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.'
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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