Chapter 73 In which Pangloss considers the signs ...

After his recent defeat in the ballot to see who would be the next Tory MP for Toadness (you may remember, readers, that the seat became available when the incumbent, Tarquin Pompous-Duffer, committed one of those dreadful accounting oversights that we are all prone to from time to time and accidentally charged the taxpayer eighty-odd grand for a spot of gardening) Dr Pangloss was perusing the pages of a few back copies of the Westphalia Express, looking for inspiration about what to do next. The newspaper had been his staunchest supporter, had followed him through thick and thin, and had always been there with a kind message of support even when 99% of the local population thought he was a complete twat, so Panloss felt that the answer he so desperately sought might be buried somewhere within its pages. 'NOW BUGGER OFF YOU LOSER' screamed one headline. 'JESUS CHRIST, ARE YOU STILL HERE?' said another in an unnecessarily large font. 'Hmm,' thought Pangloss to himself. 'The headlines are just there to catch people's attention, but I wonder what the editorial says? That should give me a real clue.' He opened the paper and scanned the page. These words caught his eye: ... so we unreservedly apologize to all our readers for suggesting that this man might have been able to run our beloved bay, and we have put up a reward for anyone who can raise a posse and run him out of town by sunrise ...'. Pangloss closed and folded the newspaper and said to his cat 'Goodness Chairman Miaow, it's so difficult to read the situation. I'm getting all these conflicting messages...' Just then The Clash started blaring from PalmTree FM, the local radio station: "Should I stay or should I go now ... If I stay there will be trouble ..."
'What is a man to do?' continued Pangloss, still addressing the cat. At that moment there was a loud knock and the door swung open. An ebullient Charlie Windsor stood in the doorway.
"Pangloss, old chum," he began.
"Oh, hullo, Charlie," stuttered Pangloss. "What do you want?"
"Nothing really - just popped by to gloat. I hear you came last."
"Third," corrected Pangloss. "I came third."
"Yes, out of three."
"It's still third. If it had been the Olympics I'd have got a medal."
"Whatever," replied Charlie. "Have you written your resignation speech yet?"
"Resignation speech? What makes you think I should resign?" asked Pangloss.
"Well, how about the online poll in the Westphalia Express for a start? 83% of the people think you should resign."
"But where would I go?" protested Pangloss.
"I don't know. Anywhere. I hear South Africa's nice at this time of year."
"Hang on," interupted Pangloss. "Eighty-three per cent? You mean 17% think I shouldn't resign? Well, with that level of support behind me I shall definitely carry on. I wouldn't want to let those 17% down. And there's always this." Pangloss waved a white piece of paper in the air.
"What's that?" asked Charlie, "A letter from Hitler?"
"No, it's my payslip. Four grand into my account every month, no questions asked."
"I see what you mean," said Charlie, the envy all too evident in his intonation. "Hopefully I'll soon have one of those myself, when we finally get rid of that irksome oik Localbloke. Well, if you're going to stick around for the cash you'd better not queer the pitch for me. You're all washed up now, you're a lame duck, as dead as a dodo, yesterday's news, tomorrow's chip paper ..."
"Yes, I get the message," said Pangloss.
"What I'm saying is I'm the new kid on the block now. People need to get positive and follow a new messiah."
"Well, if you're going to make a splash locally you'd better start expressing your opinion on local issues," said Pangloss.
"Why would I want to do that?" asked Charlie. "I won't be here, will I? I'll be shooting off home. No, all I'm interested in is reminding everyone on the electoral register that voting for Localbloke is exactly the same as asking the Taliban to come round and stone you're mother to death because she burnt your toast."
"Yes, I see. That's quite a cunning plan, isn't it? Well, I still think you'd better feign a bit of interest in local affairs, at least," advised Pangloss. "What do you think of this new development proposal for example?" Pangloss pushed the newspaper towards Charlie, open at the page which contained a sketch illustrating how tall the new development near the harbour would be. Charlie studied the picture for a moment and then said "Is that an ordinary-sized gorilla?"
"I think so," said Pangloss.
"Well, in that case it all looks fine to me."
"Well I'm glad we see eye to eye on something," said Pangloss, smiling. "That's exactly what I thought."

APOLOGY

After a period of rather prolonged silence some readers have been speculating that we have shuffled off this mortal coil, possibly through succumbing to swine flu. We can in fact reassure everyone that while swine flu may have affected the rest of the UK, down here in Westphalia-on-Sea we are made of stronger stuff, and don't panic about every non-story we read about in the papers - we are very much alive and kicking. The truth is simply that we have been busy launching a campaign to tackle some of the dodgy goings-on here, and it all takes time - there are websites to set up, leaflets to print and deliver, press releases to issue, etc., and sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day. We will be posting more tales from Toadness very soon, but for the moment we would ask all our readers to support the PhaliaFuture campaign, which you may have read about in the Westphalia Express.

Chapter 72 In which we hear how one MP made up his own rules over expenses

Down in Toadness, which is about 10 miles from Westphalia-on-Sea, nothing much happens most of the time. The locals wear sandals and multicoloured jumpers, and spend their time knitting their own yoghurt and generally being nice to one another. The overall tranquility of the place, however, had been shattered by the revelation in the Daily Torygraph that their local MP, Tarquin Pompous-Duffer had been making some rather large claims on his expenses. It appeared that he claimed that his enormous country mansion was, in fact, his second home, and that his main home was his rented flat in London. Because his enormous country mansion was clearly, obviously and irrefutably his second home, he claimed for its upkeep. And, of course, all the land that went with his enormous country mansion needed upkeeping as well, as did all the trees on that land. Now Tarquin Pompous-Duffer was a well-educated former barrister, so he had a keen legal mind. However, despite this obvious intelligence he often had great problems distinguishing between right and wrong, particularly when it was time to submit his expenses. This struck some people as rather odd, but apparently it's quite common among (a) members of the legal profession and (b) the wealthy. When a local journalist asked him if he expected to have to pay back any expenses under a strict new regime imposed by his party leader David Cameron in a crackdown on 'inappropriate' claims he said: "No I don't." Five days later he said he "got it wrong" and was prepared to pay back to the taxpayer around 10 per cent of the £87,729 he claimed for the upkeep of the house, which the Daily Torygraph estimated was now worth around £1.5 million. "Until the Torygraph began printing details of the claims made by MPs, none of us knew what the rules were", he said. "I set my own rules and my rules were the maintenance of the property. If there was a rule saying you cannot claim for anything to do with trees or gardening, I would not have put it in. I can't be expected to work out what's right and what's wrong all the time," he added, "I'm a busy man. People should thank me for making up some rules of my own."
It appears that Mr Pompous-Duffer was incorrect about the absence of rules. In fact the rule book quite clearly states that 'It is your responsibility to satisfy yourself when you submit a claim ...that any expenditure claimed from the allowances has been wholly, exclusively and necessarily incurred for the purpose of performing your Parliamentary duties'.
Asked if his ability to do his job depended on having the trees, Mr Pompous-Duffer replied: "Of course it does. Trees take in carbon dioxide and give off oxygen, and that's what I breathe. If those trees weren't there I'd be dead, and so would many of my constituents, so I'm doing everyone a service." He added: "The travel allowance I have is appalling. I am only entitled 15 return journeys to see my wife. The rest comes out of my pocket. The rate of divorce is high in the House of Commons because of this. Members don't see their wives and husbands. Being an MP isn't an attractive prospect. I personally spend a four-figure sum each year in order to see my wife and family. I shouldn't be put in that position, I feel. Being an MP has its benefits and sacrifices."
Up until this point the residents of Toadness were quite heartily sick of the old twerp, but once he had pointed out the hardships he went through to represent them in Parliament their icy hearts began to thaw a little. 'My God, what suffering he has endured', they thought. 'This poor man has had to pay for his train fare or petrol to get from his tiny little first home to his enormous country mansion of a second home. We have been too quick to judge him.' And with that there was an eerie moment where the whole population of Toadness were mentally connected by the power of their crystals, and collectively ran out into the street wailing and begging for forgiveness from the ancient woodland gods for the way they had judged this man. 'How can we make amends?' they cried.
And then one among them suggested they should have a whip round, which would pay for his next few train journeys in first class. They all agreed this was a marvellous idea. They took a bucket with them down the High Street, and local people began throwing money at them to alleviate their guilt. Pensioners vowed to turn off their heating and wear an extra cardigan so they could donate the saving on gas and electric to their hard-up MP. Working people promised to walk to work and send him their petrol money, and the unemployed said they would rather have their house repossessed and live in a cardboard box than see their MP suffer in this way. Parents encouraged their children to donate their pocket money to this worthy cause, and very soon the bucket was brimming over with cash. The locals took turns to carry and drag the rather heavy bucket of cash the several miles to his second home (lucky they didn't have to take it all the way to London to his first home!). They went up the impressive driveway and marvelled at the well kept trees and shrubbery, safe in the knowledge that they had done a good deed and that Mr Pompous-Duffer would be pleased to see them. However, when he came to the door he was anything but happy. "I'll probably lose my seat over this!" he thundered, then he added: "You lot should be round at the tradesmen's entrance - get off my doorstep, you look like you haven't had a wash for a week!" His anger was still rising, and he finally snapped, and told them all to get off his land. As they turned and dejectedly started dragging the bucket back down the path, he shouted: "Well, leave the bloody bucket! There's no point dragging it all the way back again, is there?"

Chapter 71 In which it is proved beyond any reasonable doubt that miracles can happen

It was around this time that Bernadette, a French girl on work experience, turned up the offices of the Westphalia Express. All the staff made her feel at home and treated her very well, and they went to some lengths to show her how a quality local newspaper was produced. Not being a native English speaker meant Bernadette only understood about 60% of what was said to her, but even so she managed to share a few jokes with the staff. However, it was working with the photographers that was most appealing - looking at photos instead of always having to try to understand what people were saying meant she could relax a little. The photos she looked at mostly featured two men. The first was quite a chilling image of a man with a thick grey moustache. The girl thought he looked rather menacing, rather like an east European dictator who would have no qualms about attaching electrodes to the genitals of any member of the local civic society who dared to try and stop his programme of building development, but the picture editor assured her that he was just a cuddly pussycat. The second man featured in hundreds of photos was a completely different kettle of fish. He wore glasses and had a big grin in most of the pictures, but on closer inspection she saw that the same man had two other kinds of facial expression. Sometimes he looked very serious, staring off into the distance, and at other times he wore a sort of glum expression, but it was the over-exaggerated face of an unhappy clown, so everyone knew he wasn't really sad. "Ee eez an 'ow you say clown?" she asked in her broken English. "Well, yes and no," said the picture editor. "We do say clown, but he is not a clown. He is the mayor. He is a very important man in this town. He does lots of good things for the people. You can ask anyone in these offices, and they will all tell you that they love him. We are all proud to live here, and proud that he is our mayor."
"I see," said the girl. "Ee eez a beet like the queen?"
"Well, I suppose, in a manner of, well, as a figurehead kind of thing then yes, perhaps he could be described in that way," stuttered the picture editor, strangely lost for words. "After all, he did give us the balloon."
"Ahh, zee balloon," said the girl. "I 'ave seen eet - eet is wonderful, n'est-ce pas? So you say it is of the mayor, or by the mayor?"
"Well, both really," replied the photo editor. "I mean he created it, he made it happen, and it defines him. To all intents and purposes the balloon is the mayor and the the mayor is the balloon."
The French girl wasn't entirely sure what the photo editor was driving at but she nodded politely, pretending to understand exactly what he meant.
That evening on her way home the girl passed the balloon, and remembered the words of the photo editor. Staring up at the large grey sphere she thought she began to understand what he had meant. As it rose into the sky it seemed as if it was looking down on the inhabitants of the town and looking after them. As the sun glinted in the sky she thought she saw the face of the mayor on the balloon. Perhaps it was the fact that she had spent the morning looking at photos of the mayor, or maybe it was the way the picture editor had waxed lyrically about the high esteem in which the mayor was held by the local populace, but in that one instant the girl really believed that the mayor had appeared to her, albeit in a gigantic rubbery form. She thought to herself how nice it must be, to be an inhabitant of this town, safe in the knowledge that he was always looking down and looking after you. For one fleeting moment it gave her a strange warm sensation all over.

Back at the offices of the Westphalia Express the next day and trying desperately to contribute to the conversation Bernadette mentioned that the mayor had appeared to her in his balloon-like form. Her comment was practically ignored by most present, but one of the more experienced hacks, with a nose for a story, pushed her for more details. What exactly had she seen? "Son visage," replied the girl, lapsing into her mother tongue under questioning. To most people with a rudimentary knowledge of French this would have indicated that she had seen 'his face', but one hack misheard it as 'song Visage', and immediately thought she was referring to the eighties' classic 'Fade to Grey' by Visage, which had lyrics in both English and French. Once he had explained the various prophetic connections (the grey balloon, the mayor fading away after the return of his deputy, the line 'Feel the rain like an English summer', etc.)to his colleagues, they were all in agreement: they had a story on their hands, and it looked like a big one. After all, it wasn't every day that someone in a sleepy seaside town had a vision of this magnitude. The Westphalians usually had to pay consultants to have their visions, and here was one that was completely free - in Westphalia-on-Sea things just don't get any better than that, particularly during a recession. The office quickly turned into a hive of activity as the hacks raced around trying to cobble together a story, when one of them (clearly brighter than the rest) wondered out loud what the commercial possibilities of this occurence might be. "Of course," said the editor. "Let's call Rhubarb & Custard, our tourism consultants, explain what has happened, and ask them how the town might profit from this."
The news from the conference call with the consultants was better than anyone could have hoped. Christine Custard said that the town needed an effing miracle to stop it disappearing down the plughole, and this was probably as close as they would get to one. She was quick to point out that the Virgin Mary had appeared 18 times at Lourdes, so it was best to get the story corroborated by a few other people. Some people were sceptical as to whether this could be done, but Ms Custard reminded them that if old people could be coerced into posing for photos wearing face masks then they could certainly be persuaded that they had seen the mayor's face on a balloon. Once that had happened a few times it would only be a matter of days before the Pope, or at the very least Ant and Dec, turned up. Westphalia-on-Sea would be transformed into a place of pilgrimage. As a mark of respect and dedication people would walk the last five miles from Newton Bumpkin on their knees, and she pointed out that hobbling along on bloodied stumps in this way might, in fact, be quicker than driving along the A380. The tired old gift shops around the harbour would be transformed - they would stock bottles of local 'Blue Flag' seawater in balloon-shaped bottles, with the words 'Mayoral Waters' on the front and the words 'Not to come into contact with the skin or eyes' on the back, above a triangle with a skull and crossbones on it. After the initial excitement about the mayor's face on the balloon had subsided it would be time for a few local 'healing' stories. According to Christine Custard the Roman Catholic Church has officially recognized 67 miraculous healings at Lourdes, so the Westphalians had a bit of catching up to do if they wanted to give those Frogs a run for their money, but Christine was confident that with the right kind of consultancy firm at the helm this figure could easily be bettered, particularly now that we were in the digital age. It would, of course, involve some significant extra outlay by the council at first, but this was only to be expected; after all, we had moved from mere run-of-the-mill consultancy to visions, healings, and some serious rebranding, and no-one in their right mind could expect that to come cheap.

Chapter 70 In which the Cote de Westphalia gears up for the summer and welcomes back the prodigal son

Spring in Westphalia-on-Sea was always a time of mixed emotions for the residents. On the positive side the sun occasionally came out and the days grew longer, but this was always tinged with a feeling of apprehension: would it be a good summer? Would the visitors come back? Would they like what they saw? And would the roads all be dug up in time to make the place look like a building site before the tourists arrived? Of course, this year it wasn't just Westphalia-on-Sea that was in danger of economic meltdown - it was the whole country, and in times of national strife the one thing a country needs is effective leadership. Britain might look very different today were it not for the rousing speeches of Churchill. He talked about fighting on the beaches, and stuck barbed wire and land mines on them just to show everyone he was serious. The council in Westphalia-on-Sea hadn't quite gone that far, and had just stuck up a few 'beach closed' signs and half-heartedly cordoned off a few beaches with what looked like bits of junk someone had found at the back of their shed, but the sense of pride and patriotism that it inspired in the locals was just the same as it was during the dark days of the blitz. Impressed by these bold acts of leadership, the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea rallied around their illustrious mayor, Dr Pangloss, as things began to get tough. However bleak the future looked, the residents never wavered in their belief that Dr Pangloss and his band of merry commissioners would lead them from misery into the promised land. Once things got tight and savings had to be made from the public purse the people were thankful that it was the layabouts who helped in schools and picked up the odd bit of rubbish that bore the brunt of the cutbacks. It seemed only right and proper that the CEO, the mayor, his deputy and those aforementioned commissoners were not penalised in the pocket, because they were the unsung heroes who slogged away at their desks day-in day-out and applied Solomon-like wisdom to everyday problems, and were largely responsible for making Westphalia-on-Sea such a wonderful place. Hot on the heels of all this mayoral euphoria was the wonderful news that that old political warhorse, Ahmad Hatter, was back with a steady hand on the tiller leading the Tories again. Yes, he was truly the missing link, in the sense that he was back in place and part of the 'dream team', along with the mayor and the councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups. Not the missing link in the sense of an ape-like creature who seemed to have jumped off the evolutionary scale a bit too early. It seemed that Ahmad Hatter's problem in the past was that he had not been soft and cuddly enough. This time he promised to be as soft and cuddly as a cardboard box full of abandoned kittens. As you can imagine, dear reader, this news caused most Westphalians to shed tears of joy and hold impromptu street parties, because the one thing they craved more than anything during these dark times was a soft and cuddly deputy mayor.

While the unwanted deputy mayor had been away in the political wilderness the mayor and the councillor FUC-U had been extremely busy. The mayor had hired yet more consultants to grapple with the thorny subject of branding. Apparently what was keeping the tourists away from the Cote de Westphalia was not the crap weather or the lack of facilities, but the name. It might be wrong and might need to be changed, but nobody could be 100% sure until further surveys, meetings and brainstorming sessions had been carried out, but one thing was certain - these consultants would finally, once and for all, get to the bottom of this bloody name business, even if it meant they had to bill the council for an extra six months. At the same time it would finally be decided whether Westphalia-on-Sea wanted old tourists who came by coach, working-class tourists who came by car, or rich tourists who came by boat. And then they would decide whether they wanted more hotels or fewer hotels, and whether they should be cheap hotels or expensive hotels. The mayor had a good feeling about these consultants, and he should know, because he had an ever-growing knowledge of consultants and their hefty fees. He felt this bunch were really on the ball, and would come up with some good findings. While the consultants were busy coming up with revolutionary outside-the-box thinking that would bring the tourists back, a firm of architects was busy sketching a 21st-century landmark for the harbour. Apparently it had been decided by the locals that what they really wanted at the harbour was another hotel/luxury flats complex, but this time one which towered above the tatty Victorian monstrosities below. And at ground level they wanted more shops and another cinema. It was a genius idea, and the residents were supremely lucky that the mayor had appointed a firm which could deliver this combination of building and engineering on a scale that would have filled Brunel or Wren with pride. As the locals looked at the plans in wonderment they could almost hear the tourists on the A38 saying: 'A four-storey hotel and apartment complex with retail outlets and a cinema? I don't believe it can be done! Why let's make a detour and see this wonder for ourselves, and then stroll along the harbour eating caviar and lobster thermidor from pages of Tatler magazine.'

But let us not allow these mighty mayoral achievements to overshadow the dilligent work of the councillor FUC-U. First he had been busy sticking parking meters everywhere, because he said people would be attracted to the town if they knew it was expensive to park. Then he decided to reduce the cost of the car parks, because he said people would be attracted to the town if they knew it was cheap to park. Some people said he must be clinically insane, but others contended that he was a misunderstood genius, and pointed out that even Einstein had never really got to grips with the concept of parking meters. They said that with this system everyone was a winner - the tourists could choose whether they wanted to park where it was expensive or cheap, and the council and the traffic wardens were happy because nobody really understood when the charges applied and they could carry on throwing parking tickets around like confetti. Yes, when Ahmad Hatter looked at the confused mess around him he could see his two colleagues had been very busy, and that he would really have to pull out the stops to make his mark the second time around.

Chapter 69 In which new consultants arrive with some new brand ideas

"Come in, come in," said a welcoming Dr Pangloss as he ushered his latest consultant into his office.
"What was it you wanted to see me about?" asked the slightly bemused Christine Custard, head of Rhubarb & Custard, the firm of consultants which had won the contract to draw up the Cote de Westphalia's latest tourism strategy.
"Well, I just wanted a sneak preview of what you are going to say in your tourism briefing at the Conference, Recreation And Performance Centre - what are you going to say to the good people who turn up at the C.R.A.P. Centre to listen to your words of wisdom?"
"Well we'll start by saying that we can turn the Cote de Westphalia's tourism industry around within five years, and that the place has the potential to become Britain's premier resort."
"Blimey, that's optimistic," gasped Pangloss, as a shrill whistle escaped his lips. "Can it really be done?"
"Oh yes, we believe the place could be Britain's premier resort within five to 10 years."
"Hang on," said Pangloss, "you said 'within five years' just now ..."
"Five years? Ten years? What's the difference?" asked Ms Custard.
"Well it's double, isn't it? That's quite an important detail, I'd have thought."
"Details, shmee-tails, who give's a rat's ass? Don't start trying to pin me down on details. I'm here to give a powerpoint presentation, to show people the bigger picture."
"But I thought the Devil was in the detail. I used to say that a lot."
"Not in consultancy, my friend, not in consultancy. The best consultancy is a pure art form. It is not infected with the ugly contaminating force of details. I'll thank you not to mention details again."
"Oh, OK," said a rather chastised Pangloss.
"Early on in the talk I'll throw in the old branding issue and say that needs to be tackled."
"Oh, branding again?" remarked Pangloss. "Our last consultants said that too. They cost us a pretty penny, I can tell you."
"Which firm was that?" asked Custard, suddenly on the defensive.
"Complete Commercial Upgrades and New Town Solutions - heard of them?"
"Yeah, I think we used to call them something else, though. Now what was it? No, it's gone. Anyway, what do they know about branding? They couldn't consult their way out of a paper bag."
"Really?" said Pangloss.
"Amateurs, the lot of them. Bet they told you to change the name of the place, didn't they? Rename the station and pretend it's in the middle of the town? Become a city?"
"Well yes. they did actually. I must say I liked those idea a lot. I even had a special name for them. I called them 'my vision'."
"You what? You're having a fucking laugh, aren't you? Well, vision or not, you'd better start disliking those ideas, because they're shit."
"Blimey, right, well, you're the boss, I suppose. What are you going to do about branding then?"
"I don't know yet, do I? I'll scribble something on the back of a fag packet in a minute. Look, I'm just going to say 'your branding needs some work' for the moment, and leave it at that. No need for details; details are for pussies."
"So you're the resort's new tourism consultant - what else are you going to say to the business people at the special tourism presentation?"
"I'll say 'You have to embrace the importance of this review because changes are happening,' and 'if you don't embrace those changes there are going to be some quite big problems'."
"Doesn't that all sound a bit meaningless?"
"Maybe it does, but we're hired now, so I can say whatever I like. I'll go on to say that we need their support and we greatly value their input. That's coded shorthand for 'actually it's you who will have to get yourselves out of this mess, because we will just give a few presentations and then bugger off when our cheque's cleared'. I might even say that we want to help them and build on what they have achieved so far, and that they should be very proud of what they have achieved so far, but I'm not sure, because it's sounds quite condescending and will have half the audience reaching for the sick bags."
"Hm, I see what you mean. Will you be using any jargon? You know, that 'management-speak'?"
"Oh yes, how about this: 'the strategy will try to identify what is working, and then to refresh the existing with the aim of reversing the decline in numbers and visitor spend which the Bay has suffered'"
"Yes, that's great. But what does it mean?"
"It just means we'll try and find out what's wrong and then try and do something about it."
"Oh. Couldn't we just do that ourselves?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You can't have any Tom Dick or Harry walking around the place deciding what's wrong and then making cheap suggestions about how to put it right."
"Why not?"
"Because it's skilled consultancy work, that's why. You have to be able to follow it up with a powerpoint presentation and accept a big fat cheque for your troubles."
"Well, anyway, what are the solutions?"
"Don't jump the gun. We don't really focus on solutions, especially at this early stage. First we've got to have some findings."
"Findings?"
"Yes, findings. Stuff that we find out. Like the fact that you are perceived currently as having a problem with alcoholism, too many old people, and too many yobs. That will probably all go into our findings."
"But you haven't had to find that out. That's just comon knowledge. Everybody knows those things, and much more besides."
"Well, what everybody knows doesn't interest us. This isn't about what local people know - it's about the findings of a consultant. And when a consultant presents you with their findings, what do you think you have to do?"
"Er,... believe in them?" stammered Pangloss, hesitatingly.
"That's right, you're learning, you have to believe in their findings, you have to live and breathe them, they are not to gather dust on any top shelf."
"But that's where we keep our consultants' findings," protested Pangloss. "Mainly because up til now they've always been shit."
"Well, rest assured we'll come up with some good findings all right. We'll probably find that everybody goes on holiday abroad because it hotter and they can get cheap flights."
"But that's just common knowledge again. You can't charge us for saying stuff like that. It's not fair."
"Look Dr Pangloss," said Ms Custard through gritted teeth. "I'm the consultant here, not you, and I'll decide what my bloody findings are going to be, all right?"
"A-l-l right," stammered Pangloss. "There's no need to be aggressive."
"Another finding will be that between 40 and 50 per cent of shopping in tourist areas is done by visitors."
"Oh, come on, you can't be serious? You're coming to a tourist area, and telling the people who live here that half of the stuff aimed at tourists and sold in gift shops in touristy areas is bought by ... TOURISTS! You can't charge people for telling them the bleeding obvious!"
"We can and we will. In fact, we have - you've already paid the first installment. And I'll tell you something else too - you have some serious gaps in the tourism offer which are holding you back, and if you continue to allow numbers to decline, shops will continue to close."
"You don't say," said Pangloss wearily.
"Oh I do say," replied Ms Custard, "and while tourism is estimated to be worth £400million to the area, we want to research the exact figure because we believe it is higher."
"But what's the point of that? We know tourism is important. What the point of wasting time on that?"
"Because wasting time is money, Dr Pangloss. "Our time, your money. Well, your council taxpayers' money, to be precise. A bit of research is great to refer to during a presentation - always makes it seem that you know what you're talking about. The industry will be receiving a questionnaire ..."
"A questionnaire? Why not just stop any one person in the street and ask them? They'll be able to tell you. I can tell you - right now!"
"Yes, well that's as may be, but I'd rather do a questionnaire, if you don't mind. You see, questionnaires produce findings, and findings are revealed at presentations, and presentations is what consultancy is all about. So if you take away the questionnaires you won't have much left - just a finger buffet and some name badges, really. No, take away the questionnaires and you will make consultants redundant - and that cannot be allowed to happen - we are too important to society."
With that she looked at her watch. "Crikey, I'm going to be late - I really must be going."
"Yes, yes of course" mumbled Pangloss.
As Ms Custard got up to go Dr Pangloss was beginning to get that knotted feeling in his stomach again. He could see this latest hiring of a consultant being a PR disaster. He wondered if what she said would be reported in the Westphalia Express. Who was he trying to kid? - of course it would. There was only one course of action to take - he would have to call the editor and ask him not to report anything that Ms Custard said on the grounds that it would be very silly and cost a ludicrous amount of money.
He picked up the reciever and hit the speed dial button, absent-mindedly noting to himself that he could barely make out the symbol on that particular button, it having been worn away from overuse.
Ms Custard was halfway out the door when she shouted "the daft strategy should be ready by the end of May." At least that's what Pangloss thought she said.

Chapter 68 In which Dr Pangloss unveils the poster campaign

'OK everyone, let's move on to any other business.'
Dr Pangloss was getting to the end of yet another meeting where not much had been discussed except the Civic Chairman's car and his ceremonial chains.
'If I might start things off, I'd like to update you on a poster initiative which we have invested in to try and kickstart the tourist appeal of the Cote de Westphalia. As you know, we aren't going to sit idly by and watch our beloved town crumble before it's even had a chance to become a city, and with that in mind we've had our graphics department come up with a series of posters which sum up all that is wonderful about the area. We hope to get these on display all around the country as soon as possible, but I thought you privileged people would like to have a sneak preview first.'
Dr Pangloss, with the help of his able deputy Ahmad Hatter, began unrolling four tubes of shiny paper. A collective gasp went around the table as the posters were unveiled.
'OK, now I think I should just say a few words about the thinking behind these images,' continued Dr Pangloss. 'The first one is fairly self-evident. We have the highest teen pregnancy figures for the Westcountry, and this is something we should be celebrating. It's not often we come first in anything, so let's make the most of it, I say - it seems that our youngsters are the most fertile in the country! Now the second poster is a reaction to the call for a gay initiative. You're all aware of the idea for a new fast ferry service across the Bay, and it was going to be called Bay Fast. Well, I say let's take this idea by the scruff of the neck and get the ferry painted pink and call it Gay Fast. Now this proposal is very much at the 'idea stage' at the moment, but I will be in touch with the boss of the company running the ferry very soon to put this to him, and frankly I can't see much resistance to it. In this day and age everyone wants to be 'gay friendly', and I'm sure the pink pound will be very welcome on the ferry, so it should just be a matter of rubber stamping this brilliant idea and finding a nice shade of pink that is waterproof. Poster number three advertises our very successful parking meter programme. As you are all aware, parking meters have encouraged people to shop in our towns and park on our seafronts. At last people know they will be able to find a parking space, and they are flocking back to our town centres to see if any of the shops are still open, happy in the knowledge that their money is being used by the council for the upkeep of our car parks. I think this poster will generate the same kind of interest the length and breadth of the country. I mean, wouldn't you book a holiday somewhere where you could be sure of finding a parking meter? I know I would, if I didn't holiday abroad. And finally poster number four. This one celebrates the diversity of our local weather system. People from up north with nasty pale freckly skin don't want the sun relentlessly beating down on them for days on end, so this one reminds them that a cool refreshing shower is not unheard of on the Cote de Westphalia. And in keeping with the gay-friendly theme, notice how the silhouette is very definitely of a non-specific gender - yes, it's probably a man, but it could also be a big butch lezzer, so we're covering all the bases there, and ticking all the PC boxes. Never let it be said that Dr Panglossor or the Cote de Westphalia is anti-gay. And of course the fixed penalty notice is a gentle reminder to people to read the parking notices very carefully, or we'll be taking all their holiday money off them before they can say 'Hang on, why have all the shops closed down?' or 'That's the last time I'm coming to this shithole'.
With that Dr Pangloss took a sip of water and continued: 'And last but not least, some of you may remember that I wanted to attract a better class of tourist to the area. Well, apparently there were legal problems with my idea to turn all the lower class people back when they got as far as Newton Bumpkin, so instead we've had to compromise - we shall shortly be installing these signs around all the main tourist areas, apart from the bits which are already cordoned off with tarpaulin and makeshift fencing.'
With that Dr Pangloss reached under the desk and pulled out a sign and held it up to the assembled gathering. It said:



He left the posters on the table where the councillors could further examine them, and generally wonder at their artistic brilliance. And if you would like a closer look, dear reader, you have only to left click once on the images. Who knows , you may choose to print one off for your wall, window or office door, just to show that you support this bold tourist initiative. And you could also sign in add your name to the list of readers on the new facility on the left.

The Postcard Storyline - a quick explanation for a puzzled reader

OK, here's how it started. Back in June John Staedtler called a resident in Westphalia-on-Sea and accused him of being the Piddlebackside blogger. He duly emailed us, and we sent off postcards to Mr Staedtler from various places around the country. He reported this in his Monday column. We then composed a series of other postcards with humorous (we thought) pictures, little poems and a storyline promising to reveal our identities. A whodunit-type story was unfolding, but the deal was Mr Staedtler had to participate by printing some of the clues, because they weren't in the blog. We thought it would be an interesting crossover between the very real Westphalia-on-Sea and the wholly fictional Piddlebackside. We even went to the trouble of sending 'jigsaw' cards to Dr Pangloss and Charlie Windsor which had to be fitted together with John Staedtler's to reveal a message. (we do hope they kept them as souvenirs - might be worth something in the future!) All quite clever, but either Mr Staedtler or the powers that be down at the Westphalia Express weren't having any of it. Well, there was no point us continuing with it if it wasn't going to be printed, so we informed Mr Staedtler that his character would have to be killed off (a common and fairly harmless soap storyline to get rid of actors/characters) as he couldn't have such a prominent role in Westphalia-on-Sea if he wasn't prepared to play ball. He was duly dispatched, and that was when a member of the Westphalia-on-Sea constabulary called the same resident that Mr Staedtler had called back in June to say they had received a complaint about the scene in chapter 63, and could he do something about it! Well, our gast was completely flabbered. We had heard of silly old ladies in the past sending birthday cards to Granada TV addressed to characters on Coronation Street, but this was surreal - on a different level. Anyway, that complaint was a litle premature, because hey presto! up popped Mr Staedtler in chapter 64, right as rain and not a scratch on him. It had all been a dream. Yes, it was a Bobby Ewing/Dirty Den moment, so there was no need to go out to the car park outside the Westphalia Express looking for a corpse after all. Hope that clears it all up.

Anyway, as the whole postcard storyline is dead and buried, here are the first ones that were sent to John Staedtler. It was a bit of shame, but thankfully Dr Pangloss, Charlie Windsor and the rest of the gang show no sign cutting off the supply of good material, so it's business as usual ... don't forget to click the link on the left to read the latest story on the Westphalia Express ...

Chapter 67 In which Pangloss realises he really has landed on his feet

"Hello, Charlie," said Pangloss, as his political ally and campaign manager Charlie Windsor strode into his office in the centre of Westphalia-on-Sea. "What brings you down to the hub of local government then?"
"Inactivity, old man, inactivity. It seems that during a recession there's a lot less demand for the services of a management consultant."
"Really? I'd have thought people would be more than happy to cough up their hard earned cash to get top drawer advice from someone like you. I love getting consultants on board - swear by them, in fact."
"Oh, I know," replied Charlie, but it's not your money you're spending, is it?"
"Hmm," said Pangloss thoughtfully, "no I s'pose it's not really."
Charlie wandered over to the window and surveyed the scene beyond. "Crikey, not many people about, are there? The place looks dead. I'm worried that by the time I finally get elected I won't have a town to represent."
"What do you mean dead? I'll have you know the town centre is actually quite busy, with a still healthy footfall. In fact that's what I told the residents in my newspaper column only the other week."
"Oh, you don't seriously believe that do you?"
"Of course I do. We just need a little bit of investment, and we'll get all those high-end spenders flocking back. Rich people love a bargain, that's how they become rich, by hanging on to their money. Now four of them can come and stay in the Travelodge for £29 a night, that's about £7.50 each, and spend their cash very carefully in our wonderful array of pound and charity shops. It's a winning strategy, and I thought of it all on my own. Well, Mum helped me a bit with the maths, but apart from that it was all my own work. Anyway, how's you blog going?"
"Well, not a lot of traffic, to be honest. In fact even my wife is getting fed up reading my analysis of the latest opinion polls."
"Huh, wives, eh? Who needs 'em? More trouble than they're worth old man. Take a tip from me. Anyway, haven't you heard? The whole town's going gay, so maybe you need to 'gay-up' your blog a bit."
"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary. I think a nice concise explanation of the benefits of a free market economy will draw the punters back. Anyway, what's your political strategy at the moment, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Ah, Charlie, Charlie, that's the beauty of being the mayor at the moment. The country's gone to hell in a handcart. People are going on telly and saying stupid things every day, and making massively stupid decisions which overshadow anything I do. I'm flying under the radar at the moment. I can do absolutely anything, and nobody notices. I'll give you an example: last week I said that loads of people are more likely to visit our town centres because we've got parking meters now."
"You what? You mean you said parking meters are attracting visitors?"
"That's right. And nobody challenged it. I'm even thinking of having a parking meter on the next tourist board poster; had a friend of mine run one up the other week actually - looks pretty good. And in the same article I implied that everything wasn't doom and gloom because a new card shop had opened in Fishhole. I tell you Charlie, this is the time when you want to be on the gravy train. I will soon be coming to the end of my time as mayor, and I'll have had about £300,000 out of the locals, and what will I have given them in return?"
"Er... not much?"
"Precisely. At the beginning I was going out of my way to get consultants in to launch grandiose plans and generally make it look like I could walk and chew gum at the same time, but now I can relax. Nothing in the Mayoral Vision is going to happen, and everybody knows it. People have got used to large bits of the town closing down: Wreck Walk, the Palm Court, the Queens, M & S, QuayWest, Crossways. All we have to do is issue a press release now and again saying 'a number of firms are interested' or 'it could be open by June'. It's as easy as falling off a log. I don't know why I ever thought I'd have to try and achieve anything. All you have to do is have something for the local paper to print. I mean, look at all this fuss about the Civic Chairman and the Jag. We're talking about a very small sum of money, peanuts, in fact. But meanwhile we're up to our old tricks, hiring people on ludicrous salaries and restructuring yet again, but nobody's noticed."
"Well, it makes me sick," said Charlie.
"Why, because we're squandering everyone's hard-earned cash in a cavalier way?"
"No, because I'm not part of it. I don't care what happens here on the Costa del Dole, in God's bloody waiting room. I want to get back to Windsor. I just want my bloody job as an MP. And just when everything seemed to be going well up pops that fucker Vince Cable. It turns out he warned everyone years ago that the credit bubble would burst, and it also turns out he's a Lib-Dem. My arch-enemies. So the only politician making any sense at the moment is a bloody Lib-Dem. Why couldn't he be a Tory? Why couldn't we, just for once, have someone who was in the news for saying something sensible? Why do we always have to have all the ex-public school toffs and people fiddling their expenses?"
"I really don't know," replied Pangloss, "I really don't know. Why don't you try switching parties? It worked for me."

Chapter 66 In which an entrepreneur makes all the right noises

When the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea awoke on Monday 19th January they could hardly believe their eyes and ears. After so much bad news about the credit crunch, the recession and how their town was one flush away from disappearing around the U-bend it seemed unbelievable that there were no less that three supermen on their way to save them. Firstly, and most importantly, their illustrious and supremely popular mayor was back from his holiday in South Africa with his batteries fully recharged. Secondly, the aforementioned mayor had devoted his fortnightly column to an explanation of how wonderful the new president of the USA would be, and how he would probably save Westphalia-on-Sea. And thirdly, there was news that the messiah himself, Pierre De Saveloy, was not only going to re-open the Unsavoury Arms, but was going to be involved in many other projects as well. Given a whistlestop tour of the area, Mr De Saveloy said: 'Everything is fantastic. The Mayoral Vision is fantastic. The balloon is fantastic. The By-Pass will be fantastic. The parking meters are fantastic. Wreck Walk is fantastic, particularly the blue screens. That derelict building called the Palm Court is fantastic, but that Abbey on the seafront just blew me away. I mean, it needs a little jazzing up, to move it out of that fusty old National Trust mentality and give it more of an Alton Towers feel. I think we could have a theme in one of the rooms, you know, this is where Henry the Sixth murdered half of his eight wives, or something like that. And we could put the Turin Shroud in another room - I've got a couple of those in the garage, I think. Round the whole experience off with a cream tea served by topless Polish waitresses, and I think you've got yourself a fun day out for all the family.' Mr De Saveloy went on to praise the councillors who had passed his planning applications (surely 'who had shown him around? - Ed) 'This team of councillors? Well, words fail me. 'Fantastic' doesn't really begin to hint at the high esteem in which I hold them. They're like private sector whizz kids. They've got the get-up-and-go attitude that you rarely see outside the hedge-fund investment arena. I just can't believe that people of this quality are just councillors. The talent you've got here, it just beggars belief.'
The councillors were equally enamoured with Mr De Saveloy:'He's just got so much money,' said one. 'It's amazing. He must be so brilliant. I mean, when you've got that much money, well, everything you say is true isn't it? He's a man that just goes around doing good, and healing the people that he touches and stuff, and he's chosen to come here, and now he says it will all be wonderful. Well, I'm close to tears. First a black man in the White House, and now this. He said he wanted to visit Fishhole and we said we'd drive him over there, but he insisted on walking. And he just stepped out onto the water and started strolling across the Bay. At first we thought he was standing on a lot of thick seaweed and old tampons matted together, but it wasn't a trick - he really can walk on water.'
Of course, all this excellent news was delivered to the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea by the Westphalia Express, which is a by-word for balanced journalism. They did their research as thoroughly as ever and found out everything the possibly could about Mr De Saveloy. Every tenuous link with the area was found, even the fact that his fifth child had been born at the Westphalia-on-Sea Hospital, but for reasons best known to their reporter, Tony Crows-Feet, he had not found out about all the bad stuff. Perhaps he hadn't gone on 'Timesonline' and typed in 'De Saveloy', or perhaps he had read the words 'has been forced to admit his empire collapsed with debts of more than £700m' and 'shortfall to creditors of £186m' and thought they would rather spoil the general feel-good aspect of the story. Who knows? There were probably sound journalistic reasons for not mentioning it.

Chapter 65 In which the mayor sends an email to deal with the emergency

Dear residents of the Cote de Westphalia and loyal Panglossian subjects

Out here in my little holiday hideaway I have been following the news at home via that wonderful invention the internet, so decided I should email you all to put your minds at rest and reassure you that the crisis caused by the recession is in good hands.

First of all we need to stop being so negative. Everyone knows that if you say that bad things are going to happen they will. We all need to look on the bright side, like I did when I predicted that the Cote de Westphalia wouldn't be affected as badly as the rest of the country. Obviously I was talking a load of utter twaddle, but it was upbeat, look-on-the-bright-side twaddle. And anyway, I think I was right in a way - let me use myself as an example: I'm a working man, just like everybody else, and I haven't been made redundant. I can still afford holidays in South Africa, so I'd say from that little snapshot of life down here we aren't doing too badly.
There does seem to be rather too much focus on shops closing down at the moment. I don't know why this is, because this town is definitely not dying on its arse, but I have decided to take some action here. With this is mind we are sending the bosses of M & S a copy of the Mayoral Vision. I'm sure once Sir Stuart Rose flicks through that he'll be straight on the blower to me saying it was all a huge mistake. This is a win-win situation, becase in the unlikely event that this strategy is unsuccessful Sir Stuart will have a lovely coffee table book to remember us by. No doubt he'll be feeling the pinch a little, so when he comes to book his summer holiday he's bound to choose us. He'll probably be keen to come somewhere that doesn't have an M & S so he can feel he's really getting away from work.
On to tourism. Now there do seem to be a few people out there who think we are all incompetent, and that we need some kind of new strategy. Well, I'm always up for a big idea, as you all know, so I have no problem rubber-stamping any decision to bring in some consultants to get us on the right track. And of course we'd be creating some jobs, and damn good jobs at that, because these consultants don't come cheap - I've seen some of the bills, and it makes your eyes water, it really does.
Now the next item is the museum in Fishhole. When I first heard about all this I said:'A museum? In Fishhole? You're having a laugh, aren't you? Who'd want to go there?'. Well, nobody, apparently, so we're closing it down. We can't afford to spend £11,000 on something like that. Money is tight. You people have got to learn this lesson. It's like my mother always used to say: 'Sometimes you can't have both museums and consultants - you have to choose'. And of course mumsy was right, and given the choice, and I think I speak for everyone, we'd all rather have consultants.
Now I couldn't end this message without mentioning parking. Traders are claiming that they have noticed a fall in customer numbers since the parking charges were introduced. This is not a proper survey carried out by consultants and therefore has absolutely no validity whatsoever. If you want reliable statistics you have to hire a firm of consultants who know what they're doing. You can't rely on anecdotal evidence provided by a load of traders who are standing around idly in their shops staring into their empty tills. That's just barmy. In fact the sooner these miseries go out of business and close their shops down the better. Then we can maybe put in some new state-of-the-art office pods where people can do real business with desks and phones and computers and stuff, and I can have my photo taken outside and we can stick it in the paper with a caption saying 'progress' or something.

Lastly, of course, there are all my conservative colleagues arguing about the role of civic chairman and who's going to the ball, and all the rest of it. Well, all I can say is this: if you elect a load of doddery old wannabe politicians who are still living in the 70s, what do you expect?

I hope this message has allayed all your fears, and that you now feel secure knowing that Pangloss is watching over his flock, even from afar.

With all best wishes

Dr Pangloss