all. And strictly speaking two U-turns means I'm actually heading in the original direction.'
'Look,' said Charlie, 'You know as well as I do that you only changed your mind because of all the negative publicity you were getting, and frankly, I don't think you'd know which direction you were heading in if you had a compass superglued to end of your nose. Now as for me, things are just starting to look up. I've managed to get my face in the Westphalia Express a couple of times recently by sounding off about Brian Localbloke, and I can't afford to lose any momentum by getting involved with you and your daft ideas. I tell you what, I'll give you a ring if you ever dig yourself out of the hole you're in, how's that? Now I've got to go, there's another call waiting. Bye.'
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