The continuing saga of Westphalia-on-Sea (twinned with Pessimisme, France)

Chapter 76 In which it becomes clear just how impartial the Westphalia Express really is

2010-03-17T23:10:00.002Z

AT LAST! WE GET A CAMERA INSIDE THE OFFICES OF THE WESTPHALIA EXPRESS TO SEE EXACTLY WHAT JOHN STAEDTLER LOOKS LIKE.

Chapter 75 In which another public meeting is held ...

2010-03-08T22:45:00.002Z

Chapter 74 In which the dodgy planning process is rumbled

2010-03-03T21:23:00.005Z

For some time now a planning racket had been operating on the Cote de Westphalia which wouldn't have looked out of place in Chicago in the 1920s. It went something like this: various prime plots of land were advertised as available for development. When the developers were attracted by the smell of money and made enquiries about what could reasonably be built on the sites in question, the answer was something along the lines of 'don't worry about that, we'll see everything gets through the planning process - just leave it to us'. The phrase was often accompanied by a nod and a wink. Of course, the planning process was supposed to be completely impartial, and members of the planning committee were supposed to make up their own minds about each proposal that was put before them, but on the Cote de Westphalia the Conservative administration preferred not to leave things to chance, and so a slightly different system had been adopted. Their system ran something like this: the Conservative majority on the planning committee had to toe the party line and pass everything that was put under their noses, no matter how high, how wide or how ugly. If anyone stepped out of line and tried to question this approach the Party enforcer would have a quiet word in their shell-like. If this failed to have the desired effect, they were off the planning committee before they could say 'Ahmad Hatter', and replaced by someone who was a little more 'in tune' with party policy.

This policy worked very well, and many developers were seen rubbing their hands together as they left planning meetings, knowing that their early retirement had been assured, thanks to the benevolence of the local Tories. Now back in the 19th century Lord Acton observed that power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, and this certainly seemed to be the case on the Cote de Westphalia. People seemed unable or unwilling to stop the Mayor and his cohorts from systematically selling off bits of this beautiful coastline, and one dodgy planning decision was quickly followed by another. It looked like the Mayor would only stop when the last tree had been felled and the last blade of grass had been suffocated by tarmac, but then he made the fatal mistake which all powerful leaders tend to make from time to time - he became complacent. From his seemingly unassailable postition he outlined more and more outrageous plans for development, until the people finally said 'Enough!' When Dr Pangloss prepared to give away a plot of public land with stunning sea views for development they turned out in their hundreds for a public meeting to let him know in no uncertain terms that this would not be a popular decision. When he finally escaped from the meeting he vowed never to put himself through that again, so shaken was he by the experience.

The day after the public meeting Pangloss was still in shock. His friends down at the Westphalia Express did their best to put a positive spin on it, trying as they did to focus on the fact that it was terribly rude and uncouth to expect a well-paid public servant to answer a few simple questions, especially if they were uttered in a Devonshire accent. Pangloss hoped that all this fuss would blow over if he laid low for a while, but this seemed to be a problem that was beginning to follow him around. Five weeks later there were still people writing to the newspapers, starting Facebook campaigns and calling radio phone-ins about the subject. With every letter, article or email he read on the subject Pangloss felt a little of his power slipping away. As it turned out, however, the worst was yet to come ...

Chapter 73 In which Pangloss considers the signs ...

2009-08-14T22:15:00.004+01:00

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

2009-08-04T08:02:00.000+01:00

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

2009-05-19T23:45:00.005+01:00

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

2009-05-11T21:31:00.005+01:00

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

2009-04-21T19:49:00.006+01:00

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

2009-03-26T22:28:00.002Z

"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

2009-03-01T20:38:00.009Z

'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

2009-02-27T22:19:00.004Z

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

2009-02-07T17:08:00.004Z

"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

2009-01-19T23:19:00.006Z

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

2009-01-06T18:44:00.008Z

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

Chapter 64 In which the Old Bill start to investigate goings-on in Piddlebackside

2008-12-06T12:58:00.006Z

"Mr Staedtler, Mr Staedtler." It was the voice of one of the office cleaners, trying to rouse John from what seemed like a very deep sleep, judging by his snoring. He was at his desk, head tilted back, and looked quite peaceful and contented.

"Eh, what?" he grumbled as he regained consciousness. "Where ..?, what ..?"
"Mr Staedtler, have you been here all night?"
John rubbed his face and glanced at his watch. Christ, seven o'clock! How had that happened? Then the events of the previous night came racing through his mind. Obviously they must have been a dream, but they seemed so real. He ran his hand over his chest, then felt stupid for having done so. Then he remembered the email from French. Maybe there was a clue in that. He fired up the computer that sat on his desk and opened his email. The one from French warned him not to go outside. Had that triggered his imagination and been the seed for that most vivid of nightmares? But according to the computer the email hadn't been opened. Staedtler suddenly felt very uneasy; he wasn't prone to panic attacks, but he had been going for it of late, working like a Trojan. Suddenly he called out to one of the cleaners who was emptying a bin at a nearby desk: "Maureen, this may sound like a daft question, but this is Westphalia-on-Sea, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, Mr Staedtler, course it is. Why ever do you ask?"
"Oh, it would take too long to explain. Have you ever been to Piddlebackside Maureen?"
"Piddlebackside? I've never even heard of it. Is there such a place?"
"Yes, it's, er ..., not far from here."
"Well I'm sure I've never been there, and I wouldn't fancy going there neither, judging by the name. Are you sure you haven't been dreaming Mr Staedtler?"
"Funny you should say that actually. I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, but the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had ..."
"Well, it is a mad world sometimes Mr Staedtler. Can I get you a coffee or something? You look rather pale."
"N-no, I'm fine, but thanks anyway."
Staedtler kept thinking of previous conversations he had had with French - the postcards, the warnings. Rather than helping him unmask the Piddlebackside blogger Staedtler now had the feeling that French was actually involved in all this, and not in a good way. If that was the case he'd better stop all contact with him. No, he could do better than that - he would call the local constabulary and tell them all he knew and let them investigate. He picked up the phone and dialled - after a couple of automated messages he was talking to the desk sergeant at the local police station.
"So let me get this straight," said the bemused voice at the end of the line, "you want to make a complaint about a blog, is that correct?"
"Yes, exactly," confirmed Staedtler.
"And what exactly is a blog, sir?"
"Well, it's like an on-line diary, but this one is a kind of story."
"So you want to complain about a story?"
"Yes, well it's more than a story because all the characters are real people."
"Oh, real are they? So who's in it then?"
"Well lots of people, including me. And I've just been murdered."
"Murdered you say? And when did this happen sir, if you don't mind me inquiring?"
"Last night, outside my office."
"Hmm, I may be pointing out the bleeding obvious here sir, but you do sound quite perky for someone who's just been murdered. And this happened in Westphalia-on-Sea, did it?"
"Yes. No. Well, in Piddlebackside. But Piddlebackside is Westphalia-on-Sea."
"Ah, now you're starting to confuse me even more sir. Are we talking about murder in Westphalia-on-Sea or murder in Piddlebackside? You see, I can't have my crime figures contaminated by rogue data from this Piddlewhatsit place."
"Look, I know it sounds a bit far-fetched the way I've explained it but ..."
"With all due respect sir, I think someone has lost the plot. If there had been a murder we would need a victim, and hopefully a murder weapon and some suspects."
"Yes, I've just told you, I'm the victim."
"But you're still alive sir. You have to be dead to be a murder victim. That's the law I'm afraid sir. I don't make the rules, I just enforce them. And what about a weapon and suspects?"
"It was Mrs Brolly. She stabbed me with her umbrella."
"And what does this Mrs Brolly look like?"
"Short, with grey hair. In her early sixties I'd guess."
"So a little old lady called Brolly stabbed you with a brolly? That's a strange coincidence, isn't it, sir? Tell me, is there a carer or other health professional with you at the moment sir?"
"Of course not. What are you implying?"
"Well, it just sounds a little bit Cluedo-ish to me sir."
"Look sergeant," began Staedtler, beginning to get a little irate, "I don't care how it sounds to you, I'd like you to do something about it."
"What like? Arrest Mrs Brolly? Can't the boys in blue in Piddlewhatsit do it?"
"No, don't be ridiculous. Piddlebackside doesn't really exist, and neither does Mrs Brolly. It's French, Paul French. He's your man. I want you to call him and tell him that you know he's involved and that they've gone too far."
"Right you are sir. And this Mr French, would he be in the Westphalia-on-Sea phone book or the Piddlewhatsit phone book?"
"I can give you his number."
"That would be very helpful sir. Save a lot of valuable police time that will, sir. I shall call him immediately and tell him how disturbed you are."
"No, don't tell him it's me. I don't want to look foolish."
"No, of course not sir. I can see that you wouldn't want to be murdered and look foolish - that would be a bit traumatic."
Staedtler gave the sergeant French's number and put the phone down. Back at the police station the sergeant hung up the phone and turned to his colleague.
"I think I've heard it all now," he said. "Just had someone asking me to investigate a fictional murder - what a flamin' nutjob! Who does he think I am - 'Ercule bloody Poirot?"
"Or Sherlock bleedin' 'Olmes," agreed his colleague. "I knew that 'care in community' was a flawed policy. We should've kept all the nutters locked up so we could keep an eye on them - would make our life a lot bloomin' easier."
"Yeah, sometimes I think this whole town has gone mad. Right, load those boxes in the car and let's get down the harbour - those flip-flops are going to get handed out by magic you know."

Chapter 63 In which Pangloss is on the lookout for Xmas decorations, and Staedtler comes unstuck ...

2008-11-25T20:31:00.003Z

It was the worst of times and it was the best of times in Westphalia-on-Sea. The worst because the country was in the grip of the worst global recession ever, but the best of times because Dr Pangloss had assured everyone on the Cote de Westphalia that the recession would by-pass the area. Of course, some of the locals scratched their heads and took the straw out of their mouth for a moment and said: 'So this 'ere recession, it's a bit loike a tor-nay-do, is it? If we all gets inside and shuts the door us'll be safe, will us? And 'ow will it by-pass us? The bleddy by-pass ain't bin built yet!'
'God,' Pangloss had thought, 'these locals are as thick as pigshit. I bet most of them think the credit crunch is a kind of breakfast cereal.'

Back in his office later the same day, Dr Pangloss was relaxing with his deputy.
'I think we need a few more decorations round here,' said Pangloss, 'make it feel a bit more seasonal.' (He was careful not to use the word Christmassy, because the Daily Mail said it had been banned by the moaning minnies and the Muslims).
'Well you can't have any, because there's nowt left in the budget,' replied Hatter. 'It's all gone on consultants and Wreck Walk.'
'Oh, don't be a spoilsport. Let's look in the paper - there are always bargains in the Westphalia Express classifieds.'
After a few minutes scanning the newspaper Pangloss squealed with delight. 'Listen,' he said,
'Xmas santa and xmas fairy, outdoor exhibit, surplus to requirements, free to collector. Phone two-oh-seven-double one-three.' Phone it now for me, but disguise your voice; we don't want people to know the council has fallen on hard times.'
Ahmad Hatter sighed and took out his phone. Just after he'd finished dialling, the mayor's phone rang. As Pangloss moved to answer it Hatter signalled that he would continue his call outside
the office.
'Yes, I'm calling about the Xmas Santa, and the fairy,' said Hatter, doing his best not to sound too northern and straight-talking.
'Really?' said the voice at the other end. 'What a coincidence.'
'Is it a big fairy? Would it look good in an office?' persisted Hatter.
'Oh, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick,' said the voice. 'There are no fairies here. I'm looking for a fairy ...'
'What do tha mean there's no fairies there?' asked Hatter, unknowingly slipping into his northern accent.
'Ahmad Hatter, is that you?' came the voice.
'Wait a fookin' minute,' said Hatter, opening the office door.
The mayor and his deputy stared open-mouthed across the room at each other as the penny dropped. 'Either that's a printing error, or some bugger's taking the fookin' piss,' said Hatter, slamming his phone shut.

Over at the Westphalia Express office it was unusual to find John Staedtler still at his desk after everyone else had left, but these were particularly strange times in Westphalia-on-Sea; the mayor had confidently predicted that the town was recession-proof, but Staedtler felt he couldn't afford to be complacent. He had already earned a few brownie points with the editor for shooting Mrs Brolly down in flames in his column, and he had made a point of letting the editor know he was staying late. Yes, thought Staedtler to himself, if there was any brown-nosing or arse-kissing to be done, John Staedtler was definitely your man. He checked his watch - it was exactly eleven o'clock. Christ, his wife would be wondering where he was. As he started closing his email he noticed a new message in his inbox. When he saw it was from Paul French he decided to leave it until the following day. It was marked 'urgent', but Staedtler figured it could wait. 'Probably just another cranky warning about all that Piddlebackside bollocks,' he thought.

Walking across the car park he suddenly remembered the recent story about councillors being worried about walking back to their cars after dark. Just then a voice called out from the shadows 'Hey, Parker! Not still working for that rag, are you? the Daily Bugle?' A chill ran up Staedtler's back. He looked around. There was no-one else about; the comment was obviously directed at him.
'I think you've made a mistake,' he shouted back. 'I'm Staedtler, and this is the Westphalia Express. I think you're mixing me up with Spiderman, you know, Peter Parker.'
'Whatever', came the reply. Staedtler could see someone dressed in white, wearing a bowler hat. As the figure approached Staedtler could see strange make-up around the eyes. It reminded Staedtler of that dreadful film A Clockwork Journalist. 'It's rather late to be walking the streets of Piddlebackside, you know, especially in this part of town,' the character said. Staedtler was unsure if the person was male or female, but he was sure the voice sounded familiar. 'This isn't Piddlebackside, it's Westphalia-on-Sea,' replied Staedtler hesitantly, 'and technically we're not on the streets, we're in the car park,' he added, somewhat more defiantly.
'Oh, is that right?' said the voice. 'Well, I think you've just crossed the invisible line into Piddlebackside.'
'Don't be ridiculous. And what are you wearing that eye make-up for? You remind me of a character in a book by Anthony Burgess ...'
'And you remind me of a character in a book by Bram Stoker,' came the reply. 'Someone that lived by sucking the blood of others ...'
'Whoa! Steady on!' said Staedtler, 'I'm only a bloody journo, just doing my job.'
'Yes, but it's always take, take, take, with you isn't it? And things have a nasty habit of catching up with you in Piddlebackside.'
'I keep telling you this isn't Piddlebackside,' protested Staedtler.
'Don't fuck with me,' the voice suddenly snarled. Staedtler let out an involuntary whimper at the sudden change in tone of voice, and broke wind audibly. He turned to run towards his car but tripped over his briefcase and went sprawling on the floor. He was unable to move. He didn't know whether he was paralysed by fear or being pinned to the ground by some imaginary force field. 'Look what's all this about? Surely we can work something out?' he mumbled.
The figure looked down at Staedtler, lying on his back, and said: 'Where shall we start? The postcards? the articles? Putting words in my mouth? You were sloppy, and you know it. But it's too late now.' Now up close, Staedtler realised it was a woman who was addressing him. From behind her back she produced something long and pointed, and placed the metal tip on Staedtler's chest, hovering just above his heart.
'What's that?' A bloody stake? asked Staedtler, almost crying.
'No,' said the voice. 'Can't you see? It's just a brolly.' With that she brought a mallet down on the handle wilth all her might. She felt the metal tip of the brolly pierce Staedtler's chest, and heard it make a satisfying squelchy noise as it locked on to its target. Staedtler saw his life flash before him, which was disappointing even by his standards - it was mainly cricket and being passed over for the editor's job.

As Staedtler stopped twitching the woman took the bowler hat off and wiped her brow. Addressing the prone body leaking at her feet she asked under her breath: 'Who's fucking heartless now?'

IS STAEDTLER REALLY DEAD? WHAT WAS ON THOSE POSTCARDS? WHY DON'T YOU CALL HIM TO FIND OUT? ARE THE XMAS SANTA AND THE XMAS FAIRY STILL AVAILABLE? WHY NOT CALL TO FIND OUT? HOW DID THE ADVERT GET PRINTED? WILL HEADS ROLL? DON'T MISS NEXT WEEK'S THRILLING EPISODE ...

Chapter 62 In which the Facebook generation appraises Dr Pangloss's achievements

2008-11-14T06:56:00.004Z

By the time French got down to the Westphalia Express office Staedtler had already retrieved the missing postcards from Charlie Windsor and Dr Pangloss, and had pieced them together on his desk so the message could be read in full.
"Hmm, intriguing," said French, after scanning the text. "Well, I think it's time to do as they say and print something. I mean, these postcards are beginning to mount up, and it looks like you could have a big story on your hands."
"No can do, I'm afraid," replied Satedtler. "I've spoken to Pangloss and Charlie Windsor and they're both dead against it. And the editor's none too keen either."
"Oh, I see," said French. "We don't do deals with terrorists, that kind of attitude, is it?"
"Something like that. Their official line is that it's all a bit of harmless fun and they find it mildly amusing, but off the record they're worried about this breaking nationally and they don't want the Westphalia Express involved. After all, we are supposed to be supporting them."
"So you're going to keep a lid on this story, and let some other journo run with?"
"Looks like I'll have to, sighed Staedtler.
"Well, they won't be able to keep a lid on this stuff for ever, said French. "There's more trouble for Pangloss out there."
With that he reached over to Staedtler's computer and tapped away at the keys. After a few moments a Facebook page appeared with Dr Pangloss's face at the top of it. Next to his picture were the words 'I fucking hate Dr Pangloss'.
"Bloody hell," said Staedtler. "Another website?"
"Yep," said French. "Not quite as subtle as the Piddlebackside blog. This one tells it like it is."
"Shit. I'm going to call Pangloss and see if he knows about this. If they won't let me run with the postcard mystery they've got to let me do a piece on this."

After a brief phone call to the Mayor's office Staedtler turned to French and said: "The guy's unbelievable. What do you think he said? He said it's the biggest compliment you can have — people know who their leader is. And then he said it is an 'enormous compliment' that people read and respond to his column in the Westphalia Express — whether they are for or against his views."
"And what did you say?"
"I said: but everyone thinks you're doing a crap job and earning too much money."
"How did he answer that?"
He said: "I have had to make sure things are happening. Things are happening which are controversial but they are happening. You are not going to make progress without upsetting some people."
"Progress?" Spluttered French. "The towns are dying on their arses. Christ, if Eastphalia was a person it would be halfway to Switzerland by now, asking to be put out of its misery."
"Yes," added Staedtler, putting on a tannoy announcer's voice, "Will the last person to leave please switch off the lights."
"Oh well," sighed French, "I guess you'd better commit our great leader's words of wisdom to print."

Chapter 61 In which we realise that nobody trusts anything the Mayor says

2008-10-24T23:45:00.008+01:00

Some Westphalians who have not yet succumbed to the onset of Alzheimer's may remember that some months ago the Westphalia Express ran a story about a local councillor who was such a good councillor that he became a sort of 'super-councillor', who would go around the country giving other councils the benefit of his long experience, presumably telling them how to deal with and best serve the people they represent, and how to generally create a harmonious working environment at the town hall. This 'super-councillor' happened to be none other than the straight-talking, shoot-from-the-hip Deputy Mayor, otherwise known as his esteemed deputy worshipfulness Ahmad Hatter. Apparently none of the sharp journos down at the Westphalia Express saw any irony when a number of weeks later this recently annointed super-councillor was unceremoniously given the heave-ho by his own party as soon as he went on holiday. Their message seemed to be simple: he was obviously an excellent councillor and a wonderful human being, but they would prefer it if he spent more of his time dispensing wisdom in the town halls up and down the country and much less time being their leader in the one in Westphalia-on-Sea.
Seeing that the Westphalia Express had either not picked up on the irony of the situation, or had chosen to overlook it (perhaps to avoid further embarrassment to someone who had for so long been their favourite page 3 pin-up), it will come as no surprise to readers to learn that they have done it again. The source of the irony this time comes in the shape of the war memorial. For those people unfortunate enough not to live on the Cote De Westphalia and who don't know this touching story where human sacrifice becomes secondary to the value of prime real estate we provide below a brief synopsis of the saga:

Step 1: Dr Pangloss hires at great expense a firm of consultants who tell him he should start an ambitious building project down at the waterfront.
Step 2: Dr Pangloss announces that a casino complex will be central to this waterside redevelopment.
Step 3: The Westphalians tell Dr Pangloss that steps 1 & 2 are a load of crap.
Step 4: Dr Pangloss realises that the War Memorial is right in the middle of the land earmarked for the development.
Step 5: An amazing coincidence! At the same time that Dr Pangloss realises the War Memorial is right in the middle of the development site, he also realises that the War Memorial doesn't have the right vista. Yes, that's right. The silly sods who erected it had put it where the vista was all wrong. It must have been around this time that Dr Pangloss thought of the old saying about killing two birds with one stone. If he could point out this vista deficiency and suggest an alternative site with a much better vista to which the memorial could be moved all his problems would be solved.
Step 6: Dr Pangloss suggests moving the memorial to a corner of the harbour.
Step 7: The silly old Westphalians didn't really understand the vista problem, and told Dr Pangloss that step 6 was a load of crap as well.
Step 8: Dr Pangloss says 'OK, I wasn't really going to move he memorial, let's just forget all about it.'
Step 9: People begin to think that Dr Pangloss can't be trusted. It seems that the people who mostly hold this view are the councillors in Dr Pangloss's own party. They are so worried that Cllr Twist and and Cllr Nitrate bring a motion to retain the memorial in its current position. Dr Pangloss insists he was just 'trying to open a debate', but clearly the Tories don't trust him any further than they can spit - they wanted these assurances in writing.

So there you have it. The Tories want to protect the War Memorial from the excesses of the Tory Council led by the Tory Mayor-cum-Estate-Agent, and they want it in writing, rather like, we might assume, some kind of covenant. One wonders if anyone has pointed to Cllr Twist that some of the current administration tend to think that covenants are made to be broken.

So on the evidence of the events described above, it would seem that Dr Pangloss and Ahmad Hatter are not very popular down at the town hall, least of all with members of their own party. However, Dr Pangloss should not lose heart because there is still at least one Tory prepared to nail his colours to the mast and stand beside Pangloss. Yes, prospective Tory candidate Charlie Windsor has publicly stated on his blog on 22nd September: 'And as for the mayor? You can't see it, nor would I expect you to (presumably because we have not yet reached the state of grace and enlightenment that our Charlie has achieved - Ed) but I assure you that he is an asset to my campaign; people like him and think he is doing his best for the bay.'

Of course, to regular readers of Charlie Windsor's blog (latest figures available put the readership somewhere between 1 and 10) this kind of nonsense will come as no surprise. Who can forget his robust defence of the wild speculations of the banking industry and his downplaying of the resulting financial catastrophe, or his blaming the Labour government for the Ross/Brand affair at the BBC? Anyway let's not upset ourselves by dwelling of the mental powers of the man from Windsor. Over at the offices of the Westphalia Express John Staedtler was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had ignored the advice of Paul French and not revealed to the public that he had received further postcards from the bloggers, and nothing had happened. All that tosh that French came out with about him being part of Piddlebackside; well, it was just nonsense. He'd been reading too many detective novels, for sure. Just then the door opened and a colleague left some post on the corner of Staedtler's desk. Among the brown business envelopes a red dragon caught Staedtler's eye. On closer inspection he saw it was a postcard from South Wales. He turned it over. The message began 'Dear John', but it was incomplete. He picked up another postcard, this time from Liverpool. Another incomplete message was on the reverse. A third postcard was from Stoke-on-Trent, and a fourth from Nantwich. Turning all the postcards over he realised that they fitted together like a puzzle, and that by arranging them he could read part of the message. Not all of it though, because there were two postcards still missing. This would have been a problem, but when Staedtler put two of his postcards together the last line of the message was revealed. It said: 'P.S. If you're wondering where the missing pieces are, call Pangloss and Charlie.'
Staedtler was just about to hit the speed dial button on his phone that would connect him directly to the mayor's office when his phone rang. He picked it up before it could ring a second time and said: 'Staedtler".
"John, it's French. any news?"
"You could say that," replied Staedtler. "I think you'd better come over."

Chapter 60 In which moving the war memorial was definitely not suggested

2008-10-22T07:05:00.004+01:00

October 2008 was an exciting time in Westphalia-on-Sea. First of all, the sixteenth was Piddlebackside Day, the one-year anniversary of the Piddlebackside blog. Piddlebackside Day was, of course, a very low key affair, since the Westphalia Express was reluctant to give it any publicity, but due to the technological wonder of the Internet readers continued to pop up all over the globe, regardless of any 'official' recognition. It was also pinned up by the coffee machine from time to time by a mischievous councillor in the Westphalia Town Hall.

October was also an exciting time for Dr Pangloss, because it meant he had managed draw his salary for another 12 months without any sign of armed revolution on the streets of Westphalia-on-Sea. Quite how he'd managed this feat he didn't really know. Admittedly he had had to pay a hefty price to the consultants for showing him how to pull the wool over the eyes of the Westphalians, but now he felt he was up and running on his own. He had got the Westphalia Express back on side, and they were, for the moment, happy to print his outlandish tales of 'jam tomorrow'. He said things like 'if someone like John Lewis and Waitrose were to show interest we would certainly welcome them'. Of course, what he omitted to say was: 'but they won't.' No, it was a sad fact that if John Lewis or Waitrose were to open stores in Westphalia-on-Sea during a recession then their shareholders would seriously question the sanity of the board of directors running those companies. But that didn't matter, because Pangloss was on a mission to talk up these wild ideas. Luckily for him he didn't have to live in the real world, because he led a charmed life. If he needed any more evidence of this he had only to look at the plight of the estate agents. Down to an average of one sale a week they were shutting up shop and laying people off at a fair old rate. Pangloss, on the other hand, the Mother of All Estate Agents, was totally recession-proof with his mayoral salary. It was just too good to be true. And whenever he had to revert to being an estate agent again in the future much of the competition would have gone to the wall. Happy days!

Safe in the knowledge that however bad he was at his job he could not be ousted, his stories became even wilder. He explained in his column why the Westphalians lived in the best of all possible worlds, and how they wouldn't be hit too badly by the recession while he was in charge. He talked about the Hilton Hotel coming to town. He explained how life would be better if we could shoot across the Bay ten minutes quicker in all weathers and at all times of the day, and he had had his photo taken with the man from the bus company with the very firm handshake who had promised to make it happen. He explained how parking meters represented progress. And then he got carried away and mentioned creating a 'cafe culture' in Westphalia Road in Eastphalia by closing the road to traffic. In December. After the clocks have gone back. When it gets dark at 4 o'clock. Yes, it seemed that Pangloss believed that the only thing stopping the good people of Eastphalia having an espresso out on the pavement on a cold dark December afternoon after a stroll around the boarded-up shops was the traffic. To be fair, Dr Pangloss probably knew in his heart of hearts that this was a mad idea, because he sent Ahmad Hatter out to do the photoshoot and talk to the press. For his part, Ahmad Hatter was just glad to see his face back in the paper without the words 'stabbed in the back by his own party' under the photo, so he wasn't complaining. Of course, during the announcement of all these glad tidings there were grumbles from some of the more half-witted locals. They said things like: 'but the new ferry will wreck the business of those who have been here for years and it uses loads of fuel', and 'we don't want to pay to park and the parking meters spoil the seafront' and 'the number of shopper in town has fallen'. Luckily for Dr Pangloss these were just a small minority of old duffers who hadn't fully grasped what progress meant, so they could be easily ignored. Hot on the heels of the cafe culture story was an even crazier notion: a £50,000 p. a. salary for a Town Centre Chief Executive. Yes, dear readers, a salary close to that of the mayor's to someone whose job, it seems, is to go around local traders and ask them for more money, because the council 'can't afford to clean the streets more often, put in more flowers and put more bins out.' So in the crazy world of Westphalia-on-Sea you can't get money for street cleaning, but you can get a grant to set up a company to employ someone to go around and ask local shopkeepers for money for, er, street cleaning.

So while the residents all along the Cote de Westphalia were in for a tough financial time Dr Pangloss was rather pleased with how things were going. He did, however, still have some unfinished business down at the seafront. There was a piece of prime real estate with glorious sea views opposite Wreck Walk, but stuck slap bang in the middle of it was an old war memorial, precisely where Pangloss wanted to build his now legendary 'second casino', one of the cornerstones of his plan to turn the tired old seaside resort into something to rival Monte Carlo. Of course, it had completely pissed down for the last two summers, but Pangloss was still confident that fit-looking French, Russian and Lebanese beauties would soon be beating a path to the beach to sit among the seaweed and wait for the rain to turn to a light drizzle if only he could get the go-ahead for that casino. Having spent a little time reminding the locals of the pseudo-mediterranean sophistication that awaited them he slipped the idea of moving the war memorial into the conversation. Well, talk about overreaction. The usual bunch of coffin-dodgers went barmy. 'It's a disgrace!' 'You can't move that - it's a grave!' they screamed.
Pangloss reverted to estate agent-mode. 'Look the memorial's lost its vista,' he said.
'What the fuck are you talking about?' asked the locals.
'It needs to be in a more prominent position,' he said. 'Let's stick it over there, in the corner of the harbour, that would be great. There's a much better vista over there. I've seen it. Inanimate objects need a good vista or they get depressed - it's a well-known fact.'
'Are you sure you don't just want to move it so you can build a casino?' asked the locals.
'No, honestly, I give you my word as an estate agent,' promised Pangloss. 'I just want it to have the vista it deserves.' Eventually Dr Pangloss realised that the locals were probably far too thick to understand the concept of vistas for war memorials, so he adopted a more simplistic approach which he felt even the average Westphalian would understand. 'Look,' he said, 'let's pretend I never said anything about moving the memorial. Let's just say everyone misunderstood me when I started talking about moving the war memorial. And let's not forget that many people have laid down their lives for the right to freedom of speech, particularly when it comes to speeches about moving war memorials. So in a way we would be honouring the dead by discussing moving the war memorial, but of course we're not, because I never ever suggested moving it.'

And when the mayor had finished explaining himself all the Westphalians agreed that if they did want their war memorial moved any time in the future they would certainly make sure Dr Pangloss was the first to know.

Chapter 59 In which the parking issue descends into farce

2008-10-15T22:16:00.004+01:00

"There really is no pleasing some people, is there?" sighed a very frustrated and close-to-the-end-of-his-tether Dr Pangloss as he screwed the copy of the Westphalia Express he had just been reading into a loose ball and sent it skidding across the polished parquet floor of his office. "You try and do something positive that will bring a few quid into the council's coffers, something that will really invigorate the town centres at a crucial time, something that will greatly increase the number of shoppers, and do you get any thanks? Of course you don't. All you get is a procession of fossils from the last century saying 'we can't afford it', 'I used to shop there but I won't anymore', and 'this is the last nail in the coffin for Eastphalia'. Talk about negative. What's a couple of quid? Christ on a bike! If I dropped a couple of quid I wouldn't risk putting my back out to pick it up. It's small change in this day and age. Fair enough if you want to sit in your car drinking lukewarm tea while staring out at the English Channel, but you've got to expect to pay for it. There are no free lunches anymore. Especially not in the 21st century. You've got to pay for everything. In fact paying for things can actually enhance your enjoyment. It adds value. Any consultant worth his salt will tell you that. Things you pay for must ipso facto have some inherent value, and are therefore much more fun than things which are free. This measure is actually increasing everyone's pleasure, but where's the support? Where are the letters saying 'hats off to Dr Pangloss - this time he's got it absolutely right!' or 'Three cheers for Dr Pangloss - I'd much rather pay to park!' Nowhere. Abso-bloody-lutely nowhere. It makes me ruddy sick ..."
"Are tha' talking to me lad?" asked Ahmad Hatter, as he stirred in the chair opposite. "What's tha' wittering on abat?"
"Parking meters, the bloody parking meters, of course. Nobody seems to appreciate them, or the fantastic opportunity they represent," replied Pangloss.
"Oh, don't get me started on them ungrateful bloody locals," replied Hatter. "They were just t' bloody same when I told them where they could stick their bloody covenants. Not a ruddy word of thanks I got for that."
Just then the councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Good news Your Worshipfulness!" he beamed. "We're going to reduce car parking charges in the run-up to Christmas."
"What's the point of that? Only a little while ago you told us that putting up parking charges was good for business."
"Oh you didn't believe that old tosh, did you?" asked the cllr FUC-U. "Don't be silly - we all know people hate parking charges. No, now you have to go on record saying that lower charges are a good thing."
"Well what shall I say?"
"Oh, I don't know; what about something like this: 'It will hopefully lead to an upturn in trade and encourage more people to come into the Cote de Westphalia to do their shopping'."
"Why yes," said Pangloss, "I rather like that. Wait a minute, won't they spot that we've completed changed our stance on parking charges?"
"No," smirked the cllr FUC-U, "because I've got this - ", and with a little flurry he rolled in a giant 50p piece made of lightweight plastic and said 'Ta - Da'."
"What's that?" aske the Mayor.
"50 pence" replied the cllr FUC-U. "We have our photo taken with it. It will distract the readers and they will never actually realise that this measure actually proves that we are completely and utterly wrong about the net result of parking charges, i.e. that they will ultimately adversely affect local businesses."
"Splendid idea!" said Pangloss, almost shouting. "Let's get down to the ticket machine - I love a good photoshoot!"

Chapter 58 In which a planning application goes 'tits up'

2008-09-16T07:20:00.006+01:00

September in Westphalia-on-Sea was shaping up to be a pretty normal affair: the few tourists that had bothered to visit had all gone home, and right on cue the rain had dried up and the sun had come out. Sitting across the desk from Dr Pangloss in his spacious office at the Town Hall was John Staedtler, who had come down to see exactly how much blood was on the carpet after the Tory group had collectively axed their leader.
"OK, let's get this straight right from the outset," began the Mayor, "Ahmad Hatter will definitely stay on as deputy mayor. There is nobody in the group who has asked me or suggested to me that he should not be in that role." He added: "His contribution in the past few years has been absolutely outstanding. It is a great shame that people are judged by one or two things that go wrong or one or two comments rather than the huge amount of good things that he has done."
"Can you give me an example?" asked Staedtler.
"Well, he's going to be remembered for things like Wreck Walk and covenant-breaking, isn't he, whereas what we should be celebrating is his no-nonsense, straight-talking and iron-fist approach."
"Some people might call it an arrogant, rude and bullying approach?" suggested Staedtler.
" Oh, without a doubt, it's that style which has partly led to his downfall," said the Mayor quickly, "but all that 'ee-by-'eck-well-I'll-go-t' foot-of-our-stairs-where-there's-muck-there's-brass-and-I speak-as-I-find-type thing gave life in the Town Hall a certain rustic charm. Goodness me, I hardly knew what he was on about half the time. They certainly didn't talk like that at my prep school, I can tell you. They didn't really do 'blunt northerners' at the schools I went to."
"I see. So why are you keeping him on as Deputy Mayor if more than half of his own party don't seem to like him much and don't want him as their leader?"
"Now look, let's not get bogged down in the semantics of this business - probably best just to gloss over that question, if you don't mind. Politics is a funny old business, and I'm sure it can all seem rather strange for an outsider looking in, but the truth of the matter is this: it is entirely possible for someone to be doing an excellent job and enjoy the full support of their cabinet colleagues, and still be asked to stand down when they get back from holiday. It's a bit like a surprise retirement party thrown by all your friends."
"Hmm, I'm not entirely sure I follow you," said Staedtler, scratching his head. So you're saying they've all done him a big favour, and he's very happy about it?"
"Happy? Happy? Ecstatic, I'd say. Over the moon. Pleased as punch. A chance to spend more time with the family, a spot of gardening, put the old CD collection in alphabetical order, all that sort of thing. It's a real opportunity for him. Once the votes had been counted he very quickly grabbed the opportunity not to be leader anymore - it was that simple."
"And he doesn't bear any grudges?"
"Grudges? No, nooo. Under that gruff exterior he's just a big old pussycat. A cuddly teddy bear. A sleepy koala bear. A little tiny dormouse ..."
"Yes, I get the picture ..." said Staedtler, looking up from his notepad.
Just then the Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Oh, sorry, am I interrupting? It's just that I've come across a small problem with the planning application for Wreck Walk."
"Can't this wait?" asked Pangloss, trying to indicate that he was with a journalist.
"Well, not really. It''s all turning into a bit of a mess."
"Ooh, it's not connected with parking fines, is it?" interjected Staedtler. "Just thinking 'Another fine mess' would make a good headline."
"No it's nothing to do with parking fines," said the Cllr FUC-U. "It's section 16 on the planning application. It says 'Are there any trees or hedges on the proposed development site? And then it says 'Are there trees or hedges on land adjacent to the proposed development site that could influence the development or might be important as part of the local landscape character?'"
"Hmm, that might pose a small problem ...," mused Pangloss.
"Wait, there's more. It says 'if yes to either or both of the above, you will need to provide a full Tree Survey, with accompanying plan before your application can be determined. Your Local Planning Authority should make clear on its website what the survey should contain, etc., etc."
"OK," said Pangloss, "let me see if I've got this right. We've already cut down every tree on Wreck Walk, permanently closed half the road and made the cliff unstable and now we think we shouldn't have because we didn't follow the necessary planning procedures?"
"That's it in a nutshell, boss. Imagine if it was a member of the public wanting to do something on their land which involved cutting down trees. Well, it would be like them chopping all the trees down first, and then coming to us and putting in a planning application, wouldn't it? We wouldn't be very happy, would we?"
"No, but there again, a member of the public probably wouldn't be stupid enough to go round chopping trees down willy-nilly without permission, would they?"
"No, I suppose not. Anyway, what are we going to do?"
"What are we going to do? What are you going to do, more like. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to have you face, with a suitably glum expression on it, superimposed on a picture of Wreck Walk for the front page of the Westphalia Express. My face will appear in the relative safety of page five, doing my usual amateur dramatics or certificate presentation, or judging a novelty cake competition, or some such. I can't get involved in all that rocks and trees stuff. By the way, whatever became of my 'Grot-Busting' initiative aimed at preventing eyesores around the Bay? Did that bloke in Fishhole ever get round to repainting his house? It was an absolute disgrace, it really was."

Chapter 57 In which Staedtler is given a tip about the Queer Affair in Fishhole

2008-08-30T21:59:00.005+01:00

John Staedtler grabbed the phone on his desk before it had chance to ring twice and barked his name into the mouthpiece by way of a greeting.
"French, here," came the voice at the other end. "Your private dick - remember?"
"Oh, hello," said Staedtler. "What do you want?"
"Oh, just following up the case, and wondering why you didn't tell me you'd received more postcards from the Piddlebackside blogger. What's the story John?"
"Er ... it slipped my mind?"
"Not very convincing John. I warned you that you might get in above your head. Having second thoughts about getting into this business?"
"No just sitting on the postcards for the moment. Ball's in my court, and all that. Considering my options."
"I see. So have you had any calls yet? Anyone phoning you to find out what the clue was on that sixth card?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, you might get some soon. Or emails. Readers will want to know what was on it. To them the goings-on in Piddlebackside are more important than what's happening here on the Cote De Westphalia."
"Don't be ridiculous! People phoning me up for information about a fictitious place? You're having a laugh."
"Am I? Twenty-five thousand hits? Readers in Canada and on the west coast of America? And in Australia and Europe? Piddlebackside has become something of a phenomenon. I wouldn't bet against the odd phone call or two - especially when people read this."
"What do you mean, when people read this?"
"Haven't you even figured that out, John? We're all involved. We're part of Piddlebackside. People are reading this is in real time - have you seen the film The Truman Show?" Staedtler nodded. "Well, it's a bit like that."
"No ... no," Staedler said, shaking his head as thoughts raced through it. "You might be in it, but I'm not. I'm just a regular journo in Westphalia-on-Sea, doing my job."
"John, John," said French, with mock reassurance. Staedtler knew from his tone that a sting in the tail was coming. "You went after the author, you printed postcards in your column. You're in deeper than me, deeper than lots of people."
"So what shall I do now?"
"Like I said before John, it's your call. But wouldn't you just like to get a few more postcards? See where the clues begin to point? A couple of pictures and few lines - it won't take more than half a column, maybe less."
"I'll think about it."
"I think it would be wise - in my 'umble opinion. Now what about this queer business over in Fishhole?"
"Queer business? I don't know what you're talking about."
"The Fast-cat ferry. Doesn't it smell fishy to you?"
"No ... a whiff of diesel maybe. Are you thinking of the trawlers?"
"I mean fishy as in suspicious."
"How do you mean? I don't know of any strange goings-on. I read that the launch went well - just a small hitch while they had to wait for one of the existing ferries to go out of business."
"Don't you mean get out of the way?"
"Yes, yes, of course I do. Freudian slip. Anyway, I think our official line is 'competition is healthy'."
"Even if it puts locals out of business?"
"Well, look, I can't really comment." Staedtler looked towards the door which was about ten centimetres ajar -he did not want to be overheard.
"OK, point taken," said French. "Well this guy who's running the show - maybe you should check him out - I can't repeat it all here, I'll email you a link. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/612409.stm It's kosha - from the BBC, no less. OK, got to go."
"OK ... bye," said Staedtler, replacing the reciever slowly. There's more to this Piddlebackside stuff than meets the eye, he thought to himself.

Chapter 56 In which we get a bird's eyeview of the goings on in Westphalia-on-Sea

2008-08-23T07:46:00.005+01:00

Kenneth Livingston Seagull woke with surprise one late August morning. The surprise was due to the sun, which was suddenly shining in his eyes, something which hadn't happened, since, well, Kenneth couldn't really remember, but he knew it had been a while. He stood up and stretched his wings, and then hopped off the chimney where he had spent the night onto the top of the pitched roof a couple of feet below. Having only just woken up, and having webbed feet, he was a little unsteady on the slippery slates (at least they weren't wet - they were a nightmare then) so he flapped his wings a little for balance as he toddled along the top of the roof which he called home. It was nothing fancy, a three-bedroom terrace in an average part of town, but Kenneth was perfectly happy with it, and it had a little flat roof on an extension at the back, which was great for the kids when they were small and couldn't fly. Of course, he had no financial worries - he didn't have a mortgage, or even a bank account come to that. In fact he made a point of never carrying cash on him, ever since he heard that was what the Queen did. Or didn't. He had friends who lived on big detached houses with sea views, and they were always squawking on about the fresh fish heads you could get down on the coast if you had a mind to get up early, but that didn't interest Kenneth. If fact Kenneth was rather conservative by nature. His wife had recently told him about a swanky new development that was opening up on the seafront and tried to persuade him to move, but Kenneth was cautious. Sure, it was a great location, handy for the harbourside takeaways, and it had all been sealed off with large swathes of blue tarpaulin so the Providers couldn't go there anymore, and it seemed like they would never return. However, some of the Providers were still insisting they would be back, and Kenneth would not be persuaded to move from the roof where he had seen so many of his kids emerge from their eggs. His wife even pointed out that it would be good to get some more fish in their diet instead of living on convenience food, but Kenneth wasn't convinced. In fact he thought all this stuff about seafood and healthy eating was rather unnatural. If they were meant to go out catching fish, why did the Providers leave enormous bags of food out in the street for him? It just didn't make sense.
Kenneth was shaken out of his reverie by the noise of the first few Providers who were starting to appear from their houses below, and he began thinking about some of the crazy theories he had heard about them. Craziest by far was the idea that the Providers were actually the dominant species on the planet. Kenneth didn't believe this for one simple reason: it was the fact that he often saw the Providers out picking up fresh dog's mess, and in his small seagull-sized brain he figured that before any species could really be classed as truly dominant it would have to stop going around picking up the warm excrement of other species and casually slipping it in their pocket. True, the Providers seemed to have invented quite a lot of useful stuff, but they were a weird disorganised bunch and Kenneth should know - he had spent plenty of time observing their antics. Why, only the other day he had watched many of them sitting in their little metal boxes on a the road in Eastphalia. They moved very slowly up towards the traffic lights, but the queue seemed to stretch all the way back to the beach - it was a very strange state of affairs, and Kenneth was very glad that he didn't have to sit about in a queue like that on a warm day. No, he was pretty certain that the species which had organised this was not running the planet. If any of the species down on the ground was running the planet Kenneth thought it was probably the cats. He had seen them lying around doing nothing all day, and they didn't even have to look for food - everything was laid on for them. Each of them seemed to have trained their own personal Provider to handle the catering arrangements, and any time a Provider went away for a few days a neighbouring Provider took care of their feeding duties. It seemed like a very efficient system, and Kenneth was quite jealous of the way these furry layabouts had organised everything exactly to suit them. Yes, the more he thought about it the more logical it seemed - the cats were in charge.

Another idea concerning the Providers was Darwinism. Kenneth had heard about it, of course; what seagull hadn't? This was the mad notion that they were some kind of distant relationship between the Providers and other species, but Kenneth was very sceptical. He just couldn't see the likeness. The only behaviour that was vaguely similar was the way the Providers regurgitated their food late at night around the harbourside, but they didn't do it when their young were around, so Kenneth couldn't see the benefit in that. Some of the more radical gulls said there were far too many Providers around, and that there should be some kind of cull, but Kenneth thought this was a bit drastic. He preferred the other option, which was to let the stupid ones eat too much and die off earlier. Some gulls said this was 'natural selection', and that it was connected to Darwinism, but whenever the discussion began to get more serious Kenneth found he was usually distracted by a bundle of chip papers or the remains of Sainsbury's lasagne, so he lost the thread of the argument and never really got to fully understand what was going on around him.
Oh well, thought Kenneth, as he started lazily running for take-off, I suppose some
day everything will become clear and I'll finally understand what's going on around here. He flapped his wings a few time to get airborne, and continued to flap to get a bit more height. He was soon gliding effortlessly towards the town centre, keeing his eye out for the black binliner that would provide breakfast. Just as he was approaching the Town Hall Kenneth felt a rumbling in his lower intestine. Hmm, I don't think the spicy contents of those foil trays that I ate last night have agreed with me, he thought. With a small movement of the muscles at the rear end of his body he evacuated the problem. Ooh, that feels better, he thought. Once the offending remains had left Kenneth's body he didn't give them a second thought. This was unfortunate, because Kenneth, a thoughtful and rather philosophical seagull, would probably have appreciated the irony of what followed. A man on the ground had just parked his car, and hearing the Kenneth's squawk of relief, looked up. Splat!! The brown mess covered the man's glasses. If Kenneth had looked down at that moment he would have seen a rather angry man standing next to a small car in a parking bay where the word 'MAYOR' was just about visible on the wall.

Chapter 55 In which Pangloss and Hatter decide to shake things up

2008-08-16T09:38:00.006+01:00

It was a pleasant August morning that found Dr Pangloss busy at his desk in the Town Hall. In Westphalia-on-Sea 'a pleasant August morning' meant that the rain was nothing more than a fine drizzle and motorists didn't need to have their headlights on in the morning. Of course, it was far too windy for the balloon to be flying, and nobody was allowed in the sea because of the recent 'turd warning', but apart from that the Westphalians had very little to complain about. There was a knock at the door, and before Pangloss could shout 'come in', his faithful deputy, Ahmad Hatter, appeared before him.
"'Ey up, Pangloss," said Hatter, "'Aven't seem my masonic regalia, 'ave you? I'm supposed to be down at the Lodge in half an hour and I can't find my apron, my tie-pin or my pointy hat."
"Sorry old chap, I haven't. I must say I've never really seen the attraction in your little secret society. Can't you just cut a couple of eyeholes in a sheet and rig something temporary up?"
"Cut a bloody sheet up?! This is the Freemasons, not a bloody fancy dress party or a primary school play! Oh, you just don't understand. Anyway, what's tha doin' with that list?"
"Oh, I'm just sorting out the photo shoots we need to do this week for the Westphalia Express. Let's see, they want someone to wave a flag in front of the land train - I think that's definitely one for me - they'll want a smiley face. Certificate presentations to volunteers, ditto, and an awards presentation over at Soldaway Mansion; me again. Now, the horrendous cost of repairing Wreck Walk; I think that's more your thing - they'll be wanting a serious face, and you've got the moustache for it. Oh, another story about Wreck Walk - how it's one of my greatest achievements - I'll do that, another smiley face. Now what about this business about selling off the Downs? The locals seem to be kicking up a fuss, so I think that's another one for you."
"Bloody locals. I tell you one thing: this place would be a lot off better all round if we just got of the bloody locals. They're just a bunch of wingeing bastards trying to stop the march of progress. They don't appreciate bricks and bloody mortar, that's their trouble. Too bloody sentimental about a bit of grass and a play park. I'm sick to bloody death of their 'where are the kids going play?' and 'will these new houses spoil my view?' and all the rest of it."
"Now, now Ahmad, don't go upsetting yourself. You know I don't like the locals any more than you do, but they're an irritating fact of life that we just have to accept. Try to think of them as tourists that refuse to go home or something. We've jst got to keep focused and remain in control. I know - why don't you go off to your little meeting with the Grand Wizard and all the rest of them, and when you come back we'll do something wacky. You know, mix things up a bit, let everyone know that we're still in charge and not to be messed with."
"You mean a little show of strength? Now you're talking my language. What shall we do? Find some more covenants to break? Sell another beach?"
"No, we've already done all that. We need something new. I know. Let's find someone who's doing a good job and sack them."
"Oh, the old reshuffle joke?" asked Hatter. "That would work. It's always been a favourite of mine. Keeps people on their toes and stops them getting too big for their boots as well. Any ideas who?"
"Well the Head of Tourism seems to be doing a good job ..."
"Right, let's take her out then. That should send out the message loud and clear that we are mad, bad and dangerous to know."
"Yes, that should wrong-foot just about everyone," agreed the Mayor. "God, I love this job, and I've still got over two and a half years in office left!"

Chapter 54 In which Dr Pangloss suggests the Westphalia Express prints more 'feel good' stories

2008-07-30T08:20:00.008+01:00

In between the rain showers one July morning the Mayor decided to stroll over and see his old friend the editor at the Westphalia Express. It wasn't just a social call, as Dr Pangloss had become increasingly alarmed by some of the stories he had been reading lately and was intent on berating the editor once more about the content of his newspaper.
"What happened to your promise to print positive stories?" demanded Dr Pangloss.
"I don't remember promising," said the editor. "We do our best, but you do make things difficult for us; sometimes it's hard to see where one cock-up ends and the next one begins."
"Well Mr Editor, I think many problems arise through the language you use. What you call 'cock-ups' I refer to as 'years of neglect inherited from past administrations', and I think if you started to use that phrase a little more you'd find things weren't quite so bad as you sometimes make out."
"Hmm, I'm not convinced. What about the half a million pounds in redundancy payments to council officers - we can't really put that in a very good light, can we?"
"Of course you can - it's a cost-cutting exercise. We'll save thousands."
"But why is everyone paid so much in the first place?"
"Because they've got top notch brains, that's why."
"So why are you getting rid of them?"
"Well that's obvious. The officers who have left were very good, but we probably need people with different qualities for the commissioners roles. We want to get the council working properly, and in that context half a million pounds is worth it to get the job right. "
"Different qualities? What does that mean? Does this mean these people are crap and overpaid, and haven't been doing their jobs properly?"
"Look, Mr Editor, I think we've spent long enough discussing this as it is. Now what I would like to see on your front page is something a bit more cheerful. You know, the sun is out, and everyone's having a lovely time on holiday."
"But it's been pissing with rain!"
"Not all the time - it was lovely at the weekend."
"That was two days. We've had record-breaking rainfall for the month."
"Oh, stop splitting hairs. I know - 'the sun is out and all the hotels are full'. There's your story."
"But they're not full. The new budget one is, but it's taking business away from the smaller hotels."
"Jesus Christ, you're supposed to be on my side. Look, just run the story and stick in a picture of a crowded beach at the seafront."
"Crowded beach? You'll be lucky. There's nowhere to park down there. Wreck Walk, parking restrictions, remember?"
"Well dig a photo out of the archives from the seventies and just airbrush out the old cars. Just give me one positive story. Please."
Just then there was a knock at the door, and the head of John Staedtler appeared.
"Can I have word, boss - in private?"
The editor excused himself and stepped outside. "What is it John?"
His deputy said nothing, but held up two postcards.
"From the blogger?"
"Yep. Numbers five and six. And he's started playing a little game, giving clues about his identity."
"Can you fit it into your next column?"
"It's a bit difficult. I'm planning a large piece about the Deputy Mayor and his weasel words over his next planned development on public space up at the Downs. I was toying with the headline 'Hatter suffering from Downs Syndrome'."
"Hmm, not sure he'd see the funny side of that. Can I see the postcards?"
Staedtler handed him the first one. The picture was of the beach in Westphalia-on-Sea which had been recently sold to property developer and millionaire Pierre De Saveloy. On the beach was a sign saying 'LOCALS - KEEP OUT'. The Editor turned the card over and read the rhyme on the reverse:

Six postcards now you have received
Some showing plans so ill-conceived
Fifteen more are yet to come
Then you will have all twenty-one.
(We did consider thirty-six,
And throwing nought into the mix.)

To solve the clues help is at hand –
Your readers, up and down the land.
So ask them now to join the fun
And ponder on those ‘twenty-one’.
The answer must be printed here
Or postcard seven won’t appear.

So hurry, print that cryptic clue
It really would be wise of you.
Our happy band as yet concealed
Through riddles solved will be revealed.
And do not spoil this treasure hunt
Or you will look like an old misery.

"Hmm, interesting," said the Editor. "So he wants you to print this stuff and solve the clues, does he? Let's see the other one." He turned the second postcard over and stared at it for a few moments. "So this is a clue is it? Well, it means nothing to me. You got any ideas?"

"Nothing's ringing any bells at the moment, boss. What do think, shall we print it? See if any of the readers can shed any light on it?"

"It's up to you John. I've got enough on my plate with him in there." The editor lowered his voice as he said this and nodded towards his office door. "I'll trust your judgement on this one."

Chapter 53 In which John Staedtler goes after the blogger

2008-07-01T00:42:00.006+01:00

In the world of national newspaper journalism the silly season begins in August when Parliament takes its summer recess and there is little important news to report. It is known as "Mätäkuun juttu" in Finland (literally meaning 'rotting-month story', and "Komkommertijd" or cucumber time in Holland, for reasons best known to the Dutch. In the world of local newpapers, however, it is pretty much silly season all year round. In local newspapers any old rubbish could find its way onto the front page, which is why John Staedtler, the Deputy Editor of the Westphalia Express was walking briskly down the High Street. He was on the trail of the elusive 'Piddlebackside Blogger', and had the name of someone who he thought could help him. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and checked the address. Looking up at the shopfronts he realised he was on the wrong side of the street. He stepped into the road and was startled by blaring horn of a double decker bus. 'Watch where you're going mate!' Shouted the angry driver. 'Sorry,' mumbled Staedtler, 'I thought this had all been pedestrianised.'
Reaching the other side of the road in one piece Staedtler pushed open the door of the new healthy juice bar PearWater. 'French,' said Staedtler to the girl behind the counter, 'I'm looking for Paul French.' 'Through the door,' she replied, nodding to her right. 'Go on in, he ain't busy.' Staedtler knocked and opened the door at the same time. Sitting at the desk was a dapper little man. With the nicotine stained fingers of one hand he was twisting his moustache; with the other he carelessly dropped cigarette ash from a Gitane.
'You French?' asked Staedtler.
'No, it's just a lisp; had it since I was a kid.'
'Spare me the funnies, wiseguy, said Staedtler. 'I hear you're something of a part-time dick.'
'Yeah? Well maybe you're a bit of a twat, yourself.'
'I meant a private investigator. It's an American ...'
'Yeah, I know. I'm just messing with you. Having a laugh. Well, you got to in this town, right? Now what can I do for you, John?'
'How did you know my name?' asked Staedtler.
'I make it my business to know,' replied French. When you've kicked around this place as long as I have you hear stuff. Besides, I read the local rag.'
'OK Clever Dick, what about the Piddlebackside Blogger; do you know him?'
'Maybe I do and maybe I don't. Depends who wants to know. Anyways, who says it's a him? Could be a her or a them.' But why are you so keen to know? They ain't done nothing illegal, have they?'
'No he hasn't,' persisted Staedtler, 'he's just beginning to piss me off, that's all.'
'Well it happens to us all, I'm afraid Mr Staedtler. We're all just pubic hairs on the toilet bowl of life - sooner or later we get pissed off. Now let me get this straight - you want to pay me to reveal person or persons unknown, is that correct?'
'That's it, yes.'
'Well, before I take the case I like to know who I'm working for.'
'Well, for me of course,' said Staedtler.
'You don't expect me to believe that, do you? You come in here playing the journo after a story, but who's to say there isn't someone bigger behind this investigation?'
'Like who, the Mayor?'
'Maybe him. Or maybe Charlie Windsor. Or maybe Ahmad Hatter. Ain't he the one pulling the strings down at the Town Hall?'
'Well, I don't know. You'd have to ask him about ...'
'Well he ain't here John, so I'm asking you. What do you think? What's your op-in-i-on?' French pronounced every syllable of the word slowly and deliberately.
'Look, I'm not employed to give my opinion. I'm neutral, straight down the middle, you know that.'
'Oh yes, very convenient. Well, I'm not going to sit here arguing about it all day. Look, my fee's £300 a day plus expenses. If you want to pay those rates I'll take the case.'
'Three hundred a day? That's even more than Dr Pangloss earns!'
'Take it or leave it, it's your call. But let me ask you this - are you sure you want to get into this, John? Piddlebackside can be a nasty place, and once you go in it's not so easy to get out.'
'What are you talking about? It's just fiction. Make believe.'
'Is it John? Or is there a lot truth in the whole thing? I'm telling you John, if you start chasing the story you could end up giving it the oxygen of publicity which you have so far tried to deny it. It's a high risk strategy; you could suddenly find yourself centre stage.'
'Look French. I was raised in a suburb of Westphalia-on-Sea called Hell, so that should tell you something. I'll take my chances on the mean streets of Piddlebackside.'
'OK John, but don't say I didn't warning you. Now let me see those three postcards you received.'
'Four.'
'Four? In your column in the paper you said it was three. From Liverpool, Nantwich and the Potteries.'
'Yes, well the fourth one had a different message. It just said 'read http://www.westphalia-on-sea.blogspot.com/ and I didn't want to print that in the newspaper.
'Where was it from?'
'It was one of Westphalia-on-Sea by night. And it was posted from here too.'
'There, you see what I mean John? You'll already playing with fire and gettin' your fingers burnt and we ain't hardly started. What if people start calling you up, asking if you're witholding other parts of the story? What will you tell them?'
'I'll tell them the fourth postcard arrived later, after the story had gone to print - they'll believe me, they know I'm an honest guy. And I'll promise to print news of any other postcards as soon as I receive them.'
'Well, I just hope you're right John, and I hope you're as good as your word.' French picked up the postcards and turned them over one by one. 'Now let me see, Nantwich - wasn't there a by-election there recently?'
'Yes, there was. Are you thinking this is from someone attached to a political party?'
'Could be. Or a journalist covering the story - there was a lot of media interest. Know of any hacks who you've done the dirty on in your time? Any that may still bear a grudge?'
Staedtler looked out the window. You didn't get to the top (or nearly the top) of the greasy poll in journalism without standing on a few heads on your way up. He must have pissed off half of the NUJ, but at the moment his mind had gone blank. 'No names are jumping out at me, but I'll give it some thought. I've been in this game a long time, and I'll have to really start dredging the old memory.'
'OK, you do that,' said French, 'and be sure to give me a call the moment something or someone occurs to you.'

Chapter 52 In which Pangloss reflects on his inflated achievement

2008-06-21T17:19:00.000+01:00

Dr Pangloss was sat at home with his feet up, flicking through the pages of the Westphalia Express. Chairman Miaow lazed contentedly at his side and purred as he turned the pages of the newspaper. 'Do you know,' Pangloss said, addressing the cat, 'I really think this balloon business has gone rather well. Considering that awful Brolly woman has been bombarding anyone and everyone with health and safety issues from day one I think we've done a jolly good job. And I must say our friends down at the Westphalia Express have really come up trumps. They seem to have found plenty of people willing to say they love it, and they've got some great pictures. And look at the letters page - some of my friends have written in support after I asked them nicely. And, oh look, here's one old lady who has been so moved by the spectacle she has written a little poem.'

Pangloss cleared his throat; Chairman Miaow pricked up his ears and for a moment seemed to understand his master's every word. 'Listen to this puss,' he said, 'these amateur poets are often rather good,' and he began to read aloud:

'It looks so majestic up there in the sky
That bubble of helium floating on high.
Spectacular views to the west and the east
Now strings have been pulled and palms have been greased.
Old Dr Pangloss sure gets things done
They said he's a loser but I think he's won.
He said 'can we stick it on this bit of land?'
And waved a brown envelope containing a grand.
The moaners as usual were all out in force
Hysterical old Brolly the noisiest, of course.
You've spoilt our views, our walks on the front,
It's a daft place to put it, you silly ol...' RING! RING! Pangloss was suddenly interrupted by the persistent ring of the phone, which he reached out for; it was Charlie Windsor.
'Hullo, what do you want, Charlie?' asked Pangloss.
'Oh, you know, just checking to see how things are going. Actually, I just wondered if you had any good news that I could focus on in a letter to the paper or something. Wanted to raise my profile a bit you know, after the Tory win in London.'
'Good news ...good news...' pondered Pangloss. 'Nothing really jumps to mind,' he said. 'It's pretty much been one demonstration after another lately. Can't you just carry on with your blog?'
'Well I am, but who bloody reads that? One man and his dog, by the looks of things. And anyway, I'd just started developing a bit of a crusade against old Localbloke being on the gravy train and now News of the World uncovers all the bloody Tory MEPs doing it. And that's after that Conway bloke. It makes it ruddy dificult for me to keep banging on about it now. I tell you, I am going to be so gutted if Tories win seats all over the country and I still don't get in in Westphalia-on-Sea.'
'Oh, don't be so negative, said Pangloss.
'Well, I'm trying to stay upbeat, but it's hard. I'm having a fundraiser at the weekend. Old Freddie Forsyth is coming down.'
'Crikey, that should be fun, he's a bit of a loose cannon. Will I be sitting on his table?'
'Er, not exactly.'
'Nearby?'
'No. Look, I'd really rather you didn't come, old man.'
'Why ever not? I'm a Tory. I'm probably more Tory than you. Apart from when I was a Lib Dem. Anyway, I'm the Tory mayor, why wouldn't you want me there?'
'Well, to put it in a nutshell, because you're so jolly unpopular. I've got to try and put a bit of clear blue water between us if I'm to have any chance of getting elected. I helped you get in, I supported you, and at the moment I still do. But opposition to you is growing all the time. And they're getting access to the media: radio, TV and the local paper. It's not just the Internet anymore. I tell you Pangloss, I'm getting jittery. Cameron might not get a big enough swing, or Westphalia-on-Sea might buck the national trend, and if I don't win I'll be finished. They'll never let me have a third go. Look, I just wanted you to know that I might not be able to keep on supporting you the way I have ..., if you start to go down.'
'What do you mean, go down?' asked Pangloss.
'Oh, I don't know, said Charlie. 'Being constantly asked to resign, or losing the support of the Westphalia Express, or someone getting hurt down on the road near the balloon, something like that. There comes a point where it's every man for himself, and that point for me is when my chance of a fat MP's salary starts to look like it's in jeopardy.'
'OK, Charlie,' said Pangloss in a quiet voice. His hand was shaking as he replaced the receiver, and he could feel the blood draining from his face. For the first time since he was elected he started to contemplate the horror of having to resign.

Chapter 51 In which the Westphalians have a demonstration of local government in action

2008-05-27T20:46:00.004+01:00

Dr Pangloss looked around and almost had to pinch himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming. He was staring out at over a hundred faces of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea, who had all come to register their displeasure at what he was doing. The meeting was being held in the grandest building in all of the Cote de Westphalia, Soldaway Mansion. The building was considered part of the local heritage and everyone thought it should remain so, for future generations to enjoy. However, some of the more backward people thought this would be best achieved by keeping it within the ownership of the council, and other more visionary individuals thought this would best be achieved by selling it to a private company who could turn it into a hotel and sauna. But, dear readers, we must not digress and begin talking about putting tasteful en-suite bathrooms and trouser presses into listed buildings; there will be plenty of time for that in the future. For the moment Soldaway Mansion was very much in the ownership of the Council, and so there was the coat of arms on the wall above the Mayor's head, and below it the new town motto. It had been decided by the consultants that the old motto "Salus et Felicitas" meaning 'Health and Happiness' was a little bit too '19th-century seaside resort', and that a new slogan should really encapsulate what the dynamic council of the 21st century was all about. They thought long and hard for something which would truly represent the council's approach. Brainstorming sessions were held where people jotted down all the adjectives they could think of to describe the council and then they tried to create a Latin motto from the ideas. Two of the best ideas were "leviculus populus iligitimus" and "Nil democratia in nostrum urbs" but people just didn't think they sounded quite right, so they finally settled on "Nusquam est paro in calx", which even the poorest scholars of the classics will know translates as "Nothing is set in stone". It was felt that this phrase encapsulated the very essence of the Mayor and his cabinet, the phrase which you could utter when challenged about any plan. It was so beautifully ambiguous. 'Are you going to sell this land off cheap to a developer?' 'Nothing is set in stone.' 'Are you going to build something unpleasant here?' 'Nothing is set in stone.' The mayor liked the phrase, but the deputy mayor liked it the most. He made a point of saying it at least once a day, and there was rumour that he had had it tattooed around his left bicep in Celtic calligraphy. What they most liked about it was the fact that it wasn't 'yes' and it wasn't 'no'. It acknowledged that something had been suggested, but avoided having to get into an awkward discussion about details of plans, and money and that sort of thing.

As the Deputy Mayor read through the list of land to be sold off and dismissed any objections to the plans the occasional mutter rose from the public. As the mutterings became louder Dr Pangloss felt his blood pressure rise, and he finally had to tell everyone how the democratic process worked. 'Now look here,' he said, 'you have got to jolly well shut up and listen to me. If you wanted to say something about all of this you should jolly well have written to the council five working days ago and asked to see a copy of Appendix C list xiv. From there you could have filled in form D24x/ab in triplicate, got it countersigned by either a member of the armed forces or the clergy, left one copy on file at the Town Hall, kept the blue copy for your own reference and handed the pink copy to the clerk at the door tonight. You would then have been allowed to speak for three whole minutes. You can't just come along, put your hand up and expect to speak, just because you've spent ages getting the views of local people and getting them to sign petitions. Good God! Where the Devil would we be if we employed a system which involved geeting the views of the people? Off to Hell in a handcart - that's where we'd be. No, under our democratic system the Deputy Mayor can ask each member of the Council for their opinion, and then politely explain the consequences if that opinion does not very closely ressemble his own opinion. I think you'll agree that it's both simple and effective, and saves everyone an awful lot of bother in the long run.'

Chapter 50 In which the Westphalia Express comes to the rescue

2008-04-22T13:39:00.004+01:00

Down at the offices of the Westphalia Express all the columnists were sitting around, sandwiches in hand, waiting for the editor to start the special meeting he had called.
'Are we all here? Right, now listen up everybody. Dr Pangloss is in a bit of a pickle over this Vision, so I've said we'll help him out. Support for him on the letters page is pretty thin on the ground, so we need to stick something in the regular columns to boost his morale a bit.'
A collective groan went around the room.
'What's the matter with you lot? It's not like I'm asking you to write a positive review of Mein Kampf. It's the Mayoral Vision - remember? The big plan that is going to turn this town into a thriving resort once again.'
'City,' said a female voice from the back.
'What?' asked the editor.
'I thought we were a city now.'
'Not yet, you dozy cow - we're still a town at the moment.'
'Well when are we going to be a city?'
'When some more people come to live here, I think. I don't bloody know. Anyway, that's not important right now. Now get back to your desks and write something positive.'
Another groan went around the room.
'Look, what's your bloody problem exactly?'
'Well, we don't really like it,' said Gus Hackson in a rather timid voice.
'Don't like the Mayoral Vision?' thundered the editor. 'What's the fucking matter with you?' Jesus Christ, give me strength. OK, what's your problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'Er, all the high-rise stuff around the harbour - it's terrifying.' said the female voice.
'Oh yeah, all right, I'll grant you that,' said the editor. 'High-rise around the harbour, that is a shit idea. But apart from the high-rise around the harbour, what's you problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'Building on Eastphalia seafront?' suggested a slightly emboldened Gus Hackson.
'OK, apart from the high-rise around the harbour and building on Eastphalia seafront, what's your problem with the Mayoral Vision?'
'The balloon!' piped up Deputy Editor John Staedtler. 'It's in completely the wrong place.'
'Right, apart from the high-rise, Eastphalia seafront and the balloon in the wrong place ...'
'And the casino! That's in the wrong place too!' added Staedtler, evidently warming to his theme.
'Christ, John,' said the editor, 'you're supposed to be on my side. OK, apart from ...'
'Wreck Walk!' shouted Staedtler, jumping up from the desk on which he had been perched. 'A full blown fucking disaster if ever I saw one. Will it ever be restored to its former glory as promised?'
'OK, now just calm down, John ...' said the editor. He had never seen his deputy quite like this, and was growing a little anxious.
'Selling our open spaces! I have concerns about that too!' Staedtler was becoming so animated he was beginning to spill his coffee. 'Parking meters!' he continued. 'They'll never pay their way!'
'Right, this is getting serious,' said the editor, suddenly thankful for all those 'First Aid in the Workplace courses he had been on. I'm going to stun him and put him in the recovery position. Gus, you get the straightjacket.'

Thirty minutes later John Staedtler was sitting at his desk feeling much calmer. 'Phew, I don't know what came over me, guv,' he said, as his his fingers flew across the keyboard. I've snapped out of it though, and I think I can write a nice positive piece, because apart from the balloon, the casino, Wreck Walk, selling open spaces and parking meters there are some great ideas there and I'm right behind them. 'The editor looked affectionately across the desk at his number two. 'It's good to have you back, John'. he said. 'For a moment there I thought we'd lost you.'

Chapter 49 In which Hatter deals with the tosspot petitioner

2008-04-02T23:03:00.003+01:00

Ahmad Hatter rapped firmly on Dr Pangloss's door, and on hearing a croaky 'come in' he pushed it open.
''Ey up,' said Ahmad. 'Are tha feeling any better?'
'A bit,' croaked Dr Pangloss, curled up on the sofa wrapped in a duvet with Chairman Miaow on his lap, 'but I certainly won't be able to come out in public for a while.'
'Oh, don't you worry about that, replied Ahmad. 'I've been filling in, and making a pretty good job of it.'
'Really? What have you been doing?'
'Well, I gave an official response to that little tosspot with the petition.'
'Oh, yes, now that was a tricky situation which we were wondering how to play. Needed a bit of sensitive handling. What did you say?'
'I told him he could stick 'is foocking petition up 'is arse, for all we care.'
'You did what?' said Pangloss, suddenly sitting up. 'Not in such colourful terms, I hope?'
'Oh no, I were all tactful, like. I said it didn't matter if they got 10,000 signatures, because it's all done.'
'But that's nearly twice as many votes as i got. You can't just dismiss that amount of people. They'll say I'm being autocratic.'
'Auto- what?'
'Autocratic. Oh, for God's sake. Did you ever go to school? Someone who conducts affairs without reference to the wishes of others. A bloody dictator.'
'They can't say that. You won the election, fair and square.'
'Yes, and so did Hitler the first time, but he isn't exactly remembered fondly, is he? I may have won, but not many people voted for me.'
'Hey, don't you go going soft on me,' said Ahmad. It's time for the iron fist, not the velvet glove. Where I come from you build first and ask question later. Especially if one of those questions is 'is it OK to build on this land? No, up north you put you hard hat on, get your theodolite out and start taking levels before the protesters have had time to fill a bloody thermos.'
'Get your what out?'
'Theodolite. Oh, not so bloody clever now, are we, Mr university boy? It's an instrument used by surveyors.'
'Oh, I see. And the people who have signed the petition, what are they saying?'
'Oh the usual stuff about a corrupt political leader who's trying to hang on to power even though he's lost the support of the people and his former political allies.'
'I don't mean what's happening in Zimbabwe, I mean what's happening in Westphalia-on-Sea?'
'I know. That's what I'm talking about.'
'Oh my God, I think I can feel one of my turns coming on. I feel cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drum. Run to the bedroom, in the suitcase on the left you'll find my favourite pills. Don't look so frightened, Hatter, this is just a passing phase, just one of my bad days. Now go out and don't disturb me.'
'OK, said Ahmad, quite relieved to be leaving. 'When do you think you'll be ready to come back?'
'The way I'm feeling right now, I'd say twenty-eleven.'
'You mean eleven minutes past eight tonight?' asked Hatter.
'No, I mean 2011. Just in time for the election.'

Chapter 48 In which Dr Pangloss feels another holiday might be in order

2008-03-25T20:33:00.003Z

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

2008-03-14T19:36:00.007Z

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."

Chapter 46 In which a Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups is appointed

2008-03-09T17:10:00.005Z

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!

THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS

2008-02-29T22:00:00.003Z

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

2008-02-21T23:40:00.005Z

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.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

2008-02-06T14:41:00.000Z

With so many anonymous comments on the blog it appears that many of you are afraid to contact the PLO (Piddlebackside Liberation Organisation) for fear of reprisals from local government, your employers or the Taliban. Should anyone wish to enter into dialogue with the 'people's blogging collective' they can do so by leaving a comment with a name or nickname on the blog - just mark it NOT TO BE PUBLISHED, and it won't be (although it will of course be read). Anyone requiring a direct reply can leave an email address, which, of course, will not be published. We will endeavour to answer any queries as soon as possible, but please bear in mind that broadband connections can be intermittent in a mountain hideout, especially at this time of year.

Chapter 44 In which Charlie shows his true colours

2008-02-05T08:21:00.000Z

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.'

Chapter 43 In which Pangloss looks for support from an old ally

2008-02-03T16:11:00.000Z

'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.'

Chapter 42 In which the wind of change begins to blow ...

2008-01-28T16:22:00.000Z

January 17th was something of a red letter day in Westphalia-on-Sea, as it marked the day when the Westphalia Express began to distance itself from the Mayor and his terribly expensive consultant's vision. Dr Pangloss got on the phone to the Editor, and he was not best pleased. 'WHAT'S THE MEANING OF THIS?' He screamed into the receiver. 'The last thing I said to you was to be more positive, and the next thing I know is one of your columnists is doing a full-page demolition job on my Vision under the heading 'I've seen the future and it's terrifying'.'
'Well, strictly speaking it's not your vision, is it? It's just a load of third-rate toss dreamed up by a bunch of shysters calling themselves consultants.'
'What?!' Spluttered Pangloss. 'I seem to remember that not so long ago your organ was right behind me. Why the change of heart?'
'Look, we gave you a fair crack at it, but the truth of the matter is that nobody in the whole of Cote de Westphalia is taken in by these crackpot ideas anymore, and we need to start to pull away, otherwise I'll risk looking as a much of a twat as you. If 99% of the correspondence from our readers is calling your idea 'Pie in the Sky' I have to reconsider my position.'
'What do you mean? There are still a few people who back me up.'
Oh, come on, it's just a few letters from the nutty brigade, Basil Finch and his ilk that support you now. If you added their IQs together it wouldn't be much above room temperature.'
'I see. I get the picture. I've had my crack, and now I can't depend on your organ to back me up, is that it?' asked Pangloss, exasperated.
'Er, in a nutshell, yes,' replied the Editor. 'But can we call it the 'newspaper' instead, just to avoid any ambiguity?'
'As you wish,' replied Pangloss.
'Look, I'll still do you the odd favour,' said the Editor. 'I'll carry on printing your picture with a big grin next to all the positive stories, and Ahmad Hatter's glum face next to all the negative ones, you know, like the parking meters, closing the seafront, selling off the bay to developers, all that sort of thing. How's that?'
'Big bloody deal, said Pangloss sarcastically. Thanks very bloody much. It's hardly the same as feeling the full force of your or.., newspaper, behind me, though, is it?'
'Best I can do in the circumstances, I'm afraid. The honeymoon period's well and truly over now. Oh, there's something else I should warn you about as well,' said the Editor. 'We're doing a follow up article after the locals started referring to your high rise vision of Westphalia-on-Sea as a Pie In the Sky Story. The thing is, we're a bit stuck for headline space, so we're going to have to abbreviate slightly. We'll probably call it 'Taking The PISS To New Heights.'

Chapter 41 In which we meet the Traveling Wilburys

2008-01-15T19:30:00.000Z

At five to noon GMT Nelson Wilbury went into his office (recently described by estate agents as 'benefiting from spectacular views of the Cote de Westphalia') and prepared to hook up to a conference call over the internet. At the same time Charlie T. Wilbury jr, coffee in hand and still yawning, was hooking up to the very same call in the Canadian province of New Brunswick. Some two hundred miles up the coast from Nelson, Otis Wilbury was also clicking his mouse in readiness. In the foothills of the French Alps Lucky Wilbury turned down the sound of Manu Chao on his computer the better to hear his friends, and in an office in the town hall in Westphalia-on-Sea, Lefty Wilbury locked his door so he could take part in this virtual meeting.
'Good afternoon everyone, said Nelson,' watching the hands on his watch nudge past the twelve.
'Morning all,' replied Charlie.
Otis, Lucky and Lefty all signalled their presence, by grunting.
'OK,' said Nelson, 'good to see and hear you at this meeting of the Piddlebackside production team. Now, you'll have seen on the webpages of the Westphalia Express that there is a lot of material floating about at the moment, probably enough to keep us going for about three weeks, so I want to brainstorm a few ideas first; just jump in with your ideas.'
'I liked the U-turn on blind people having to pay for their library books - maybe a 'robbing the blind' type headline?' suggested Otis.
'Yeah, like it,' said Nelson.
I'm very keen on the 'build something like the Sydney Opera House at the harbour' quote - I think that's got a lot of mileage in it,' said Lucky.
'I agree,' said Nelson. 'I think that's good enough to build a blog chapter around. What about you Lefty - you've always got you ear to ground down at HQ. Anything we should know about that hasn't reached the paper yet? Got any more precise consultancy costs for us?'
'No, nothing at the moment,' said Lefty. I've got to be very careful just now, anyway. I sense a few of the brighter ones have realised there's a small leak here, but they want to be fairly sure they know who it is before they go public.'
'Right, well, you know the drill: radio silence unless you're absolutely sure there's no risk.'
'No worries, replied Lefty.
'Right, said Nelson. Did you all see the lengthy comment the other night which made a number of points?'
'No, I missed that,' said Lucky.
'Well, he basically did one of those 'writing in the style of the blog' pieces.'
'Oh, Christ, we've had a few of those since we started. All very flattering, but the one thing they all seem to have in common is their inherent lameness. What did it say?'
'He implied that we were disappointed because our hit rate tailed off after the Xmas break.'
'Hmm, we're still steady, with well over 14,000 hits; not bad for a little spare time project., I'd say. Anything else?'
'Yeah, he reckons that as satirists we should be a little more even-handed. Thinks we're just ranting like some bloke in the pub, and we're turning off some of the good folk of Westphalia-on-Sea. Wants us to have a go at a few other people.'
'What? Doesn't he get it? We're not doing this just to bloody entertain people. We want this wasting money on consultants to end. We're just identifying the bad guys and highlighting how ridiculous they are; saying what most Westphalians think.'
'Of course he gets it,' interjected Lefty. 'Whoever he is is worried. If you look at the content of it he mentions Pangloss, Localbloke and that insufferable bore from New Labour, but not Charlie Windsor. I think if it isn't Windsor himself then it's someone close to him. He mentions 'the mayor getting on his tits', and that's certainly a sentiment shared by Windsor. If you look at his blog, he actually says he's worried about 'voters seeking revenge at election time', over Pangloss's parking meter fiasco.'
'Ha! We forecast this happening back in chapter 26 when Martin Leyland told Windsor that Pangloss was a lame duck mayor. Is this a case of life imitating art?' asked Otis.
'Well, let's not get carried away,' advised Nelson. 'It was pretty obvious to anyone with half a brain what would happen.'
'So how should we reply to this piece of advice from a reader concerned about a fall in our popularity?'
'I think we just do nothing, but use it in a script, said Lucky.
'Yes,' agreed Charlie T. Wilbury, 'and sooner rather than later.'
'Sounds good,' said Lefty. 'Hey look I think I hear someone coming - I'm going to have to go.'
'OK everyone, said Nelson, the jaunty tone all but gone from his voice. 'Let's all get off-line. If they were to investigate Lefty's computer they'd soon get what they're after off the hard drive and it would be game over. Email me with stories in the usual way.'

Chapter 40 In which Pangloss has a dream

2008-01-14T21:08:00.000Z

As Pangloss drifted off the events of the last few months came tumbling back into his subconscious and he was engulfed by one of the most bizarre dreams of his life. First the nasty Piddlebackside blogger appeared on a bicycle and snatched Chairman Miaow. Pangloss raced after him. The next thing he knew he had woken up in a place that was a really vibrant and colourful version of the old drab Cote de Westphalia, except that it had a different name. The Piddlebackside blogger was dead, but there was another one ready to take his place. Pangloss didn't like this place at all; he just wanted to get back to the old familiar Cote de Westphalia. When he looked down he saw he was wearing a pair of magic ruby slippers, and all the little people were dancing around saying he was the mayor. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a payslip - it said more than £4,000 a month on it - surely he was dreaming?
Then someone appeared and told him about a magical place that he should go to; it was a garden city, but near the sea. It was a very green city - almost emerald. All he had to do was follow the magic tree-lined by-pass. Pangloss set off alone, but he was quickly joined by three other characters. They were strangers but something about them reminded him of Charlie Windsor, Ahmad Hatter and the editor of the Westphalia Express. They were all hoping to get something from this magical mythical place: Charlie Windsor wanted a seat at Westminster and a fat salary, Ahmad Hatter wanted some brains, and the editor wanted some courage to print something with a little objectivity. When they finally reached the magic city it looked fabulous, but on closer inspection it was just an illusion, created with smoke and mirrors. The man in charge was still pretending it was all real, and he bore a strong resemblance to Derek Poundsign. Pangloss began sweating - he had put all his eggs in this basket, and now he looked behind the curtain and saw it for what it was. Oh, he just wanted to go home. Then he saw a big balloon - maybe that was the answer to all his problems. It seemd unlikely but he was willing to try anything, otherwise what was he going to tell the little people who said he was their mayor? He became agitated, and started moaning, tossing his head from side to side and mumbling 'there's no place like home, there's no place like home ...'
'Dr Pangloss, Dr Pangloss, wake up.' It was the voice of his secretary. 'There are some people here to see you.'
Pangloss opened his eyes and looked up into the faces of Charlie Windsor, Ahmad Hatter and the editor of the Westphalia Express.
'My, am I glad to see you. I just had the most bizarre and scary dream - it was awful. All these silly little people told me I was their mayor, and of course I didn't know what I was doing and made a complete hash of everything and all I wanted to do was get home and be an estate agent again and do amateur dramatics but I couldn't get home, but now I realise that it was all just a horrible dream.'
'Well you have been dreaming Dr Pangloss, but I'm afraid you still are the mayor, and you still believe in that fictitious Emerald Garden City by the Sea.'
'Wait, how do you know about the Emerald City? I didn't mention that bit of the dream.'
'It's all here,' smiled the editor, pointing to the front page of the newspaper. And it's been in every issue, and will continue to be until everybody comes to their senses.'
'Hang on, now I'm confused. So the mayor bit is true, but the garden city thing is a fiction?'
'That's right,' they all chorused.
'Shit,' said Pangloss. 'Shit and bugger. What about you Ahmad - did you get your brains?'
Ahmad Hatter shook his head.
'And you Charlie - your seat, and the salary?'
''Fraid not, old man.'
'Editor - your courage?'
'Not yet.'
'Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Wait a minute, what about my payslip with £4,000 on it -is that real?'
'Oh yes, that's real all right,' they said.
'Oh well,' said Pangloss. 'It's not all bad news then.'

Chapter 39 In which the Westphalians do not respond favourably to the vision

2008-01-14T19:10:00.000Z

Following his consultants' warning that the public might realise that his 'blueprint' was just bollocks, Dr Pangloss's hands were trembling slightly as he picked up the Westphalia Express to look for the first reactions of the Westphalians to the news that they would soon all be living in a dynamic new city environment. On page 3 there was an article about his vision, but worryingly it was accompanied by a picture of Derek Poundsign. What was his face doing in the Westphalia Express? Pangloss sensed this was not a good sign. In the middle of the article it said 'WHAT YOU THINK: See Page 10'. Pangloss quickly flicked through to page 10, but was not happy with what he found there. It was a full page article with a photo of the town centre of Westphalia-on-Sea which had some hastily drawn things on it, and all the traffic had been airbrushed out. This was definitely the work of Complete Commercial Upgrades & New Town Solutions, but what worried Pangloss more was the headline: WHAT YOU THINK Mayor vision is 'pie in the sky'. As he read the article he felt his blood pressure begin to rise. The paper had been out asking locals in the town centre what they thought of Pangloss's ideas, and every one of the ungrateful morons had had something negative to say. Pangloss threw the paper down and began punching the keypad of his phone; he was going to have it out with the editor.
'What are you playing at, printing this pie in the sky article?' thundered Pangloss as soon as the editor came on the line. 'You're supposed to be supporting me.'
'Well, I just thought it would be good to get some reaction from Joe Public.'
'Well, it could have been more balanced. Why didn't you print any of the positive things that people said?'
'There weren't any.'
'There must have been some.'
'Look, if there were, we'd have printed them, wouldn't we? The journalist and photographer were there over an hour and spoke to loads of people, but the most often repeated reaction was 'pie in the sky'. The second other phrase we kept hearing was 'pigs might fly', but we didn't want to print that in case it upset anyone. After that row over the teddy bear called Mohammed we thought it best to avoid it.'
Well, that's not the only thing I'm unhappy about. Not only is there no picture of me on the front page, but there's no picture of me on page three either. Instead you've got one of Derek Poundsign. What's that all about?'
'Well, the cat's out of the bag now, isn't it? Everybody know's it's not your vision, and that it's just some old cobblers dreamed up during someone's coffee break in Exhole, so we went directly to them for some comments. You've got to hand it to those guys - they do know how to fill up a few columns in a newspaper with meaningless drivel.'
'That's as may be, but I want to see a change in Monday's edition. I want to see my picture on the front page, possibly on an inside page as well, and I certainly don't want to see Derek Poundsign staring out of the bloody paper at me. Is that understood?'
'But look, I can't guarantee ...,' started the editor.
'But me no buts man! And while we're on the subject, let's have some supportive comments on the readers' letters page.'
'Well, look, I can avoid printing a lot of the critical ones, but I can't print positive ones if I don't receive any, can I?'
'You must have some positive ones, surely?'
'No, I print them as soon as I get them. The only vaguely positive one I have kicking about is an email from a bloke in America who calls you a dreamer -but in a good way.'
'Well print that for now, but this is a problem that needs addressing. Somebody is going to have to start writing some letters supporting me soon. I can't rely on a bloke in America and those nutty ex-Lib-Dems to keep bailing me out.'
Pangloss put the phone down without saying goodbye. He was beginning to rue the day he telephoned those bloody consultants. He sat back in his chair and looked at the rain lashing against the window. It looked like the gale force winds that had been forecast had arrived right on cue. He felt physically drained from the phone call, and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After a few moments he was drifting off, in spite of the loud noise of the wind whistling outside his window.

Chapter 38 In which the consultants begin to turn up the heat

2008-01-12T11:12:00.000Z

Down at the Town Hall Dr Pangloss was feeling rather light-headed after having had two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach at the launch of his new blueprint for Westphalia-on-Sea. Now back in his office with the team from complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions he was feeling more upbeat than he had for a long time.
'You know, he said, 'I don't want to tell you your job or anything, but I think you should change your name - it's a bit of a mouthful.'
'Just you leave the name changing and rebranding to us, the experts, replied Derek Poundsign. 'Name changing is a very skilled job, especially when you sometimes have to quickly change a name back and hope that nobody notices. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with our name - those five words sum us up perfectly.'
'Oh, OK. Well it was only a suggestion. Anyway, how did you think the launch went?'
'Who for - you or us?' asked Derek.
'Well, me, of course.'
'Difficult to say, at this stage. Of course we've had the favourable report in the Westphalia Express, but that no indication of how people feel. No, we have to wait to judge the reaction. These high profile launches and reports are all very well, but they can be a bit of a high risk strategy.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, if you publicise something and make it available on the internet you risk someone actually reading it.'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Well, they'll quickly realise it's all bollocks, of course.'
'Oh, blimey, I hadn't thought of that. Well, if it's high risk for me, how do you, the consultants, come out of it?'
'Oh, we came out of it very well,' said Derek, grinning from ear to ear. 'I think the technical term for our position is 'win-win'. We've managed to move things along in everyone's mind from a 'vision' to a blueprint' without anything actually happening. This is being presented as the next stage of a big plan. It creates the impression that things are actually changing, when they aren't. We've come up with another long-winded document that makes 'suggestions' and says what 'could' happen. It's vague, and makes no definite promises, and even if we did make promises it would be up to you to deliver them, not us. Then of course, there's your relationship with us - now you're so far down the line with these daft ideas you can't stop using our services. You'll notice we've started to mention 'specialist project delivery teams' and 'setting up an urban regeneration company' - there are going to be plenty of new initiatives which we will have to oversee.'
'Well, you're suddenly being very candid, Mr Poundsign. It appears you have me over a barrel, and think you can carry on squeezing taxpayers' money out of me until the coffers run dry. What makes you so sure I won't dispense with your services?'
'Mainly the fact that you are utterly clueless and incapable of coming up with any ideas of your own.'
Dr Pangloss suddenly felt a griping pain in his stomach, excused himself and headed for the toilet near his office. When he emerged Toby Throgmorton was waiting outside.
'I'd give it ten minutes or so if I were you,' said Dr Pangloss, his cheeks reddening slightly, as he headed back to his office.
(to be continued)

Chapter 37 In which the logician puts the record straight

2008-01-10T17:09:00.000Z

In the run up to Christmas Loretta Martin had struck up something of a friendship with the logician, and had popped in for tea and a chat on several occasions after work; the shop never seemed to have any customers, and he always seemed pleased to see her.
'Hi,' she said. 'I just wondered what you thought of all this fuss about what Brian Localbloke said about immigration, and people accusing him of being racist.'
'Oh, don't get me started,' sighed the logician. 'I've never read such a lot drivel in all my life. Trying to make out that talking about immigrants and their effect on the local economy is in any way connected to racism is utterly mad, and anyone who suggests it should be in a padded cell. Funnily enough most of this stuff seems to be coming from ex-Lib-Dems who are now evangelical born-again Tories. But then why would we expect these people to apply logic to any discussion? Reality is clearly a place to which these people seldom venture, and anyone who expresses any kind of doubt in the rosy future mapped out by Dr Pangloss is automatically denounced as some kind of dangerous subversive. Take tonight's edition of the Westphalia Express for example: in the editorial critics of Dr Pangloss's plans are described as 'snipers'. And guess what? On the front page the firm of consultants that we are paying an arm and a leg for have been upgraded to 'experts'. You couldn't make it up. The Westphalia Express has cosied up to the mayor in a big way.'
'Have you thought of writing to the paper to put the case for the other side?' asked Loretta.
'Waste of time. You couldn't write what you wanted to - they'd edit the letters. It would be like Galileo trying to get his ideas published in his local parish news. It just isn't going to happen. No, the only way to get your opinion across without censorship is on the internet.'

Chapter 36 In which Pangloss makes some New Year's resolutions

2008-01-06T17:30:00.000Z

As Dr Pangloss pulled the curtains and looked out at the New Year a good idea occurred to him. Going into the kitchen he opened the back door and let Chairman Miaow in, greeting him with a hearty 'Happy New Year!'. Yes, it was time to bring a little order to the chaos, and what better way on January 1st than with a few New Year's resolutions. He grabbed a pen and his notepad and started writing: 1 Discover identity of blogger and stop him. 2 Find out how much money is being spent on consultants and act to reduce it. 3 Only write about positive things in my newspaper column. 4 Improve my popularity. 5 Listen to the people of Westphalia. Pangloss put the pen down and re-read the list in front of him. Number one, he thought, might be tricky. All the leads he had had so far had proved inconclusive. There were suspicions that it was someone at the Westphalia Express, and then it was suggested that it may even be someone in the Town Hall - someone close to Pangloss. Either way, it was a niggling thorn in Pangloss's side, and he felt sure that life would be slightly easier if he didn't have to constantly worry about having his every thought and deed scrutinized. Number two: well, things did seem to be spiralling out of control - there seemed to be different consultants for just about every aspect of council business, and he had quite lost the plot concerning who was advising on what, and how much it was all costing. Of course, the money wasn't coming out of his pocket, but he still felt a little uneasy every time he saw another five- or six-figure sum being siphoned out of the kitty. Number three: yes, he could do that: he would talk about picking up litter on Xmas morning, pantomimes and Westphalia United winning football matches. Number four. Hmm, that was going to be a bit more difficult. He decided to rethink a strategy to tackle that one later. Number five. Hmm, he wasn't so sure about this one. He knew it was a good thing in theory, but the problem was that whenever he suggested doing something everybody disagreed with him. Then Dr Pangloss remembered that local couple with the funny voices who he had mistaken for consultants - they seemed like reasonable people. If only he could track them down and get some ideas from them. Even though he knew he was safe in his job until 2011 he didn't fancy being an unpopular laughing stock until then if he could help it. Why not enlist the help of some locals, put their ideas into practice and dispense with all the grand plans and visions? - it would be a lot cheaper. It sounded like a Utopian dream, but it had to be worth a try -even the dimwits in Westphalia-on-Sea would eventually get fed up hearing him go on about pantomimes and amateur dramatics for the next three and a half years.
For the first time in weeks Dr Pangloss felt quite optimistic.
'Do you know, Chairman Miaow,' he said, 'I am really going to sort this town or city out. I'm going to mention the pantomime in Eastphalia one last time, then I'll really knuckle down and tackle the important stuff.'
And with that he added a sixth resolution to his list - 6 No more talk about pantomimes.

Chapter 35 In which Pangloss prepares a message of inspiration and hope for the Westphalians

2007-12-31T10:27:00.000Z

Dr Pangloss idly sucked the end of his pencil and stared out of the window, searching for inspiration. He was trying to write his next 'Best of All Possible Worlds' column for the Westphalia Express, and he wanted this one to carry a little extra punch, seeing as it would be his first column of 2008, but the words just didn't seem to come. Well, it wasn't that the words wouldn't come exactly, it was just that when they did they didn't seem to be related by any obvious logic.

First there was the ongoing story about the town centre. One day he said the town was going to rack and ruin, filled with discount stores, then he said it would all be fantastic because it would soon be a thriving city. Then he said the discount stores were a good thing, because he imagined if you were a nasty local chav family with loads of screaming snotty-nosed kids you would have to get everything from Poundland anyway, and how did anyone expect the town centre to improve if the local economy was a mess? And then there were the buses. They were good because they were full of shoppers, but they were bad because they nearly ran people over on a daily basis. Of course the people who nearly got run over were usually chavs, children, hen parties or pensioners, and none of these were in the high-spending bracket that Pangloss wanted in his new city, so maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing if there was a bit of 'natural wastage'.
It wasn't Pangloss's fault that the road actually looked like a pedestrianised area, or that the fat chavs were too busy staring at shop windows full of pies and pasties to notice a bloody great bus heading towards them. Anyway, he wasn't going to waste good money just to make the road look like a road and the pavement look like a pavement when just around the corner most of the seafront was almost derelict.

On reflection Pangloss thought it best not to mention the town centre for a while. Or the seafront. No, people wanted to read about upbeat things, like rubbing shoulders with celebrities once Pierre de Saveloy had built his mini-resort, and climate change had transformed the pebbly cove into a long stretch of white Caribbean sand just like the consultants said it would. Well, maybe not rubbing shoulders exactly, but perhaps catching a glimpse through the telescope at the top of the cliff. He made a note to include that in his column.

Now what about the parking meters? They hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms by the usual miserable letter-writers and phone-in callers. Pangloss thought it a bit rich - they would be a marvellous symbol of progress, after all. When Brunel came to the south-west with his hare-brained railway schemes people started putting up statues in his likeness and naming roads after him. Now when Dr Pangloss suggested a modern metal monument around the bay's roads to bring in some much-needed revenue no-one seemed very enthusiastic. Still, he wouldn't be put off by the fact that pretty much every Westphalian was against the idea - he had been elected by about 7% of the people, and if the other 93% didn't like the parking meter idea it was tough luck - that was democracy. Pangloss wrote 'Parking meters?' because he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to mention them. Maybe he would point out it was one of those difficult decisions that brave leaders had to take once in a while, a bit like Churchill planning D-Day, or Bomber Harris sending the RAF boys off to Dresden.

Pangloss looked down at the page in front of him, which was still mostly blank. His heart just didn't seem to be in it anymore. He had spun so many stories from so many angles he hardly knew what to believe himself anymore. He was beginning to wonder if spending £740,000 on consultants in the last twelve months had been wise. And what if he spent that kind of money in the next twelve months? Would he still be popular with the Westphalians? Would they start shouting 'STOP WASTING OUR MONEY ON CONSULTANTS'? Oh no, he thought, I mustn't think like that, self-doubt is my enemy, I must maintain a positive mental attitude. After all, whatever happens, I'm safe here in my bunker with my fat mayoral salary, and if I need to pop down to Oxfam for a second-hand book I can do it in the mayoral limo, and I won't even have to pay to park. This thought put a smile on his face. He screwed the almost blank sheet of paper into a ball and threw if for his cat to play with. As Chairman Miaow chased the paper ball between the legs of the table Pangloss said to himself: 'Sod it. That column can wait -let's have drink; it is New Year's Eve after all, and whatever happens in 2008 I'm sure I will still be laughing at the end of it.'

Dear Readers ...

2007-12-09T14:21:00.000Z

as Westphalia-on-Sea's economy slowly spirals down the toilet it has become necessary for some of the blog's editorial team to fake their own deaths so that insurance claims can be made, etc. For this reason it has been deemed wise to cease all blog activities until some time after Christmas.

We sincerely hope that this will not spoil your enjoyment of the festive period.

Chapter 34 In which we are given a glimpse of the future

2007-12-05T22:15:00.000Z

It was a bright warm day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Pierre de Saveloy, his hand held up to his forehead in an effort to shield his face from the fierce heat of the sun's rays, slipped quickly through the smoked glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a Polish chambermaid entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of coconut oil and beach mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for an indoor display had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-seven, with gold-rimmed spectacles and ruggedly handsome features.
Mr de Saveloy entered the glass lift, which silently and effortlessly transported him towards his penthouse office suite. On each landing opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. DR PANGLOSS MADE ALL THIS POSSIBLE, the caption beneath it ran.
Looking out of the smoked glass window he spent a few idle minutes watching the activity on the number of luxury yachts which were moored in the bay. On the largest boat he could just make out Mr Abramovich, who still looked good for his fifty-nine years. On a slightly smaller vessel the elderly Richard Branson appeared to be tucking into a hearty breakfast. He wasn't sure who owned the third boat, but the three semi-naked women on board were already attracting the attention of the paparazzi, who were pointing telephoto lenses at them from their vantage point high on the cliffs above. It was a laborious job hanging around in the bushes all day, but the money they could get from the tabloids for one good snap of a celebrity would be enough to pay for a couple of days' parking on the meters which ran along the clifftop, so it was well worth the inconvenience. Just then Victoria Beckham came into view on the sun terrace. Pierre de Saveloy opened the French window onto the terrace and went outside to greet her.
'Good morning,' he shouted. 'All ready for the big event?'
'We're getting there,' replied Victoria. 'Everything will be ready for the second of May. This will be the biggest fiftieth birthday party ever - David is really looking forward to it.'
'Well, I'm just glad that you chose to celebrate it here,' replied de Saveloy.
'Oh, we wouldn't go anywhere else. To tell you the truth, Dubai and the Maldives have had their day, and of course all the chic Mediterranean resorts are just too hot now.'
'Yes, well, we were lucky enough to have consultants tell us that eighteen years ago. Of course, the usual naysayers said they were talking out of their arse and just padding out a lame presentation with a lot of scientific claptrap, but those High Priests and Priestesses of Negativity have all been proved wrong.'
'Oh, don't you just hate negative people?' said Victoria. 'I had exactly the same experience with people saying I was utterly talentless and couldn't sing, but I showed them.'
With that a siren began wailing.
'What's that?' asked Victoria.
'Oh, probably some pleb has got lost and wandered up to the entrance,' said de Saveloy. 'Nothing to worry about.'
'Oh, right. Well, I'd better be going, because we're off down to that new casino again today. It's absolutely fantastic - have you been?'
'Of course I have; it's the jewel in the crown, what wealthy people come to Westphalia-on-Sea for.'

Down at the heavily guarded entrance a man had indeed tried to gain access to the complex.
'What do you want?' asked one of the security guards in a gruff voice.
'I just wanted to come in and have a drink and have a look round. I heard this was the place where that murder happened; you know, the man they couldn't hang.'
'How did you get here?'
'I walked down the path.'
'Hmm, I'm not sure that's allowed. We're really only open to people who arrive in yachts or very expensive cars. I'll have to radio through for clearance.'
After a short conversation on his walkie-talkie the security guard waved the man through, with the words 'OK one drink, and my colleague will escort you to make sure you keep to the designated areas.'
As they walked into the complex the man said 'My grandmother told me the story. Apparently this place used to be really picturesque, with trees and stuff.'
'Yeah, well that's was then and this is now,' said the guard. 'If people had wanted picturesque or quaint they would have said so a long time ago when all this was at the planning stage. Anyway, trees are just a bloody nuisance. Look at it now - concrete, tarmac, and everything nice and new. And look at the people - no riff-raff, as it should be. You want to stop thinking about how things were in the past and start living in the present; and the future.'
The man went up to the bar and ordered a coffee and a muffin. The barman placed it in front of him, and in heavily accented English said: 'Zat vill be nineteen eighty-four. No vait, I make mistake - tventy tventy-five.'

Chapter 33 In which Pangloss accidentally speaks to some locals

2007-11-28T21:55:00.000Z

Down at theTown Hall in Westphalia-on-Sea Dr Pangloss was in buoyant mood as he was expecting representatives from yet another firm of consultants.
'They're on their way up,' he said to his trusty deputy, Ahmad Hatter. 'Open the door and show them in.'
Hatter opened the door and ushered in the man and woman who were approaching.
'Sit down, sit down,' urged Pangloss. 'I'm in a bit of a hurry, so let's make this quick. I've got to go and look at Christmas fairy lights on people's houses in a minute. Now, what do you think we should do to regenerate the town centre?'
'Er, drastically lower the business rates to kick start things, and put in some public toilets at the Hold-on Centre?' said the man on the left.
'Brilliant! You people really have got your finger on the pulse, haven't you? Now what do you think of my plans for a new business park out at Edgycombe Lane?'
This time the woman on the right spoke: 'Not much - I think it will just be another sprawl eating into the green belt which will take more business away from the already deserted town centre.'
'Blimey, I hadn't thought of it like that - maybe we'll have a rethink on that one. You guys are razor sharp today. I'd better write this down. OK, one last question - how do we start bringing in more tourists?'
'Start with some market research,' they said, almost in harmony.
'Hmm, market research, said Pangloss. I've heard of that. Just remind me, what is it exactly?'
'You know, asking people who holiday in the UK what they look for in a destination, that sort of thing. So you can make some sensible decisions instead of just saying the first daft thing that comes into your head.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said Pangloss. 'It's all coming back to me now.' On the notepad in front of him he wrote in capitals 'DON'T SAY THE FIRST DAFT THING THAT COMES INTO YOUR HEAD'. 'Well, I suppose you people want paying. Well, I know you've only been here five minutes but that advice has been priceless. Hatter! Get the chequebook. Now what was it, fifty grand?'
'Fifty grand? said the man on the left. 'What for?'
'Your consultancy fee, of course.'
'We're not consultants,' said the man.
'Well who the bloody hell are you then?'
'Well, nobody really. We just came in to pay our council tax. We're just two ordinary locals. I'm Jack Muttock, and this is Irene Dalloway.'
'Local, eh? I wondered why you were speaking in that strange way,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, sir, local sir, not loike you.'
'Oh, I'm a local as well,' said Pangloss.
'Really? Well, you don't talk loike us, do 'ee?'
'No, I went away to school - to avoid people like you, and your strange vowels. Anyway, I'd love you to stay and chat, but you're obviously in the wrong place. Hang on though; if you're not consultants, where did you get all those brilliant ideas from?'
'Well, it's just common sense really. And you can read it in the paper on the letters page a lot of the time - there's plen'y o' folk with good ideas out there. Well, it's not rocket science, is it?'
'Isn't it? said Pangloss. 'OK, well, you can see yourself out, can't you?'

Pangloss suddenly wondered if he could save some money on consultancy fees if there were locals who could come up with ideas for free. Just as this thought was working its way through the grey matter in his head two smartly dressed men came through the door.
'Dr Pangloss, said the first one, taking his hand and shaking it vigorously, I'm Robert Hawayun and this is my colleague, Cedric Shight.'
'So you're HS consultants, based in Newcastle - Hawayun Shight?'
'At your service.'
'Do you know what, gents,' began Pangloss, thinking on his feet. 'There's been a bit of a mix up, and I don't think I need any more consultants just at the minute.'
'Oh, lots of folk say that, said Cedric, especially after they've just received our first invoice. But they are invariably wrong. Everybody needs consultants. You just might not be fully aware of the fact at the moment. For example, you're in a right old two and eight with your brand aren't you? You don't know if you're in the Cote de Westphalia, or English Phalia or just plain old Phalia, do you?'
'Well, I suppose we're in a bit of a mess with that at the moment' stammered Pangloss, but I'm sure we can sort that out for ourselves.'
'Sort it out yourselves? This is a brand we're talking about, not just a name, you know. And that brand is going to need developing and managing. I can assure you that it's much too big a job to tackle without consultants.'
'Oh, come on, you're not serious are you?'
'Not serious? I've never been more serious in my life. Don't underestimate the power of a brand. And don't underestimate what a consultant can do for you. You're not just paying for ideas - you're paying professionals who can dress up everyday ideas in consultant speak. It's a priceless commodity in your line of work, and it doesn't come cheap. You'd better ringfence a quarter of million for the next couple of years - this is not an overnight job - there's no quick fix to your brand problem.'
'A quarter of a million?! asked Pangloss in a rather high-pitched voice.
'Absolutely, interjected mr Hawayun. But don't worry, you'll get your money's worth. Rest assured that our team of highly trained research staff will quantify the proposition and interrogate the brief until it confesses it's strengths. This brand should fight with it's trousers down but at the same time put a reassuring arm around the consumer and lead him into the house for a nice cup of tea and a chocolate hobnob.
'Well, if you put it like that ... said Pangloss, I suppose I could find a quarter of a mil from somewhere.'
'Oh we do put it like that, Dr Pangloss, we do put it like that,' said Mr Hawayun. That's precisely why we can command fees that some people might consider, ... er, slightly above the average.'
'I see,' said Dr Pangloss. Glancing out of the window he saw Mr Muttock and Mrs Dalloway walking down the road. 'Exorbitant might be a better word.'
'Slightly above the average or exorbitant,' said Mr Hawayun. Let's not argue over the semantics when you're going to be getting so much added value.'

Chapter 32 In which Charlie Windsor has a moment of self-doubt

2007-11-27T19:40:00.000Z

While Loretta Martin was enjoying tea and a chat with the logician, Charlie Windsor had arrived home and was just turning his computer on. He sat down with a sigh as the screen flicked into life. The last few days had shaken him, and now he was considering his strategy he was beginning to wonder if it was all really worth it. He thought about his position. Here he was trying to raise his profile, writing bloody letters about the EU to the paper and then waiting a couple of days to see them in print. And then he had to pick another topic and start again with another letter. Since Pangloss had been elected as mayor Charlie had practically been eclipsed. Yes, bloody Pangloss, who Charlie himself had helped reserve a seat in first class on the gravy train. Good God, how had this come about? He had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea in 2002 and spent every waking moment trying to get his face in the paper and to ingratiate himself with the locals, and now Pangloss was upstaging him at every turn. An estate agent after all, and to add insult to injury, all he had to do was fart, and he'd get a three-page spread in the Westphalia Express. There he was, safe in his job until 2011, while Charlie would have to face the electorate in 2010 or before. And what if he failed to get himself elected then? Would the party allow him a third attempt? He could just imagine the party's response: 'Damn good job you've done old boy, but maybe it's time to give a local man a chance.'
And who would that local man be? Why, none other than Dr Pangloss himself, he shouldn't wonder.
Charlie tried to put these depressing thoughts out of his mind and logged in to his blog. He checked how many people had voted in his 'days in prison without being charged' poll. The screen told him it was twenty-nine. It had been running for about two weeks.

'Twenty-fucking-nine!' said Charlie despondently under his breath.
'What's that darling?' came his wife's voice from the kitchen.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Charlie. He clicked onto the Piddlebackside blog - it was becoming something of an obsession. The bloggers had started another poll, and they had already had sixty-nine votes. Sixty-nine in two days, thought Charlie, and there'll be a few more this evening, no doubt. He began to consider whether in this case there was such a thing as bad publicity, contrary to the old advertisers' mantra. Was it better that he was often a key character on the Piddlebackside blog, or would it have been better to remain in the relative obscurity of his own little blog? Did he want to be known as the loyal supporter of Dr Pangloss, or would he prefer to just tap out postings for twenty-nine people to leisurely read over two weeks? Hmm, it was becoming rather philosophical, and he felt that he needed a drink. Scrolling down and reading the Piddlebackside blog, he noticed his character, Philip Eton, was just mixing himself a Gin Fizz; gin, lemon juice and a little sugar shaken over ice and topped up with soda water. Haven't had one of those in ages, thought Charlie. Maybe I'll have the same - no, wait a minute. This was ridiculous. He was actually being influenced by the blog. Wait, no he wasn't. He was just being paranoid. This was a pure coincidence; it had to be. Everyone's ready for a drink when they get home from work.

Charlie stared blankly at the computer screen, waiting for inspiration to strike and provide a topic to write about. Moan about Brian Localbloke? Hmm, probably have to lay off that for a while - negative campaigning and all that. 'Education?' he mumbled to himself. No, best stay away from that - he couldn't really remember if the Tories were currently in favour of grammar schools or against them after the last Cameron debacle. The war in Iraq? No, steer clear, they had definitely supported that fiasco. Oh well, he thought, as he began tapping lightly on the keys, might as well do the predictable thing and focus attention on dodgy donations to the Labour Party. At least the Tories were looking slightly less sleazy than Labour now. It wasn't much of a story, thought Charlie, but if only twenty-nine people are going to read it I suppose it doesn't really matter. Just then his wife appeared.
'What's up?' she said. 'You look all done in.'
'Oh, you know, just wondering if it's all worth it, that's all,' replied Charlie without turning round.
'Well maybe this'll cheer you up,' she said. She placed a tall glass next to his mouse pad and then began gently rubbing his shoulders.
'What's that?' he asked, nodding at the glass, still typing.
'Gin fizz,' she said, still rubbing. 'My, you do feel tense.'

Chapter 31 In which the logician explains why a tactical vote for the Lib-Dems is essential

2007-11-24T12:15:00.000Z

'So are you saying that the Piddlebackside blog is not just a bit of fun? That there's a serious side to it?' asked Loretta, her hands cupped around a mug of tea.
'Absolutely. The key here is the internet - it has given ordinary people a voice, enables like-minded people to connect with each other, and allows people to challenge the opinions of the mainstream media. For example, look at the last census in 2001. Out of 129,706 Westphalians 800 put their religion down as 'Jedi' after emails were circulated encouraging people to do so. I know 'Jedi' hasn't been listed as an official religion, but it demonstrates the power of mass communication.'
'I see. So you're saying the bloggers are trying to influence the way people think and vote?'
'Of course. First of all, in the realm of local government it allows for a much more balanced view of Dr Pangloss's actions. It may be my imagination, but there seems to have been a certain reduction in the number of his big ideas which have been publicized since the bloggers started. And secondly, where the next general election is concerned, it could have a real impact on the outcome of a key marginal like Westphalia-on-Sea if people realise that the only way to make their vote count in a first-past-the-post system is to vote tactically. But perhaps more importantly, the internet has provided the first step towards more independent thought. Here read this, particularly the last two sentences.'
He twisted the computer screen so Loretta could see it, and she silently read:

'Private capital tends to become concentrated in few hands, partly because of competition among the capitalists, and partly because technological development and the increasing division of labour encourage the formation of larger units of production at the expense of the smaller ones. The result of these developments is an oligarchy of private capital the enormous power of which cannot be effectively checked even by a democratically organised political society. This is true since the members of legislative bodies are selected by political parties, largely financed or otherwise influenced by private capitalists who, for all practical purposes, separate the electorate from the legislature. The consequence is that the representatives of the people do not in fact sufficiently protect the interests of the underprivileged sections of the population. Moreover, under existing conditions, private capitalists inevitably control, directly or indirectly, the main sources of information (press, radio, education). It is thus extremely difficult, and indeed in most cases quite impossible, for the individual citizen to come to objective conclusions and to make intelligent use of his political rights.'

When she had finished reading she looked at him and said: 'Yes, when I think of the influence of Rupert Murdoch, the big supermarkets, international oil barons and Lord Ashcroft bankrolling the Tory Party it all seems very apposite. Did you write it?'

'No I didn't, I'm afraid. Einstein wrote it back in 1949, but as you say, it all rings pretty true today.'

'Even so, what point are you making? That the internet will enable us to take on big business and the media corporations?'

'Not exactly, but used intelligently it has the potential to bring about victory on a much smaller scale - keeping the Tories out of Westphalia-on-Sea at the next election, for example. And don't forget Lao Tzu's famous quote: 'A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step'. Do you think when Swampy climbed his first tree and became an eco-warrior he ever would have thought that ten years later the Tories would be rushing to redesign their logo and tell everyone how much they cared about the environment?'

'Yes, I've often wondered if anyone is actually taken in by all this drivel about 'green this' and 'eco-friendly that',' said Loretta.

'I doubt it. Anyway, after stealing the Tories' clothes and sticking with a 'right-wing' agenda it would appear that Gordon Brown and New Labour are now presiding over an economic meltdown of their own making. However, the idea that a slightly different right-wing agenda under the leadership of old Etonians and ex-members of the Bullingdon club would be a better option is simply the stuff of nightmares, so anything these bloggers can do to avert that particular disaster is all right by me - and of course, if we get to send Charlie Windsor packing in the process, so much the better.'

'Ooh, absolutely, cooed Loretta. I'll certainly spread the word that anything other than a Lib-Dem vote is a wasted vote. So how will the establishment, or the Tories, react to the blog?'

'Remember the Gandhi quote? they've already tried to ignore it, and ridicule it, so presumably they will try to fight it as well - and then we'll win.'

Chapter 30 In which Loretta Martin meets a Logician

2007-11-20T20:48:00.000Z

While Charlie Windsor was busy explaining the earth shattering importance of Tory visitors to the Cote de Westphalia to bemused locals Loretta Martin was walking home through the town. Jumping smartly to one side to avoid being run over by the number 12 bus, she stepped onto the escalator which took her to the upper floor where you were safe from traffic and shoppers. Gazing in the windows of the deserted shops, her eye was caught by the bright colours of a small shopfront which she had not noticed before. On the window the word 'LOGICIAN' was painted in purple. 'Have you fortune told, love?' came a voice from behind her. 'Er, no thanks,' said Loretta, as she turned around. I don't really believe in all that stuff.'
'Well if not your fortune, how about the answers to any other questions you may have?'
'But I can get the answers to any questions from Google for free, can't I?'
'Not always. Why not try me? Eugene Adamov at your service.'
Loretta thought for a moment then produced a scrap of paper from her handbag. 'OK, she said, tell me what this means: On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Ah, the Piddlebackside blogger? You'd better come in.'
'Well, what does it mean,' she said, following him into the rather cluttered shop.
'It means you can't kill an idea with gun shots, or put it in handcuffs. It's a quote from Louise Michel - she was with the Communards in Paris.'
'What, the eighties band?'
'No, the Communards were a group which rebelled against the rule of Napoleon III and briefly ruled Paris in April and May 1871. In a couple of months they implemented all kinds of popular reforms, such as the separation of Church and State, votes for women, and so on.'
'So why are we reading quotes like that from a time so far in the past that it has no relevance today?'
'That's a very common mistake to make - to assume the past has no connection to the present. People do it all the time, largely through ignorance. If you don't know much about the past it is tempting to completely disregard it, particularly where politics is concerned.'
'How do you mean?' asked Loretta.
'Well, for example, many people assume that society and our present political system have always been the same and will always remain the same. Of course a quick look at recent history shows that this is absolute nonsense - we are living in a constantly changing society, and it is a fact that most change for the better is only brought about through political struggle. For example, go back ten years and there was no minimum wage. Go back thirty years and throwing bananas at black footballers was deemed acceptable by many people. Go back ninety years and women were not allowed to vote. Go back ninety-five years and only 58% of men could vote. People are always resistant to change, particularly those people who stand to have their power and wealth eroded by change, so they do their level best to deride any new ideas which might benefit the majority. Gandhi said: "First they ignore you, then they ridicule you, then they fight you, then you win." Take my first example of the minimum wage - in 1997 the Tories were opposed to it, now the idea of abolishing it would be considered a terrible step backwards. Now think about so called long-haired left-wing hippy tree-huggers. They have been derided by the political mainstream since the 1960s, but suddenly politicians are falling over themselves in an effort to appear green, and with the continuing bloodshed in Iraq people are now saying 'what's so funny about peace love and understanding?' Still, I think it will be some time before we see a headline in the Daily Mail saying WE CONCEDE - LEFTY HIPPIES WERE RIGHT.'
'I see. So people that say things like 'I don't vote - politicians and parties are all the same' are a bit misguided?'
'Not so much misguided as downright stupid. People seem to believe that all parties have the same goals, and that changing the governing party will have no effect on society; clearly this is not true: just one event - the introduction of the minimum wage - has proved that. It's time for people to wake up to what politics is about. Anyone who fails to recognise that all the major advances in society over the last century have come about through political activism against the establishment, and in political terms 'the establishment' is the Tories, is quite mad. Shall I put the kettle on?'

Chapter 29 In which the Westphalians learn about the visits of Tory grandees

2007-11-20T13:45:00.000Z

Charlie Windsor felt reinvigorated after deciding to strike out and make an impression on the voters of the Cote de Westphalia, or whatever Pangloss and his consultants were calling it at the moment. After all, Charlie himself was a management consultant, so if anyone could come up with top-notch ideas to focus people's attention on why they should vote Conservative it was him.
First of all he told people how two high profile Tory shadow ministers had visited Westphalia-on-Sea. He told everyone about Michael Gove's visit. And the Westphalians were both honoured and very excited, and said: 'Who?' And Charlie said: 'You know, that bloke who used to work for Rupert Murdoch at The Times and describes himself as a neo-Conservative.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oh, we can't stand him.' Then Charlie told them about Andrew Mitchell's visit, and the Westphalians were equally excited and said: 'Oo?' And Charlie said 'You know, the charming and intelligent Andrew Mitchell.' And the Westphalians said: 'Oo? Us 'uv never bleddy 'eard uv 'im.'
And Charlie said: 'for goodness sake, he's the shadow Secretary of State for International Development and he came to look at the proposals for a new library in Eastphalia. He obviously cares pasionately about the people of Eastphalia.'
And the people said: 'Are you sure it's not because the Tories desperately want to win this seat at the next election and want to give you some publicity?'
And Charlie Windsor said: 'Of course not, politics isn't like that. They came because they care about you as much as I do. That's why I uprooted my family and came to live among you straw-chewing yokels - it was a selfless act of love. If, in the process of caring, I happen to become an MP and draw a fat salary, it will be pure (yet happy) coincidence.'
Naturally this reassured most of the simple folk of the Cote de Westphalia, but one or two had lingering doubts. 'What's wrong with the MP we've got? they asked. He grew up here and understands us, and even supports Westphalia United.'
And Charlie said: 'Oh, for goodness sake, how many times do I have to tell you people? He's Brian Uselessbloke, he never has any big ideas, he's not a Conservative and worst of all he didn't support having an elected mayor. I, on the other hand, have gone on record as saying that Dr Pangloss is the best thing to happen to Westphalia-on-Sea in a generation, and so do a large and growing number of the people who live here.'
'And the Westphalians said: 'You what? Best thing in a generation? We think you bin out in the sun too long, buey.'
And then Charlie began to wish he hadn't supported Pangloss quite so vociferously in the past, and hoped that over time people would forget some of the things he had said and written, and really wished he hadn't brought all this up again because it probably wouldn't help his cause.

PLEASE NOTE

2007-11-16T14:53:00.001Z

As the 17th November is a special feast day in Westphalia-on-Sea (the Day of San Pedro de Cocinero), commemorating its favourite son, there will be no more blog entries until Tuesday 20th November.

Chapter 28 In which Charlie realises that the problem with political jokes is that they get elected

2007-11-13T20:11:00.000Z

Charlie Windsor woke up sweating. It was only a nightmare, but it was one he had had before. In it he was on the stump, doing what he did best - negative campaigning. As he came to the end of his sentence his voice began to rise as he uttered his rhetorical question: 'what have the Lib Dems and Labour ever done for us?' Instead of the applause he was expecting, a voice shouted out 'old age pensions!', then another shouted 'the National Health Service!' Pretty soon there were contributions from all around his audience: 'Unemployment benefit!' 'the minimum wage!' 'Windfall tax on privatised utilities after the Tories sold them off too cheaply! 'Votes for men!' 'Votes for women!' It was starting to sound like a bloody film script, but thankfully he woke up before it got any more depressing.

Charlie recalled the words of Martin Leyland, about having to distance himself from the lame duck mayor. Worryingly, at the moment he was playing second fiddle to the mayor, yet having to openly support his every idea, his every political move. This wasn't how it was supposed to have turned out. As he lay in bed he remembered when he had arrived in Westphalia-on-Sea. He remembered how he had gradually raised his profile through a continual process of well-timed exposure in the media. He built himself up to be the voice of the Conservatives in the area, and now look at the situation. Dr Pangloss had come from the obscurity of estate agency to be at the top of the Tory heap, and Charlie Windsor, as his campaign manager, had helped put him there. Pangloss was in the paper every day, and now Charlie was having to work extra hard just to stand still in terms of self-publicity. The mayor had his own column in the paper, and so did Charlie's rival, Brian Localbloke. But what did Charlie himself have? A blog read by about twelve people, and the odd letter in the Westphalia Express, where he had to compete for space with people giving thanks to strangers for helping them after a fall in the local supermarket. And you couldn't just write letters out of thin air - they had to be linked to something. When there was nothing interesting locally to write about he couldn't just write 'Hey everybody, I'm still here you know, waiting for the election, don't forget about me.' No, at such times he was reduced to commenting on Gordon Brown's policy on the EU Treaty, or pointing out what a dead loss Gordon Brown was if you conveniently forgot that he had been Chancellor of the Exchequer for ten years and was now Prime Minister. The more Charlie considered his position the more disgruntled he became, especially when he remembered that in the good old days before elected mayors it was he, Charlie Windsor, who had been the undisputed ideas man when he rode into town...

... yes, it was the twenty-ninth of April 2003, but Charlie remembered it as if it was yesterday. Martin Aston was in the paper a lot, with his famous car number plate 8ULL 5H1T. Charlie had sat down with Martin and a few others and come up with some cracking ideas for the future. When the Westphalia Express saw fit to announce that some of the greatest minds on the Cote de Westphalia had been engaged in a little futuristic problem solving it referred to the participants as 'a think-tank group'. And it referred to his '20-20 vision' idea as a 'brainchild'. Yes, he, Charlie Windsor, had headed up a bloody think-tank and had given birth to a brainchild in the same afternoon. A tank full of thinkers and a diminutive cerubellum on legs. And now here he was, playing deputy to the mayor's sheriff. In fact he wasn't even that, because the mayor had a deputy. No, the Westphalia Express didn't come to him for a quote unless all the phones in the Town Hall were going straight to bloody voicemail. Yet back in 2003 it had all been so different. Back then he could suggest turning the clock back to the swinging sixties in Eastphalia to give it a retro look and feel. Yes, he said if you had lampposts and shopfronts from the 1960s visitors would flock into town - it would be shag-tastic, just like an Austin Powers movie. Yes, back then he could come up with an idea every bit as lame as any of Dr Pangloss's, and still get half a page in the Westphalia Express with a big photo as well. That journalist was right - he was going to have to start distancing himself from Pangloss, and start fighting - politics was a dirty business, he thought, but if you wanted an MP's salary you had to jolly well roll your sleeves up get stuck in. Feeling invigorated by this mental pep-talk he jumped out of bed, pulled his Union Jack dressing gown on and saluted the picture of Margaret Thatcher on the wall.

Chapter 27 In which we reflect on what has happened in one month in Westphalia-on-Sea

2007-11-09T23:59:00.000Z

At this point in the saga some of the people in Westphalia-on-Sea began to take stock of what had been happening in their little town. Just four weeks earlier the first five chapters of the fledgling Piddlebackside blog had been pushed out of the nest and left to fend for themselves on the internet. The political musings of person or persons unknown, at a time when people were becoming increasingly disillusioned with the political process, they were surely not going to interest anyone; Allen Salkin, writing in the New York Times, said 'many blogs have a readership of one, -or at best, the writer, his mother and some guy from grade school who found him on Google'. It was even more bizarre then, that the Piddlebackside blog should buck the trend and develop a relatively large readership in a very short space of time, be featured on local radio and discussed by Members of Parliament. When commentators examined the reasons for its success they found that it appealed to a wide cross-section of society who all had two things in common. Firstly, they all hated their elected leader squandering huge amounts of their hard-earned cash on consultants when the answers to most questions were staring everyone in the face, and secondly, they were utterly fed up with the stream of drivel about grandiose schemes for future prosperity to which they were constantly subjected. It seemed that the people coming up with ideas such as high-speed ferries, brand name changes and turning towns into cities were on a different planet, and as time went on some of the Westphalians began to speculate about which planet it might be. It will probably come as no surprise to many readers to hear that the conclusion reached by most of these amateur astronomers was that this kind of talk could only come from Uranus.

Like any new TV show, film or book, the blog had its fans, but it also had its detractors. These were mainly the people who were deeply involved in peddling the fanciful stories about future prosperity, and selling off bits of Westphalia-on-Sea's beautiful coastline to developers. These were people like the mayor, Dr Pangloss, the Deputy Mayor, Ahmad Hatter, and Charlie Windsor, the Mayor's staunch ally, his campaign manager, and prospective MP. Since it would bore readers to keep reading this list of names we can use a more convenient 'umbrella term' and call them 'the Conservatives', and that way we can include all the people who thought the same way as those three. Now, before any accusations of political bias are made, at this point it should be remembered that all political parties have eye-wateringly stupid ideas from time to time. However, on the Cote de Westphalia it was this group which had an impressive history of repeatedly hiring expensive firms of consultants and then applauding every hare-brained scheme which was presented by them.

So it was then that some of these Conservatives said whoever's writing this blog 'is far too up himself', he's 'arrogant' and 'too clever by half', and that Piddlebackside was a 'little imaginary world'. Of course what they obviously hadn't realised was the reason the blog was so popular was not because Piddlebackside was a little imaginary world, but because it held a mirror up to the real world of Westphalia-on-Sea. From their comments it was also clear that the other thing that Conservatives didn't like was 'clever', especially when it came in quantities 50% bigger than normal. No, they didn't seem to like 'clever', or people that read books and thought for themselves, or people that applied simple logic to everyday life, or people that could string two words together and seemed to know what they were talking about. Conservatives were people who believed they lived in the best of all possible worlds, and if this required an unquestioning belief in all sorts of claptrap, then so be it. In fact in this respect they were not at all unlike the Queen in Through the Looking Glass. In that volume Alice points out that one can't believe impossible things, to which the Queen replies: "I daresay you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

Claptrap, as intelligent readers are no doubt aware, can come in many forms: it could be the idea that there are thousands of wealthy visitors waiting to come to Westphalia-on-Sea if only the town had another casino, and fewer pensioners, chavs and young farmers. It could be something as simple as changing the name of a town, or it could be the complicated business of turning a town into a city. Now as most of this kind of claptrap was helpfully reported in the Westphalia Express, Westphalians had plenty of practice in believing it, but unlike the Queen in Carroll's masterpiece it seemed as though they were becoming increasingly unwilling to do so. Indeed, some Westphalians began to sense that there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air.

DON'T FORGET TO CHECK OUT ...

2007-11-09T12:40:00.000Z

www.thisiscotedewestphalia.blogspot.com

Chapter 26 In which Charlie decides to try and outwit the bloggers

2007-11-08T15:02:00.000Z

As Pangloss and his faithful sidekick Charlie left the Westphalia Express building there was a faint sound of the national anthem. Charlie took his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.
'Mr Windsor?' said the voice at the other end.
'Yes,' said Charlie.
'This is Martin Leyland; I'm a journalist. I wonder if I could have a few words with you - alone?'
'It's him!' hissed Charlie, covering the mouthpiece.
Half an hour later Charlie Windsor was sitting opposite Martin Leyland in the Westphalia-on-Sea Conservative Club.
'The people at the Westphalia Express are going mad looking for you,' said Charlie.
'Well, they only had to pick up the phone book and call me,' replied Leyland.
'Do you mean to say Martin Leyland is your real name?'
'Yeah, why wouldn't it be?'
'Well, I just thought ... you know, with the people at the newspaper not being able to find you ...'
'That lot? They couldn't find their arse in the dark with both hands.'
'Really? Now let me ask you directly: are you the Piddlebackside blogger?'
'No, I'm not, but I know who is.'
'Well, do you mind telling me his name then?'
'Their names. This is too big for just one person; it's a team of writers.'
'Oh. We were becoming convinced it was you.'
'Yes, that was the plan. The clue was in one of the early chapters where misdirection was mentioned. A lot of careful groundwork was laid down in advance - I had to be in on it because I agreed to be the front man. Radio Heaven almost caught me on the hop when they phoned for an interview, but luckily I stalled for time and was able to call the people behind it to see how they wanted to play it.'
'Oh, I didn't realise ...'
'I don't think anybody did. I even told my parents that I was behind it. Telling my mother is an extremely efficient way of disseminating rumour and hearsay around Westphalia-on-Sea, and she's been around a lot longer than the internet, so it would have been foolish not to use such a useful resource.'
'I see; so they still think ...'
'... it's me. Yes,' finished Leyland. Look, everyone is starting to think it's me now, so the radio and the papers will soon lose interest and you'll never find out who's really behind it. The internet allows people to create multiple blogs and personalities under assumed names, and then hide behind the word 'anonymous' to make comments. Nothing is really what it seems. What's important is not who's writing it, but what they're writing. And in your case, how much damage it can do.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right there.'
'Now, the reason I asked to meet you alone was to ask you this - what do you plan to do about your relationship with Pangloss?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, weren't you his campaign manager during the election?'
'Yes.'
'And haven't you been very supportive of all his big ideas?'
'Well, yes. Actually I've had a few big ideas of my own, you know.'
'Yes, I know, said Leyland. We'll come to those all in good time. But for now, you do realise that you have to start distancing yourself from Pangloss, don't you?'
'Do I? Why?'
'Because he's a lame duck mayor, of course. If you keep on supporting him over the next two years your support will slowly ebb away, and with it your dream of becoming an MP - that's a given.'
'Blimey, I hadn't really thought of it in those terms.'
Well, maybe you'd better start thinking in those terms. With hindsight, a Conservative mayor was probably the last thing you needed.'
'Hmm, I really need to think hard about all of what you've told me. I was wondering, do you think I could start a blog that satirized the Piddlebackside blog? Would that work?'
'I doubt it. I mean, who would read it? The real one is heading for 8,000 hits. It's a nice idea, and I'm sure they'd be flattered, but realistically you're not in their league, are you? I mean, what would you say on it?'
'Oh, I'd say I know who they are.'
'And ...?'
'Well, that's it.'
'Hmm, it's a bit lame, if you ask me. What would you call yourself?'
'Something similar to the blogger. I know - Voltaire.'
'Hmm, not very original is it? People will probably just think it's the bloggers throwing out more red herrings and not you being clever, and then you'd have gone to all that trouble for nothing.'
'Well, it's up to you. Good luck with your Piddlebackside.blogspot, and thanks for talking to me.'

Chapter 25 In which Pangloss and Charlie visit the offices of the Westphalia Express

2007-11-06T20:12:00.000Z

'This discussion about education and money is getting us nowhere fast, said Pangloss with a sigh. I want to know who this blogging bloke is, and to put it bluntly, I want his bloody blogging blocked.'
'Well, what have we got? said Charlie. He knows a bit of French, and appears to be in his forties from the description the barman at the Conservative Club gave us. That's about it, isn't it?'
'Not quite, Charlie old boy, not quite. He started the Piddlebackside blog to poke fun at you and me, but then there was the other website, the newspaper spoof. And I'm forgetting that bloody journo who came and interviewed me - he was the one who warned me about the space time continuum and all that bloody nonsense. What was name? Leyland, I think. His line of questioning wasn't exactly what you'd call sympathetic - I'm sure he knows a lot more than he was letting on.'
'Did he work for the Westphalia Express?' asked Charlie.
'No, as I recall he said he was freelance. Charlie, I think it's time we started fighting back. Let's pay our friend the editor at the Westphalia Express a visit. I bet he'll be able to shed some light on this mystery hack.'

When Pangloss and Charlie Windsor arrived at the reception of the Westphalia Express it was business as usual. The working environment at the paper had the feel of a 19th-century cotton mill combined with all the fun of a slave ship when supplies are running low. Journalism seemed to be a trade which had been completed by-passed by all the recent advances in legislation related to the workplace. As the internet had eaten into newspaper circulation and advertising revenue there had been savage staffing cuts. Those that were 'lucky' to still be in a job after the axe had fallen had more and more work to do. They were always chasing what seemed like impossible deadlines. There was no going out for a lunch break - you grabbed a sandwich in front of the PC, and if you wanted a coffee you combined it with a trip to the loo - that was time management Westphalia Express-style. No-one wanted to be seen to be clock-watching and knocking off before their colleagues for fear of being the firing line the next time there was any 'rationalisation' to be done. Just to cap it all off, there was the reassuring knowledge that the same company, Southcliffe Newspapers, owned just about every other local newspaper in the area, so the chances of getting another job in the industry were virtually zero. If you took out the classified ads, the readers' letters and the bits and pieces of parish news provided cheaply by local people there was very little in it the paper; if you then took out the pictures of the mayor you were left with barely enough to wrap some chips in.

'So you think this blogger is someone close to a journalist, eh?' asked the editor, once they were in his office.
'Or maybe it is a journalist,' said Pangloss.
'Yes, said the editor. I've had my suspicions as well. Must be someone who's used to working quickly, used to proof reading and meeting tight deadlines. Leyland, you say his name was? It doesn't ring any bells, but maybe that's a pseudonym. Even though it's going to be part of a shiny new city Westphalia-on-Sea is still a small town, and everybody knows everybody else's business.'
The editor picked up the phone and said: 'Anja, send in Mr Staedtler.'
There weren't many hacks on the Cote de Westphalia that Deputy Editor John Staedtler hadn't come across.
'Staedtler, know any hacks by the name Leyland?'
'No guv. Probably not his real name, anyway.'
'That's what I thought. Right, get on the internet and search for freelance journalists in the area - let's see if that throws up anything connected to the name Leyland. And get on that blog and check the times of the postings and comments, then talk to technical support and see if anything matches up time-wise with email traffic out of this place; I'm still not convinced it's not one of our own.'
'Maybe someone with an axe to grind, guv?'
'Well, that doesn't exactly narrow it down, does it John? While you're at it, get the techies to deny access to that blog - maybe that'll flush 'em out. And check who's had time off recently - they may have been doing it from home.'
'Goodness, said Pangloss. You seem even keener to find this character than I am.'
'Too right, replied the editor. If this goes on for much longer and one of the nationals picks it up there's going to be hell to pay. Who's to say Private Eye won't do a feature in their Street of Shame column? It's already been on the local radio, for Christ's sake. This guy'd better not be an insider, that's all I can say.'
Just as the editor was finishing his sentence the door burst open. 'Guv, said the breathless reporter, got something big - the boys in blue have just seized fifty grand's worth of coke in an armed raid.'
'Bingo! said the editor. Right, that's the front page - move that bollocks about the college being a university to page two. Dr Pangloss, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bump you off the front page as well. John, where can we put the mayor today?'
'I've got the back page guv, and the inside back page - two big photo ops.'
'I haven't got to go back to the football ground, have I?' asked Pangloss, looking worried.
'No, no, said Staedtler. It's just archery over at Fishhole. We'll get you over there with a photographer. I'm not sure about that turtleneck sweater with a sports jacket, though; is that your idea of 'casual', Mr Mayor?'
'Yes, it is, replied the mayor. Don't you like it?'

Chapter 24 In which Charlie Windsor explains the idea of choice in education

2007-11-05T08:06:00.000Z

'Do you know Charlie, began Pangloss, as they returned to their seats with their drinks, sometimes I feel like a character in a bloody soap opera.'
'Really? said Charlie. Why's that then?'
'Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's this place.'
They were sitting in the bar of the Sailor's Return, a notorious watering hole on the harbour of Westphalia-on-Sea. Everyone thought they had seen the last of the landlord, Martin Aston, when he went bankrupt and lost all his businesses, but he had come back from the dead and was the new licensee at the Sailor's.
'Do you think it's because Martin shaves his beard a bit like that character Bepe from Eastenders?' suggested Charlie.
'Possibly. Or maybe its because a lot of my big ideas sound like the ridiculous plot lines of TV soaps.'
'Yes, that might be it, agreed Charlie. God, that would be horrible wouldn't it? Having the spotlight on you a few time times a week, everyone knowing exactly what you were doing and thinking. I certainly hope that bastard who's writing the Piddlebackside blog doesn't get any ideas, or the next thing we'll hear is that we're in a spoof show called Westenders.'
'Hmm, a long saga with no end in sight - that would be all I need, said Pangloss. Well, now you've brought up this author of dubious parentage, what do we know about him?'
'Well, since his mysterious appearance at the Eastphalia Conservative Club it seems he knows a bit of French.'
'French, eh? Didn't that use to be compulsory at school?'
'That's right, but the government has started phasing out learning GCSE French at school. Apparently it's all part of their new language learning strategy, although some cynics might say the reason was to improve league table results.'
'Look Charlie, state education's not really my thing. Just remind me, where did league tables come from and what are they for?'
'Oh, that's easy Pangloss, said Charlie. They were created by John Major's Conservative government in 1992 as part of the Citizens' Charter. The stated aim was to give parents the consumer information they needed to create a free market in school choice.'
'Golly, a free market in school choice? That sounds absolutely wizard. I bet it improved things no end. So everybody can choose which school they send their kids to now?'
'Goodness me yes, old boy, everything's about choice these days, and rightly so. For example, if people pay for exam coaching, and move to a better catchment area, and pretend to be religious long enough for the local vicar to write them a letter, why they've all got a fantastic choice.'
'And what about the people who can't afford to move house or hire an exam coach, or don't want to suddenly start going to church, what choice have they got?'
'Well, they've got a special choice called Hobson's choice. I'm not entirely sure how that works, because it doesn't really affect Conservative voters, but you see Pangloss, everyone is a winner. It's a wonderful system of equal opportunities whether you're rich or poor, and it was all put in place by John Major. I must confess I am a little puzzled though; I mean, when you have a choice, wouldn't everyone choose the best school? And then who would go the rubbish schools? I don't know, but New Labour are always talking about choice now, and David Cameron is always going on about choice, so the system must work, mustn't it? Education is so important for our young people, I just can't wait for David Cameron and his shadow cabinet colleagues to take charge of the country. I mean, who better to advise on state education than people who haven't had the misfortune to experience it? I expect when David Cameron takes over there will be so much choice that everyone will be able to go to Eton and then Oxford, and even join the Bullingdon Club if they want to.'
'Oh, goodness me, yes, said Pangloss, it certainly will be the best of all possible worlds when the Eton boys take over. I think they understand the lives of the ordinary man in the street so well.'

'Oh absolutely, agreed Charlie, and after all, there is a certain degree of intelligence that come with wealth.'
'Why, it's funny you should mention that, said Pangloss, because I can actually feel myself becoming more intelligent by the week, and do you know what I think it is? I think it's because every week I become a thousand pounds richer - it's cause and effect. Good grief, by the time my term in office comes to an end I'll be a quarter of million pounds more intelligent.'

READ THE WESTPHALIA EXPRESS AT:

2007-11-03T13:09:00.000Z

www.thisiscotedewestphalia.blogspot.com

Chapter 23 In which the man with no name rides into the Conservative Club

2007-11-03T08:09:00.000Z

Down at the Conservative Club in Eastphalia very few people had turned up for the Halloween fancy dress party, and many of the regulars hadn't bothered to dress up. In one of the armchairs near the fire a copy of the Westphalia Express began to shake. It was being held by Bernard Fotherington-Smythe, and the reason for the shaking was his slowly building laughter. As his humour increased his jowly face began to move up and down, and he produced a laugh-come-cough which suggest the movement in his upper body had dislodged a certain amount of phlegm in his throat. 'Ha ha ha! That'll bloody show 'em! Agree with every word. Work shy buggers - take 'em out and flog 'em, I say.'
'What's that you're reading?' enquired the young councillor sitting at the bar. He was wearing a pin-stripe suit and some plastic devil's horns, and had come as a merchant banker. (In some parts of London that would have been Cockney rhyming slang, but as they were in Eastphalia it wasn't.)
'This letter of Charlie Windsor's about all these layabouts who won't work. He says we should refuse to pay their benefits when there are vacant jobs available - hit the bloody nail on the head, I say.'
'Oh, absolutely, replied the young councillor. We obviously have a lot in common. Let me introduce myself - Bob Hunt.'
'Pleased to meet you.'

'How would that work exactly?' asked a quiet, rather gravelly voice. Both men looked up. The man who had spoken was unknown to them. He was wearing a cowboy hat and poncho, had dark stubble on his chin and a cheroot in his mouth.
'Can't you read? shouted the barman, pointing to the no smoking sign.
'It's not lit, replied the stranger, without raising his voice.
'How would what work?' asked Bernard.
'I mean how would the 'not paying benefits system' work. replied the stranger. Presumably you'd stop housing benefit and any other handouts at the same time?'
Bob Hunt walked across the room, putting himself between the stranger and Bernard, saying: 'Let me handle this, old man.'
'Before we debate this point, how did you get in here? It's members only, and any guests have to be signed in. The club steward is very particular about that.'
The stranger placed an old-fashioned gold watch on the table next to him. When he opened it, it began playing a tune. 'Steward? Is that like a sheriff?' he asked.
'Well, yes, I suppose so.'
'Well, maybe you need a new steward,' said the stranger, still maintained his quiet tone of voice.
'Look, you can't just march in here and disagree with us. Who the ruddy hell are you?'
The stranger smiled. 'Let's just say I'm mid-forties, a graduate, local football fan, politics left of centre but not a member of any political party.'
'Oh, I see, said Hunt. Well, I happen to agree with Charlie Windsor. All benefits should be stopped.'
'Hmm, very easy to say, but not very practical - in fact I'd say impossible to implement. Just a headline grabber really. You'd create lots of homeless hungry people, wouldn't you? I mean what would you do, build workhouses and transport everyone back to the Victorian Age?'
'Well, maybe Charlie hasn't thought through the practicalities of the whole policy, but we've got this brilliant minimum wage now ...'
'Ah, yes, is that the minimum wage that the Tories were against? Didn't they say paying people a decent wage would bring down the economy?'
The barman was nervously polishing glasses. 'Look mister, he shouted over, we don't want no trouble here. We just want to discuss politics in our own particular fashion, if you get my meaning. We ain't doing no-one no harm. It ain't none of your business.'
'Well, friend, when people keep writing letters full o' horseshit to the local paper, I kinda think it is my business.'
'Look, you have absolutely no right ...,' began Hunt.
'Let me ask you this, said the stranger. If you have a benefits system which has created this situation, isn't it the system which is the problem?'
'Well, yes.'
'So why demonise the people? They're at the bottom of the food chain of your capitalist system. In that system there will always be losers. Your man Windsor is just scoring cheap political points. And why is it that some jobs pay so much more than others? Maybe he'd be better focusing on the obscene wealth at the other end of the system. If your binmen went on strike, there'd be chaos after a week. But what if estate agents went on strike? Or mayors? Or consultants? Do you think anyone would miss them if they stopped pitching in for work? No, this 'layabout rant' is fine for getting old Tories frothing at the mouth, but when you think about it sensibly it's just the same old horseshit.'
At that point the music stopped, and in a flash the stranger moved his hand towards his pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Hunt. If you ever need a new steward, or if your town ever gets taken over by bandits, just give me a call.'
'Bandits? said Hunt staring at the small print on the card. That's highly unlikely. And we already have a mayor, thank you very much, so I don't think you'll be needed ... '
As he looked up from the card his voice trailed off. Both the stranger and the watch were gone.
'Well, spluttered Bernard Fotherington-Smythe, the damned impudence of the fellow. I'd like to horsewhip the blackguard. I'm going to see to it that his membership is cancelled.'
'He's not a member, you silly old sod,' said Hunt.
'Well who is he? What does it say on the card?'
'It doesn't have a name, it's just a sentence - in French.'
'French! French!' exploded Bernard. He speaks French? Good God! Isn't that an offence?'
'Not at the moment. Anyway, it says 'On ne peut pas tuer l'idee a coups de canon ni lui mettre les poucettes.'
'Well what does it mean?'
'How should I know? - My world stops at Dover as well. I'm just as bigoted and narrow-minded as you.'

I think you people are going to like this:

2007-11-01T17:20:00.000Z

Fresh off the digital press ...

www.thisiscotedewestphalia.blogspot.com

Chapter 22 In which the Piddlebackside blogger appears on the radio

2007-10-31T14:56:00.000Z

Pangloss checked his watch; it was 11.59. He began singing the chorus of the old song of the same name to himself as he flicked his radio on ... 'It's eleven fifty-nine and I wanna stay alive ...'. He always made a point of listening to the phone-in on Radio Heaven. The presenter, Dustin Dee was just introducing the first topic for discussion: 'Heather Mills-McCartney has been asking people to boycott tabloid newspapers, so we just wondered if you have any strong views on the subject. Can you believe what you read, or are they just a bit of fun? Our first caller on the line is Richard in Plymhole. Hello Richard, what's the point you'd like to make?'
'Well, it's more of a question really - what's got three legs and lives on a farm?'
'I don't know,' replied Dustin.
'The McCartneys! Ha ha ha ha!'
'Hmm, yes, very funny, but that's a bit out of date now isn't it? Couldn't you have changed it to 'what's got three legs and hangs around a divorce court'?'
'Oh, I never thought of that. Well it still made I laff, anyway.'
'OK, well thank you for kicking off the show on that lighthearted note Richard. Now Mr Candide is on line 2.'
'Hello Dustin. I just wanted to make the point that our local paper is part of the newsgroup that owns the Daily Mail, so we don't really have a choice of whose opinion we read on local affairs. The Westphalia Express is always printing stories about big initiatives and plans the Mayor is having, but they never amount to anything. I don't know what to believe. The latest one is about turning the town into a city. Now is that going to happen, and is it his idea or his consultants'? And how much is he paying the consultants?'
'A good question. Actually we had Dr Pangloss in here a few weeks ago and he said the problem is the way the newspaper reports what he says.'

Pangloss's ears pricked up. Was this a coincidence that he was being discussed on the radio? Oh, he was just being paranoid, he thought. After all he was the Mayor. As he was thinking all this they began talking about a different topic.

'David in Exhole, what point would you like to make?'
'Hello Dustin. Well I sent off for my TV licence the other day during the postal strike and it took three weeks for them to ...'
'Yes, I'm losing the will to live here, David. Didn't you phone in about this tedious topic last week?'
'Well, yes, but you asked me to update you, and now they've debited the money from my account so ...'
'David, you didn't believe me, did you? I only said that to fill up some air time. Do you think anyone out there really gives a tuppenny toss about your frigging TV licence? Personally I'd rather push my testicles through a rusty mangle than listen to another syllable on the subject of your poxy TV licence. With any luck you'll be dead before the TV detector van gets to your house anyway. Right, Christine from Eastphalia is one line 7, go ahead Christine.'
'Yes, well it's about this change over to being a city. What I'd like to know is will we have to move house, or will they just give us a new postcode?'
'Oh, no, neither. It's just a renaming thing.'
'And will we still be able to get Freeview?'
'Yes, yes.'
'Well how will it affect us then?'
'Well it won't really. I doubt if anything will come of it any time soon, so don't worry. Now Mike is a keen indoor bowler from Newton Bumpkin - Mike?'
' 'Ello Dustin. Yes, well on the subject of Westphalia-on-Sea becoming a city, I was thinking this: that there Manchester is a city and they got one of they, whad'yacallits, er ... Gay Village, eb'n 'em? Well, will we 'ev one of they down 'ere too? My mate Terry, ... no, not like that, Dustin, I'm a married man; ... well, he says it would be a good idea cuz them there gays, they got loads of money to spend, but the only things is it's different, see. 'E 'eard it on the wireless. Turns out they got pink pounds. Well, 'ev you ever 'eard that? What would you do if you got give one of 'em in your change? I'm not sure I'd like that. Well, you dunno where they've bin, do 'ee?'
'Well, Mike it's like this: the pink pound is just a term ... oh, no, this'll be quicker. Look Mike, if anyone does give you a pink pound just take it to the post office and they'll change it for you, or you could save them up and spend them the next time you're in Manchester.'
'Right you are, Dustin. Thank you very much.'
'OK, Wilf on line 3 thinks Ken Dodd should be given a knighthood. And apparently you've organised an online petition on your website; is that right?'
'That's correct, yes, Dustin.'
'And what's this website called? No, let me guess, is it 'irritating old twat dot com'? 'Utterly pointless use of the internet dot com'?'
'No, it's knighthood for Knotty Ash dot com.'
'Yes, we'll I don't think this conversation can go much further without one of us screaming, so lets go to line 4.'
Pangloss's phone rang before he had time to catch the next topic of conversation. He heard the rather breathless voice of Charlie Windsor at the other end.
'Pangloss, I've just heard him on the radio.'
'Heard who?'
'The bloke who's writing the Piddlebackside blog.'
'Steady on, said Pangloss. I heard that too, but how do you know it's him?'
'Because on his blog this morning he left a message saying he'd be on it.'
'Oh, Christ, said Pangloss. It's bloody happening. Just like that journalist said it would. It's the space-time continuum thingy. I think he's messing with our mojo, Charlie.'
'Right that does it. As soon as my blood stops boiling about the EU treaty I'm going to leave a message on his bloody blog.'
'Yes, a dose of his own medicine. That'll teach him.'
'By the way Pangloss; would you like me to explain Gordon Brown's position on the EU treaty and opt-out clauses using the convoluted analogy of tie-wearing at a golf club?'
'Maybe another time, Charlie, maybe another time.'

Chapter 21 In which Leyland warns of the excesses of a state-controlled media

2007-10-30T19:07:00.000Z

'Back in the dark days of communism in Eastern Europe life for the people of Romania under the dictatorship of Nikolae Ceausescu was particularly grim,' began Leyland.
'Look do we really have time for this? interrupted Pangloss. You just told me the time-space continuum has been interefered with and events are hurtling through space towards me. I thought I detected a note of urgency in your voice.'
'Yes, you did, but don't worry. This is just a device to build tension; they do it all the time in films. We've got plenty of time.'
'Oh, right. Well, in that case, shall I ask Jenny to bring in some tea?'
'Er, no, I'm fine thanks. Anyway, poverty was rife, food was scarce, abortion was made illegal, and divorce was pretty much impossible. Practically the only thing to brighten this existence were a few western television programmes; two favourites were, strangely enough, the films of Norman Wisdom and the BBC series The Onedin Line. However, after visiting North Korea Ceausescu decided that his people were having far too much fun and being corrupted by western decadence; the transmission of TV programmes was greatly reduced, and at the same time popular prime time broadcasts were replaced by images of military parades accompanied by patriotic music. This was not to most Romanians' taste, so people in parts of the country where Hungarian TV channels could be received began learning Hungarian, and others tuned their radios to stations like Radio Free Europe and the Voice of America, effectively by-passing the state-controlled media. The result of this was that years later, when there were small uprisings against the dictatorship, the news travelled around the country like wildfire, even though it was not reported by Romanian TV or radio.'
'Yes, yes, a very interesting history lesson, I'm sure, said Pangloss impatiently, but what has all that got to do with this blog?'
'I'm merely pointing out that where the ruling party or person monopolises the media, constantly spinning stories that everything is wonderful, the people will simply look for other ways of getting unbiased information. The Piddlebackside blog may have started as a lighthearted joke, but the speed with which it has gained a dedicated following suggests that you are only fooling a very small section of the people now. You can have your photo taken all over town and talk about a garden city and roads with new trees planted alongside and a new name and all the other tosh, but who do you honestly think believes you? The people want a town centre where they can shop, a decent bus service, somewhere for the kids to play, all the things that make a place worth living in. They're not fooled by grand initiatives and slick presentations, and they certainly don't want to see their hard earned cash going into the pockets of consultants.'
''An impassioned speech, Mr Leyland. I trust none of that will find its way on to the Piddlebackside blog?'
'Of course not, you have my word as a journalist. Anyway, to finish my story, it's a strange coincidence that the defining moment in the Romanian revolution was when Ceausescu and his wife were spontaneously booed by a crowd in Revolution Square in Bucharest.'
'Yes, well, after those moaning Romanian Victor Meldrew-types had got it off their chest with a little booing I'm sure they all went home and forgot all about it,' said Pangloss.
'Not exactly. Once the Ceausescus were captured they had a brief trial on Xmas Day and were then taken outside and shot.'
'That could never happen here though, could it?' said Pangloss.
'Of course not. You'd be hard pushed to get so much as a pint of milk round here on Xmas Day; I really can't see anyone organising a firing squad.'
'Well, that's a relief. I was planning on spending Xmas at mother's. Her roast potatoes are to die for. She par boils them and then fluffs them up with a fork before putting them in the oven.'
'Crispy, I'll bet.'
'Absolutely.'
'Well, anyway, I didn't come here to swap recipes. I just want to point out that if you have a stranglehold over the newspapers people will begin to move away to the internet, where news travels so much faster, especially bad news. Your critics may even begin to use radio phone-ins to air their complaints. The presenter on Radio Heaven is always trying to fill the two-hour slot on his midday show.'
'So what do you suggest I do?'
'It's not my job to give you answers. I'm a journalist. I just write down the facts in a way that my editor thinks the owner of the newspaper would like to read them. Now, I've got to go. Thanks for the interview - your answers were very, er, ... enlightening. Don't forget to listen to the radio.'

Chapter 20 In which Martin Leyland interviews Pangloss

2007-10-29T17:49:00.000Z

Dr Pangloss was reclining in his sumptuous office chair with the blinds closed when his intercom buzzer sounded. He leaned forward and said: 'I thought I said no calls Jenny?'

'Yes, I know his secretary replied. But this caller is very persistent, and you have been in there for two hours now.'
'Good God, so I have, said Pangloss, eyeing the clock. OK, I'll take the call.'

'Dr Pangloss, said the voice at the other end of the line, thank you for taking the time to speak to me. My name is Martin Leyland. I'm a freelance journalist, and I've just come across this bizarre story of the Piddlebackside blog on the internet - it contains some striking similarities to Westphalia-on-Sea, and one of the characters, a Mr Reinhard Longpass, bears more than a passing resemblance to yourself. Are you familiar with the blog?'
'Well, I've heard about it, but I haven't actually read any of it. You must understand that as mayor I don't get a great deal of time to devote to such trivia. As you may be aware I am in the middle of building a city here - Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.'
'I fully understand, Your Worshipfulness. It must be be a stressful and sometimes thankless task leading a town, or city, with such courage.'
'Why yes, it is as a matter of fact, that's very insightful Mr Leyland, you have a way with words.'
'Thank you, your Holiness. Actually I'm a city boy myself, grew up in Birminghole, and I do miss things like wide boulevards with street performers and an edgy bohemian art scene terribly, so I fully understand what you're trying to do here.'
'Goodness, a sympathetic voice in the wilderness.'
'Thank you, your Majesty. Look, I'm going to write a short piece about this blog which may be syndicated around a few local papers. How about we meet up and I give you the chance to give your side of the story, set the record straight, etcetera? Fifteen minutes of your time for a quick interview?'
'Well, I'm fairly busy tomorrow, I think I'm seeing ...'
'Are you doing anything now?'
'Well not really.'
'OK, that's settled; I'll pop down if you're free. Strike while the iron's hot, and all that.'

In what seemed like minutes, Martin Leyland was sitting opposite Pangloss. The office was rather dark as the blinds were still closed. Leyland was looking intently at his mobile when Pangloss broke the silence: 'Are you going to use your dictaphone?' he asked.
'No, I'll use my finger, replied the journalist. Oh sorry, I see what you mean. Yes I've got a tape recorder in my bag.'

Leyland tested his tape recorder and then asked his first question.
'OK, let's get started; what's your favourite colour?'
'Blue.'
'Do you like puppies?'
'Oh, yes.' Pangloss smiled for the first time in ages; this was going rather well.
'Right. Now you were booed by the whole crowd at Westphalia United at the weekend, is that correct?'
'Well ..., err ...., yes, in a manner of speaking.'
'So would it be fair to say you are deeply unpopular with a large cross-section of the town?'
'I'm not sure 'deeply' is the right adjective,' objected Pangloss.
'Really? You were voted in with the support of just seven per cent of the electorate, and since then you have courted controversy with a number of bizarre high profile strategies and been booed at a local football match. What adjective do you think would be more fitting than 'deeply', then?'
'Er, I'm not really sure,' said Pangloss.
'How much support do you think you'd have if there was an election tomorrow?'
'I'm not sure.'
'More or less than seven per cent?'
'I don't know.'
'Would you want to do this job if you felt you didn't have the support of the people?'
'I'm not really sure,' stammered Pangloss.
'OK, let's move on. Now, according to the Westphalia-on-Sea Council Constitution, the residents of this town are stuck with you until May 2011. Now, if it became clear that you had utterly lost the support of the people, would you do the honourable thing and stand down before then, or at least call another election?'
'Now, hang on a minute ...'
'You enjoy unparalleled support from the local paper, and have a regular column in it, so why do you think you are such an unpopular figure?'
'Well, look, I'm not sure that's wholly ...'
'How much have you spent on the services of consultants, and how much more do you intend to spend?'
'Well, that's very difficult to say at this precise moment in time. Two heads are better than one, and I'm not a man with two brains. The whole process of urban regeneration and the ideas that drive it is, by it's very nature, ipso facto coitus interruptus, extremely expensive.'
'OK, moving on: you've heard about this blog; what's your take on it?'
'Oh, it sounds like a bit of harmless fun. I'm sure whoever's writing it will soon run out of steam, and if not steam, then ideas.'
'So you're not unduly worried about the rather bizarre way that time is related between Piddlebackside and Westphalia-on-Sea, then?'
'What exactly do you mean? I don't understand. Like I said, I haven't read it first hand.'
'Well, let me explain. It begins with the mayoral election in Piddlebackside, which to everyone's horror is won by Reinhard Longpass, a rather clueless bumbling Conservative with no real life experience. It then covers a period of approximately two years, in which Longpass makes a number of catastrophically brainless decisions. Through a series of flashbacks it is revealed that as a child Longpass had an accident which resulted in a serious cranial trauma. He survived, but during the life-saving surgery at an underfunded hospital the neurosurgeon was forced to cut a three-inch hole in the top of his skull, scoop his brains out with a rusty spoon and fill the resulting cavity with porridge. It soon becomes clear that this procedure in childhood strongly influences much of his day-to-day decision-making. There is one other very far-fetched storyline in which a committed group of Piddlebackside atheists are promised absolutely nothing in the afterlife, but nevertheless selflessly volunteer for a suicide mission to take out the Mayor while he is judging a novelty cake competition at the Women's Guild. Apart from these rather silly scenes events in Piddlebackside closely mimic what has been happening in Westphalia-on-Sea.'
'I see. Does the Mayor suggest any rebranding and renaming of Piddlebackside?'
'Absolutely. A very convincing argument is made for taking the 'Piddle' out, and then, strangely enough, it is mysteriously put back in.'
'I see. Well, I can see certain parallels with some of the bold and innovative moves I have been making in Westphalia-on-Sea, but I still don't see any great problem.'
'The problem, Dr Pangloss is simply this: the time difference between the events in the fictitious Piddlebackside and the events in the very real Westphalia-on-Sea is growing ever smaller as we speak. The embarrassing booing at Piddlebackside Rovers came two weeks after the real event at Westphalia United. Now look at this.'
With a flourish he pulled out a copy of the Westphalia Express and turned to Pangloss's column.
'In this column on 26 October you compared the moaning residents of Westphalia-on-Sea to Victor Meldrew. In the blog about Piddlebackside the Victor Meldrew reference appeared the day after, on 27 October.'
'I still don't see the point.'
'The point is, Dr Pangloss, that the space-time continuum is being interfered with. The lampooning versions of events in Piddlebackside are travelling too fast over the internet, zooming towards your real pronouncements in Westphalia-on-Sea in the print media. If they are allowed to collide, and they are surely on course to do that over the next few days, then the atomic particles of the two events will be forever fused together. The result? In the future everyone will know you are talking bollocks, simply because your lips are moving.'

Pangloss was white. 'Oh my God, he said. Then they have to be stopped. Whoever's writing this blog about Piddlebackside must be stopped. Who's writing it? Get them on the phone and let's start negotiating, but let's not rule out breaking all their fingers.'
'There are two problems with that plan, Dr Pangloss, said Leyland. The first is that the blog is anonymous, so you don't know who's behind it. And the second is that even if you did know the author's identity, there would be a debate to be had about the freedom of speech. Now, before you do something you'll regret, let me tell you a cautionary tale about prohibiting the dissemination of information ...'

(to be continued ...)

Chapter 19 In which Charlie Windsor gives Pangloss some bad news

2007-10-29T12:49:00.000Z

Following the 'incident' at the football match, Pangloss was feeling rather down in the dumps, and was reluctant to pick up the ringing phone in his office in case it was more bad news. He let it ring at least twelve times, but eventually succumbed.
'Hello, Pangloss here,' he said wearily.
'Morning Pangloss, how was your weekend?' Pangloss sighed audibly with relief; it was Charlie Windsor, one of his few political allies.
'Hmm, I've had better, said Pangloss, feeling his cheeks redden slightly as he momentarily relived his time on the pitch at Westphalia United. Anyway, what do you want?'
'Sorry to hear that, old man. Well, if you're not in a good mood, what I've got to say isn't going to make you feel any better.'
'Oh Christ, what now?'
'Well, you know I have a blog ...'
'No, I didn't. I don't even know what a blog is.'
'Oh, get with it Pangloss. A blog is like an online diary, where you can record your every thought.'
'It sounds great. and you have one?'
'Yes. http://www.charliewindsor.blogspot.com/. All my political pearls of wisdom are recorded there, accessible to millions of people.'
'Brilliant! How many people read it then?'
'Well, judging by my online EU treaty poll, I'd say, oh, somewhere in the region of ... five.'
'Five million!?'
'No, five.'
'Five? Isn't the whole thing a bit of a waste of time then? Doesn't that mean that no-one is remotely interested in anything you've got to say?'
'Well, yes ... no, look, that's not the point. The point is after I posted my thoughts on the EU Treaty I had a message from David Cameron.'
'That's great - if he's one of your five readers I take it all back.'
'Of course he isn't - it's someone messing about. But whoever it was left the address of another blog, which I read out of curiosity.'
'And ...?'
'Well, this other blog is actually a story set in the fictitious town of Piddlebackside, but it appears to be about you ... and me.'
'Fame at last! Can I read it?'
'Well yes, but it's not what you'd call ... supportive. It takes a rather more, how shall I put this? Critical angle on what you've been up to. In fact it goes further than that - it blows the lid right off your big ideas strategy, the consultants, everything.'
'Christ on a bike! It doesn't mention the name change does it?'
'Which one?'
'Both. Either.'
' 'Fraid so.'
'Selling off the pub on the beach to the property developer?'
'Yep.'
'The high-speed ferry?'
'The whole bloody shooting match, I'm afraid, old man.'
Pangloss felt his legs go to jelly. All that stuff should have been forgotten about ages ago.
'Doesn't mention the football match, does it?'
'Yes, now that was quite funny, actually ...'
Pangloss could still hear Charlie in full flow as he hung up the phone. He buzzed through to his secretary and said: 'No calls for the next hour please Jenny; I'm feeling unwell.'

Chapter 18 In which Charlie Windsor arrives in town

2007-10-28T14:00:00.000Z

Charlie Windsor arrived in Wesphalia-on-Sea in 2002, a fast-track candidate who could depend on the support of the big guns in the Conservative Party. As he looked out of the window at, ... well, he wasn't sure where it was exactly that he was looking at, but as he looked out of the window at it he said to himself: 'This is my Holy Grail; one day all of this will be mine.'
'What, the curtains?' Asked his wife, who had just come into the room.
'No, not the bloody curtains. this place. West or Eastphalia, or Fishhole, whatever it is that we can see out of the window.'
'Oh, I see.'
'Do you know, darling, I feel as though I'm on a mission. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. I think I'll paraphrase Jonathan Aitken in my first speech to the local party members. He cleared his throat and began: 'If it falls to me to start a fight to cut out the yellow cancer of Liberal-Democracy in Westphalia-on-Sea with the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of British fair play, so be it.'
'Very impressive, darling, I'm sure. Now I'm just popping out to the shops. Oh, but maybe that Aitken fellow isn't such a good role model; didn't he commit perjury and end up in the nick? Bye!'
'Yes, bye, darling.'

Charlie's brief from Conservative Central Office had been simple. Get yourself settled in, then start getting yourself known. Write to the local paper, and then try and get your face in the rag as often as possible. People needed to know who he was and what he stood for. When he asked them what they did stand for they weren't quite sure, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. It seemed straightforward enough, but there was a slight problem - attacking Labour, as the party leadership did day-in, day-out, wasn't going to get him very far, because Westphalia-on-Sea didn't have, in fact, had never had, a Labour MP, and was very unlikely to have one any time soon. No, our Charlie was going to have to attack the Lib-Dem MP, Brian Localbloke. Of course, the only problem with this was that Brian seemed to be fairly well liked in the town - he had grown up in Eastphalia, went to school in Westphalia-on-Sea and was an avid fan of Westphalia United, getting to as many games as his Westminster commitments would allow. No, Charlie had to play this one very carefully, or the whole plan might blow up in his face. Charlie discussed the conundrum with party officials, and they advised having a go at the local Lib-Dem council. Local councillors were often unpopular, so if he could build up a bit of momentum against them, some of the shit might just stick to Localbloke.

Charlie set about his task with gusto. He had to phrase his letters very carefully at first, because in the early days, being an outsider, he didn't know shit from shite where local politics and the local area were concerned. A few locals rumbled him straightaway, but his letters were so tediously dull that most people just ignored him and hoped he'd just go away. As the months turned to years he became bolder, and began referring to 'the many years of Lib-Dem mismanagement', implying that he had lived in Westphalia-on-Sea a lot longer than he actually had. He lost the 2005 election, but he decided to stick around and have one more go at getting on the Westminster gravy train. Yes, he could spend another couple of years telling any Westphalian that would listen how Baghdad was better than this place; his only fear was that as he ran the place down no-one would ask him the really tricky question, namely 'why had he moved to this dismal shithole in the first place?'

So dear readers, this explains why our intrepid Mayor, Dr Pangloss, had such a vocal supporter in Charlie Windsor.

Chapter 17 In which we learn the political history of Westphalia-on-Sea

2007-10-28T09:59:00.000Z

Some readers may now be wondering how the character of Charlie Windsor suddenly came to appear in Westphalia-on-Sea. 'Where did he come from and why is he here?' I hear you ask. All valid questions which will be answered in good time, but first a little political history is necessary.

Once upon a time back in the sixties and seventies the people of Westphalia-on-Sea lived in a glorious socio-economic bubble. There were fish in the sea, tourists aplenty, and work for all who wanted it. There were no ethnic minorities, and no-one had to go down a mine or work in the steel industry, or make cars on a production-line, or inhale cotton dust for eight hours a day. Indeed, if Pangloss had been around at the time he would certainly have called it the best of all possible worlds. One consequence of this blissful paradise was that the people of Westphalia-on-Sea became very Conservative, with a big 'C'. In a nutshell, the vast majority believed that politics was best left to people with sensible haircuts who had been to private schools and said 'lavatory' instead of 'toilet'. To make it easier for voters to make a sensible choice, these people were also given knighthoods, so it was clear where you should put your cross on the ballot paper. So it was then, that the MP for Westphalia-on-Sea for many years was Sir Bufton Tufton.

Even as council tax riots began breaking out around the country, and Britain became a kind of off-shore American nuclear base, Westphalia-on-Sea remained a glorious shade of blue. Eventually Sir Bufton Tufton retired, and was replaced by the dashing James Rupertson. He was a real jet-setter, too suave and sophisticated for Westphalia-on-Sea really, so he could hardly be blamed for spending very little time there. He also found the Westphalians a rather disagreeable bunch, so he spent most of his time writing spy stories instead of dealing with their problems. He was probably not the most conscientious of MPs, but he looked rather dashing and spoke very nicely, so the Westphalians were more than grateful - after all, they reasoned, in some parts of the country the people were represented by men with beards and northern accents. When Mrs Thatcher stockpiled imported coal and then began closing most of the north of England, and then began selling off every asset the country had, some people thought the Westphalians would finally take the hint, but no; it was beginning to look as if a bladder on a stick would be returned to Parliament with the best wishes of the people of Westphalia-on-Sea as long as it was sporting a blue rosette. In fact it was only after the Tories lost an estimated £3.4 billion of everybody's money on Black Wednesday that the Westphalians began to think it might just be time to stop voting for them.

At long last the Tory stranglehold over Westphalia-on-Sea was broken in 1997 when James Rupertson was defeated by his Lib-Dem rival, Brian Localbloke. The Tories were mortified, especially as they were beaten by just 12 votes. This was the absolute beauty of democracy in action. The Tories could understand losing marginal seats in the Midlands, but Westphalia-on-Sea? - it was unthinkable. Oh well, it was just a blip, and they would win the seat back at the next election. In the meantime Brian Localbloke duly went about his business at Westminster, held regular surgeries around the Cote de Westphalia and dealt with the problems of his constituents as quickly and efficiently as possible. At the next election in 2001 the Tories put up their own local man, but the people of Westphalia-on-Sea were having none of it - Brian Localbloke saw his majority go up to about 6,000. Now the Tories were heading for meltdown - their slapheaded baby-faced leader resigned the next day before most people had had their breakfast.

A new slaphead was drafted in to lead the Tories. There could be no room for complacency now; they must be focused. Westphalia-on-Sea was a target seat for the next election, but the local Conservatives couldn't produce anyone who could walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone win an election. Their only viable tactic was to parachute in a candidate from elsewhere, and that man was Charlie Windsor.

Chapter 16 In which Pangloss gets a somewhat mixed reception at Westphalia United

2007-10-26T23:58:00.000+01:00

Reading the paper over the next few days after the big presentation it appeared that Pangloss's worst fears were being realised. The Westphalia Express had devoted several pages to the 'city' idea, but the key phrases, now reported in black and white without the high-tech light show, all seemed utterly bonkers. The worst thing about it though, was that it was so obviously a lot of nonsense interwoven with overblown phrases which stated what was already common knowledge. Each day there was another letter from outraged locals who were sick to death of their money being wasted on such a grand scale. Pangloss's mood was getting blacker by the hour. He decided to call Charlie Windsor; he had been so upbeat the last time Pangloss had seen him he might be able to cheer him up now.

'Oh, for goodness sake, said Charlie, after listening to Pangloss's tale of woe, buck up old man. Let's get some perspective on this. How many letters are there in the paper about this? About two a day. The rest of the Letters' Page is taken up with the usual moans about Europe, thanks for those who gave so generously to the latest charity appeal and thanks to the person who helped the old lady when she dropped her purse in Sainsburys. These letter-writing lefties might have a bee in their collective bonnet, but they've got no real power. Two small letters buried on page six does not a revolution make, my friend. Now look at the positives: you have a fortnightly column with your picture at the top, your picture is always on at least two different pages and you can issue a press release and it's headline news. No, old Trotsky in the Kremlin up on Shagwell Hill and his mates haven't got a prayer. It's time for a bit of PMA, old boy.'
'Pre-Menstrual Activity?' Pangloss asked.
'Positive Mental Attitude. Think like a winner, and you'll be a winner.

Pangloss put the phone down and considered what Charlie had said. Yes, it did seem to make sense - he was the mayor, and he held all the cards. After all, no-one had really batted an eyelid when he hired those consultants. And let's not forget, he had been voted in. The people of Westphalia-on-Sea had asked him to represent them. All right, as percentages go, seven wasn't great, but he wasn't going to be meek. He would go on a charm offensive, get out and mingle with the great unwashed. But where would he start? Walking through the town? No that would be no good - just a few fat chavs waddling in and out of mobile phone shops. And then people would accost him with tedious stories about traffic wardens and rubbish, and why are there buses driving through a pedestrianised area? No, the town wasn't a good idea. He folded the paper and was about to put it down when he noticed the back page. Pangloss wasn't a football fan, but according to the article it seemed that Westphalia United were doing rather well. Maybe this was just the opportunity Pangloss was looking for. The chance to associate himself with something positive happening in the town, and meet a large group of locals all at once. Yes, he would phone them straight away.

'Hello, Westphalia United? This is the Mayor. Could I speak to the manager please.'
'OK, I'll put you through.'
'Hello, Ron Truckle,' said a rather gruff voice at the end of the line.
'Mr Truckle, it's Dr Pangloss, the Mayor. I have a space in my diary this afternoon, so thought I'd offer you my services and come and present the cup at the match this afternoon.'
'What cup?'
'Aren't you playing for a cup?'
'No, it's a league game against Steeple Bumstead.'
'Well, what do you win at the end of that?'
'Three points, if we're lucky.'
'Well, I'll present those then.'
'You don't present points. Oh, look, this is a wind up isn't? Is that you Colin?' said Truckle, starting to laugh.
'I assure you I'm serious Mr Truckle. Could I come and shoot a goal then, or meet the players? Maybe I could bully-off?'
'Look, we won't really have time for that.'
'I am the Mayor, you know.'
'Now listen here. I don't care if you're the Queen of bloody Sheba. You're not interfering with my pre-match preparations.'
'Is there perhaps someone else there I could talk to?' asked Pangloss, changing his tone a little.

After further discussion with a nice girl in the office it was agreed that Pangloss would pick the winning raffle ticket in the half-time draw. Pangloss arrived promptly and was greatly interested by all that went on, particularly the singing. Apparently the cafe had run out of pies, and one section of the crowd wanted to know where they had gone. They seemed to suspect a large steward had eaten them. As kick-off time approached the announcer read out the Westphalia United team: 'In goal, Tom Pearce. At the back Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney and Peter Davey. In midfield Daniel Whiddon, Harry Hawk and Tom Cobley. Up front, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub. On the bench, Williams, Burfitt, Courtenay and Phillips. After each player's name was read out the crowd gave an appreciative cheer. Yes, thought Pangloss, that's what I need, a little public show of affection, something to give me a boost, and demonstrate that there are plenty of people out there who agree with what I'm doing and like the way I'm doing it. These people may be revolting foul-mouthed working class football oiks, but at least they're not bloody lefties and moaning Victor Meldrew types. Feelgood factor, here we come at last.
Pangloss had to admit the match was quite exciting. He wasn't sure who was running towards each goal, but by half-time the lady next to him assured him that Westphalia were winning. Perfect thought Pangloss. I'll just pop down and get my standing ovation as the town's elected civic leader, and he made his way down on to the pitch.
The young lady from the club office shouted into the microphone: 'And here to pick the winning ticket and present the prize money is your mayor, Dr Pangloss!' Her voice rose at the end, which was a subtle hint for the crowd to cheer.
'Boo! boo! The crowd shouted with one voice. Boo! BOO!'

Pangloss's face took on the colour of a slapped arse, and he smiled the uncomfortable smile of someone trying to ignore three and a half-thousand people booing them. The Steeple Bumstead fans must have thought it was hilarious.
'Goodness me, he said to the girl afterwards. Football fans, eh? They do have a jolly sense of humour.'
'Yes, agreed the girl. we haven't had that kind of reaction since the last owner was here. And you probably need the skin of a rhino in your job - what did you say you do again?'
'Oh, it doesn't matter, said Pangloss, it's really not that important now.'
'OK, said the girl. See you next time, then?'
'Hmm, yes, maybe.' replied Pangloss.

Chapter 15 In which the 'city' idea is finally unveiled

2007-10-26T17:19:00.000+01:00

'Phil's going to take centre stage with the presentation, if that all right with you,' said Derek Poundsign as he shook Pangloss's hand.
'Fine by me, said Pangloss. What's the big idea then? I'm dying to know.'
'In a word, city,' said Derek.
'City?' Repeated Pangloss.
'That's right. At the moment you've got three towns: Westphalia-on-Sea, Eastphalia and Fishhole. But..., (at this point Derek squeezed three of the fingers on his left hand together to indicate a merger) ... add the populations together, and you're talking 'city'.'
'I still don't understand. What do you mean 'city'?'
'You all become a city. Look, I know this may seem quite a radical concept for you to grasp here in the foyer, but trust me, we've had plenty of other clients who we've advised to upgrade in this way - in fact Phil has probably copied and pasted a lot of the presentation from our archives.'
'Does that mean we'll get a discount?' asked Pangloss.
'This is no time for humour, said Derek. Now let's get started - just listen to the presentation and all will become clear - the clue is in the title 'complete Structured Harmony In a Town Environment' - I think that says it all. I know it's a bit of a mouthful, but I'm sure we can come up with a snappy acronym to encapsulate what we're doing here.'
Pangloss took his seat with the rest of the great and the good of Westphalia-on-Sea.

At the end of two hours Phil Muggins came over to Pangloss, closely followed by the rest of the team. 'Well, what did you think? asked Phil.
'I thought the presentation was absolutely bloody brilliant, said Pangloss. The photos, the pastel coloured squares, the aerial shots, the comparisons, the headings, the buzz words, the diagrams and the general layout, everything was just out of this world - it was just that the idea, was, well, ... shit.'
'Praise indeed, Mr Mayor, praise indeed, said Derek. I must say it's gratifying to have a client really appreciate what we've achieved. Phil put his heart and soul into this project - practically wore that thesaurus out, he did, with his 'Garden City' here and his 'Creative Harbour' there.'
'Yes, but, the idea, ... it's shit.'
'Isn't it just? said Raza. I'd say it's mission accomplished. What's the matter Dr Pangloss? You look a little faint.'
'Well, it's just that all the other shitty ideas were fairly small scale, isolated. A privatised beach here, a name change and a high speed ferry there, it was all stuff that captured the imagination with its innate silliness, but was still easily forgotten, you know, tomorrow's chip paper and all that. But this, this is, well, massive.'
'We have pushed the old boat out here, I'll grant you that, said Toby. This wasn't a low budget affair by any stretch of the imagination.'
'Yes, but, I think you've gone too far. People aren't going to forget this. It includes the whole of the Cote de Westphalia.'
'New Cote de Westphalia, corrected Phil. We popped another name change in.'
'Two name changes in as many months? Isn't that taking the piss?' asked Pangloss.
'We prefer the term 'an upgraded rebrand initiative based on market projection', but I concede that that may have been interpreted as urine extraction by a small cross-section of the audience,' said Phil.
The colour continued to drain from Pangloss's face.
'I think I need a brandy. This project is going to haunt me. It could finish me.'
'Now, now, don't be all doom and gloom. Let's have a look at the caveats; that'll cheer you up,' said Derek.
'The caveats? What do you mean?'
'The caveats. The little phrases and semantic markers we spread across the presentation so that on closer inspection everyone realises that it's never going to happen. You wouldn't give a presentation of this magnitude without caveats. They're our starting point - list your caveats and work backwards - first rule of consultancy, that is. Raza, be a love and read out the caveats, would you? Dr Pangloss is feeling poorly.'
'Sure, here they are. Right, let's have a look. OK, in no particular order ... other such visions had gathered dust ... bloodying a few noses ... a bold, imaginative step ... bold political leadership and bravery ... head above the parapet ... documents were still a work in progress ... not about imposing their ideas ... would take decades to achieve ... difficult projects which do involve a step change ... is not about re-branding ... getting Westphalia-on-Sea on the radar of investors ... Westphalia-on-Sea's track record at making changes is not very good ... scientific research suggested the climate of the traditional holiday destinations like the Mediterranean would be too hot for tourists ..., I think that's about it.'
'Thank you Raza, said Derek. Now doesn't that make you feel better, Dr Pangloss? Do you see what Phil has very cleverly done? Firstly he's used the language of the battlefield: from medieval parapets to the bloody noses of good old-fashioned pugilism, and then on to World War Two radars. He's been contradictory: he's said it's not about rebranding. Any definite promise of inward investment? Of course not - he says you'll be a little green 'blip' on the very small screen of a man several miles away. He's pointed out that lots of change is needed, and then he's told you how crap you all are at changing. And did he promise it would happen soon? No - he said it would take decades. And to cap it all off he's thrown the sheer lunacy of climate change into the mix. Hmm, don't know if that last bit was strictly necessary Phil.'
'Yeah, sorry boss. I was on a bit of a roll by that stage - caffeine overdose maybe.'
'Yes, well just be a bit more careful next time. I mean, telling them to sit tight and wait for the fucking Med to overheat. Ker-rist! Anyone who swallows that should be in a bloody straightjacket. I'm surprised you didn't tell them that if the wind decides to blow the other way they'd soon be living in a ski resort.'
'Well, that does have an attractive win-win feel to it, boss.'
'Hmm, yes, I suppose it does. OK, sorry, Phil, I take it back. I think Dr Pangloss's demeanour is unsettling me a little. Anyway Dr Pangloss, I think you'll agree that anyone who takes the time to reread our proposal will see that none of this is actually going to happen; I mean he did say decades, plural. That could be nine decades. Relax, you've got nothing to worry about.'
Pangloss was less than convinced. He had an awful feeling that even the dimmest Westphalian would greet this idea with, at best, lukewarm condescension.
Just as he was turning to go he heard his name being called, and turned around to see Charlie Windsor coming towards him. Charlie was the Conservative prospective parliamentary candidate for Westphalia-on-Sea, so they were on the same side, but the last thing Pangloss needed was someone else pointing out how shit the whole project was.
'Great ideas!' he shouted before Pangloss could even say hello.
'Really?' said Pangloss tentatively.
'Top drawer. Did you see those pastel coloured squares? And the aerial photos on a sunny day? I can see you and your team mean business. These bright sparks must be costing a pretty penny, I'll wager. Don't worry, he said, tapping the side of his nose knowingly, no names no pack drill. Mum's the word, eh? Great turns of phrase as well, almost poetic; now what was it? Oh yes, 'The Cote de Westphalia is a very dispersed low density urban model' and 'a City with intensely developed compact urban hubs'. Blimey, if I could come out with stuff like that I reckon the election would be in the bag. That's what people want to hear about, not who's going to rebuild the seafront and why are there turds being washed up on the beach. No, they want to go to bed in a town and wake up in a city! Pangloss, I am delighted to see that you have now launched the clear vision for our future that we have been crying out for.'
Pangloss mumbled 'thanks Charlie', and walked out to his waiting car.

Chapter 14 In which Pangloss remembers the good old days

2007-10-26T09:02:00.000+01:00

Henry Charles Albert David Pangloss jumped out of bed with exceptional gusto. Today was the day of the big meeting with all the councillors and local bigwigs, where the consultants would present the next big idea, and after the success of the last meeting he was looking forward to it with relish. The only lingering doubt was whose idea would they actually say it was? Was it the consultants' idea, so that was why they were presenting it, or would they say it was actually the Mayor's idea? Hmm, tricky; people might say 'but if it's the Mayor's idea, why are we paying for consultants?' Yes, and knowing what a bunch of miserable, whining, po-faced, overly-critical and downright ungrateful malcontents the majority of Westphalians had turned out to be he could just see that happening. Yes, they'd be scrabbling for their pens and paper before the end of the presentation. Some of them wrote to the newspaper so often with their bloody lefty agenda that he almost knew their names. What was that old twat who really got under his skin called? Ditchling? Ditchlow? Scratchlow? Oh, he couldn't remember. It didn't matter; he'd get his comeuppance along with the rest of them, after this. Whichever way they presented it, it would sound impressive. It would be a new ... what was the word? Outlook. No, that didn't sound quite right. Perspective? No, too arty-farty. View? No, too mundane, and too short. Vision? Hmm, possible. Hang on though, weren't visions things that people had when they were going a bit loopy? He didn't want his term in office shortened prematurely by someone coming round and quoting the Mental Health Act at him. Probably best to leave the final decision to the consultants.

Pangloss decided he wasn't going to let these minor concerns spoil his big day. He would be as proud as he was when he received his degree from that seat of great learning all those years ago. He could hear the words of the Australian Vice-Chancellor ringing in his ears as if it were yesterday: 'By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Universita Committeeatum E Pluribus Unum, I hereby confer upon you the honorary degree of Th.D. - Doctor of Thinkology.' A proud moment indeed. For a moment he was lost in a reverie of his student days, when, being something of a movie buff, he had been president of the film society. Pangloss glanced in the mirror. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days but still looked pretty good for his age. In fact the stubble gave him that mean chiselled look that had earned him his nickname at university - 'Dirty Harry'.
He put on his best gravelly voice and snarled at his reflection: 'I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?'
'Ahh, the good old days,' Pangloss sighed to himself. Thinking of that degree ceremony, he wondered what that smart arse from the Biology department was doing now? He used to keep Pangloss up half the night playing Bruce bloody Springsteen. Something insignificant, no doubt. And he'd probably lost most of his hair. One thing was for certain - he wouldn't have risen to the lofty position of Mayor, oh no. Wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't hack life in the UK and had had to emigrate to some colonial backwater. Yes, he'd like to see him at a reunion, sidle up to him and say something like 'So Griffiths, what are you up to these days? I'm the Mayor of Westphalia-on-Sea, you know, giving something back to society. And where did all that biology get you? Don't suppose you've found a cure for cancer, have you?'
Yes, that would take the old slaphead down a peg or two, he chuckled to himself.

Chapter 13 In which Pangloss finds out there is very little cause and effect on a consultant's invoice

2007-10-25T20:48:00.000+01:00

In the days after Pangloss's 'final solution' to ending the chav problem in Westphalia-on-Sea was reported in the Westphalia Express all Hell broke loose. Not only were the usual suspects writing to the paper to point out that Pangloss's 'final solution' wouldn't work, but the Director of the Westphalia-on-Sea Hotels' Association publicly declared that he too thought the Mayor had possibly been a little over-zealous with some of his 'repopulation' plans.

Pangloss was snoozing in his chair in his office at the Town Hall when the phone woke him. He didn't usually nap at work, but last night he had slept fitfully after a nightmare, and had woken feeling decidedly unrefreshed. In the dream he was being chased along the seafront by three large palm trees with particularly sharp fronds. He had only escaped by rushing into a newly built casino. 'Hello, Dr Pangloss here' he said groggily into the mouthpiece.
'Pangloss, it's Toby from Complete C-'
'I know who you work for,' interrupted Pangloss. 'What do you want?'
'I just wanted to congratulate you on your 'final solution' and the discord it provoked.' replied Toby.
'You do?' Said Pangloss. I was beginning to regret it now that Mr Twist from the Hotels' Association has publicly disagreed with me.'
'Nonsense, conflict is brilliant. Takes everybody's mind off the last daft story. By this time next week nobody will remember that we were going to change 'Cote de Westphalia' to just 'Phalia'.'
'Do you think so?'
'I know so. Who did you say this Twist character was, anyway?'
'Director of the Hotels' Association.'
'Director? Director? I bet he couldn't direct piss into a bucket,' said Toby.
'Oh, that's a bit harsh, began Pangloss. With all the toilets being closed for so long he's probably had a bit of practice. I'm sure that with something with a fairly wide rim ...'
'It's a just a figure of speech, interrupted Toby, rather exasperated.
'Oh, I see. So you thought I did well, did you?'
'When your time as Mayor is over I can see a great future for you in the consultancy game. As a matter of fact we bumped into a local consultant when we down there last time. Bet she could do with an assistant. Now what was her name ...? She seemed to be quite well connected.'
'Yes, well my time as Mayor has a while yet to run, so there's no need to dwell on that now,' said Pangloss.
'Ok, well is everything ready for our big presentation next week? You've booked the hotel, I take it?'
'Oh yes, I requested everything you asked for.'
'Did you remember we want the orange juice with the bits in for breakfast?
'Yes.'
'And Kellogg's Fruit and Fibre. Not some random supermarket own brand.'
'Yes.'
'And no cardboard cut-outs in the hotel?'
'Yes, I've put you in a different hotel; do you mind me asking what the big idea is for the presentation?'
'Why, of course I don't mind, old boy,' said Toby.
'Well?'
'Well what?'
'Well what's the idea?'
'Oh, we haven't come up with that yet.'
'But you said ...'
'I said I didn't mind you asking. Which I don't. Look, it might surprise you but our modus operandi is often fairly lastminute.com, if you get my drift. Enables us to lick our finger, stick it up and see which way the wind's blowing, as it were. In this game you never know when you're going to have to switch horses mid-race, and if you show your hand too soon you've had your chips. If we leave things to the very last minute, however, we can react like lightning - we'll probably finalise it on the train coming down. Anyway, I think we've decided on which number will be at the bottom of the next invoice.'
'How can you do that, if you haven't thought of what the idea is? Surely the work you do and the cost are related?'
'Oh, now you've gone and spoilt it, said Toby. There was me thinking we'd make a consultant of you, and then you come out with something like that. Tish, tish. Dr Pangloss, tish tish. One minute I was thinking you could run a busy little consultancy firm, but now - he paused, searching for the right phrase; ah yes, but now methinks you couldn't run a greasy pole up a cow's arse.'
'Why's that then?'
'Because there is absolutely no connection between a consultant's work and the figure on his bill. Everyone knows that. You can't quantify what a consultant does. Did people pay Uri Geller per 'every spoon successfully bent'? Of course they didn't. He was paid to turn up and fill up a bit of TV time. Remember when he said he'd stopped Big Ben, just after it had stopped?' Remember when he said he had moved the ball off the penalty spot in that Scotland game, just after the ball had moved off the penalty spot? Marvellous. What you can do with a gullible audience, eh?
'Yes, but didn't everyone know that Uri Geller was a fake?'
'Everyone except that football team that went down the toilet, apparently. Now what were they called? Oh, it doesn't matter. Anyway, we're just like Uri. We'll come in, spout some rubbish, arse about with some graphics, get the bloody job done and get out.'
'But you said you'd finish it on the train. How can you prepare graphics on the train?'
'We can't -we'll just bring a selection: Cape Town, Dubai, Monte Carlo, then we'll just work them into the presentation. Probably won't actually need any of Westphalia-on-Sea, come to think of it. Anyway must dash - see you next week.'

Chapter 12 In which Pangloss hatches a plan for socio-economic cleansing

2007-10-23T23:21:00.000+01:00

Initially having consultants to assist with the running of Westphalia-on-Sea had been a great help to Pangloss, but as he gradually adapted to the system he began to feel rather emasculated. To put it bluntly, he was annoyed with himself for having grown overly dependent on Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. Over breakfast one morning he reminded himself that he was (a) the Mayor,and (b) an ideas man, and that although 26 big ideas a year might be over-ambitious, he could certainly have one or two from time to time. In search of inspiration he thought back to the time before he had hired the consultants - how was his mind working then? Of course, back then everything he did was intended to attract high-spending high-class visitors; perhaps it was time to cast his net again and try and catch some of those elusive elites? While still not absolutely sure what attracted high-spending high-class visitors, he did know a few things that didn't attract them. One was low-spending low-class visitors - the two simply didn't mix. Another was coachloads of old-age pensioners. What benefit were they exactly to Westphalia-on-Sea? All they did was clog up the roads. They had no money. You were lucky if they bought a couple of postcards and a bloody teatowel, and they were all in bed by nine o'clock.
'Chairman Miaow, I think it's time we made a list, Pangloss announced to his feline companion, of all the undesirable social groups that we need to eliminate from Westphalia-on-Sea if I am to achieve my goal of a new order of elite rebranded free-market trickle-down wealth-delivering tourist economy fit for the twenty-first century.'
From his extensive knowledge of current affairs Pangloss knew that the phrase 'ethnic cleansing' usually attracted a fair bit of bad press for the perpetrators, and he was pretty sure even a firm of top-drawer consultants would have trouble putting a positive spin on that kind of provocative language. No, what he had in mind was a much more media-friendly policy which he would call 'socio-economic cleansing'.

He took out a notepad. Right, who'll be first? he thought. That's easy, those low-lifes ... now what did everyone call them? Oh yes, Chavs. He wrote it at the top of a new page. Hmm, better jot down a few reasons as well, I suppose, just in case I have to justify my new strategy. He put the pencil back on the page, but his mind had temporarily gone blank. He chewed the end of the pencil and looked at Chairman Miaow for inspiration. The cat looked back at him, then closed its eyes. Oh, I'll come back to that, thought Pangloss. He knew there was a very good reason why he didn't want Chavs running around Westphalia-on-Sea, but he couldn't quite put it into words at this very moment. Next category; stag and hen parties. Yes, no question about that. All those hideous women pushing some woefully under-dressed girl around in a shopping trolley with 'L' plates on it. Hang on, wouldn't they come under 'Chavs' anyway? What about stag parties? They often had a bit of a rugby/city boy feel, so they weren't Chavs. A lot were probably middle class. Some might even be upper-class. Blimey, thought Pangloss, this is more difficult than I'd first thought. Young farmers? - middle class? Hmm, depended how much land their parents (the old farmers) had, he supposed.

Pangloss began to wonder if a Venn diagram would be a better way of getting his thoughts down on paper, instead of writing in it all down in a list. He began to sketch it out - first two intersecting circles representing Chavs and pre-wedding parties. He wrote hen parties where they overlapped. Now we're getting somewhere, he thought. He added a third circle. Young farmers who came from very small farms joined the hen parties in the 'very undesirable' section, farmers from bigger farms stayed outside the overlapping area, like the stag parties full of rugger boys, who still seemed to be welcome. Wait a minute, thought Pangloss. There are some Chavs there who are still in the 'OK' section; that can't be right. And where are the old people going to go? How many circles should a Venn diagram have anyway? He drew a new diagram with another two intersecting circles. In one circle he wrote 'old people', and in the other he wrote 'coaches', so the bit in the middle was old people on coaches - they were a definite no-no. Pangloss could feel a migrain coming on. He looked at all the scribbling before him, then sighed, ripped the page from the notebook and screwed it up. Christ, this isn't as easy as looks, he thought.
Then he wondered if a two-tier system would work. Chavs, old people on coaches, young farmers from small farms and hen parties in the winter, and rich people, middle-class stag parties and wealthier young farmers in the summer. No, this was getting far too complicated, an organisational nightmare. It was time to be bold. Time to go out on a limb. No time to pussyfoot around. He glanced at the cat and smiled to himself. He had a mandate from 7% of the electorate, so he wasn't going shy away from making big decisions - he owed it to the people of Westphalia-on-Sea. He phoned the Town Hall and was put through to the Highways Department.
'Yes, this is Dr Pangloss,' he said, putting on his most impresive tone of voice. 'I want new signs made up for every entry road into the town, and this is what they should say: No Chavs, no old people on coaches, no stag or hen parties and no young farmers. Westphalia-on-Sea extends a warm welcome to the very wealthy. I'd like them in place by the end of next week. What's that? No, of course I don't want any bloody palm trees on the sign. Thank you and goodbye.' Then, flushed with the adrenaline of decision-making, Pangloss redialed, and told the editor of the Westphalia Express what he had done.
'Hmm, where do think they'll all go if they don't come here?' asked the editor.
'I really don't care, said Pangloss. Why don't we send them all the train times to some dreadful holiday camp up North?'
'Is that your final solution?' asked the editor.
'It most certainly is,' replied Pangloss. 'I want to see a completely new breed of people here - tanned, beautiful, cultured, and with a few quid in their pocket.'

Chapter 11 In which Pangloss wholeheartedly supports the by-pass

2007-10-22T23:45:00.000+01:00

Pangloss was in his office at the town hall, telephone receiver wedged between neck and shoulder as he spoke to Toby from Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions while flicking through the pages of the Westphalia Express.

'Well Toby, said Pangloss, judging by the the letters in today's Westphalia Express, your name-changing idea hasn't really bolstered my popularity among the locals.'
'The locals? The locals? sneered Toby. Who gives a flying fuck what they think? Anyway, in two weeks' time this name-change idea will be history. But in the meantime if they still question the wisdom of it you might like to point out that it wasn't so long ago that our great capital was at the arse-end of nowhere and going by the name of Londinium. Now look - rebranded as London, it's the bloody financial powerhouse of the western world. I'll give you another example: Siam. One minute it's all Yul Brynner and singing children, the next they've changed the name to Thailand and it's the sex-tourism capital of the world.'
'Yes, pondered Pangloss. I suppose those are pretty compelling arguments. Anyway, looking beyond that, do you have any new strategy initiatives for me?'
'Well, not new exactly, but we've found an issue that you're not really exploiting enough.'
'Oh really? What's that?'
'Well apparently a by-pass has been the subject of much discussion for as long as most locals can remember.'
'That's right, said Pangloss. Around the village of Dibley. I've said I'm in favour of it - was that the right thing to do?'
'Oh, absolutely right, said Toby. Apparently it will cost about £130 million and plough through swathes of green fields, so there's not much chance of it being built any time soon.'
'Oh, that is a shame.'
'On the contrary, it's a massive benefit to you; cause and effect, Dr Pangloss, cause and effect. Look, you need to point out that for all of your big ideas to be successful this road simply must be built. The effect caused by not having a new by-pass will be no success. If you stand for anything, you stand for this: a vague notion of success at some unspecified time in the future. You can now legitimately use the lack of a by-pass as the reason why everything is still utterly crap, even though you are now in charge, and have been for the last two years. And you can go on promising that everything will be fantastic as soon as the by-pass is built.'
'I see. So the by-pass is the sort of thing I can talk about from time to time when I haven't got a new big idea to unveil?'
'Now you're catching on, Dr Pangloss. Of course, the only danger will come if the road does actually look like it will get built, at which point you will have to strenuously oppose its contruction.'
'I will? Why?'
'Oh, please try to use 'ze leetle grey cells' for me on this one, Dr Pangloss. You will oppose it because it involves tarmacking over a load of fields and upsetting most of Dibley just to move a traffic jam five miles down the road. And don't you remember your party's new slogan - 'Vote blue, go green'?'
'Well, yes, I've heard the slogan, and I've seen the new tree logo. Your company didn't do that bit of rebranding, did it?'
'No, I think that was done by class 5B at All Saints Primary. Sorry, I'm joking. Just a little bitter - we'd have loved to have had a piece of that action - licence to print money. Anyway, we're losing our focus here, the point is David Cameron is green, he goes everywhere on a bike and he's got a wind turbine on the roof of his house.'
'But doesn't his briefcase travel around in a chauffeur-driven car?' asked Pangloss.
'Well, yes, but that's not the point. The point is that if there is an election on the horizon David Cameron won't want you and your bloody by-pass causing a green revolt. You've got to remember that the Dibley pensioners haven't got anything to do all day, and they love a bit of publicity. Before you know where you are they'll be boycotting Gardeners' Question Time and The Archers, and threatening to pay their council tax in old thrupenny bits they've been saving in a tin under the bed.'
'I see; so I support the by-pass now, then campaign against it as soon as there's a chance it may be built. Hmm, I just feel a bit of a fraud, you know, contemplating changing my opinion like that, just to suit my own political situation.'
'Now don't you worry about that Dr Pangloss, said Toby, reassuringly. There are plenty of politicians out there who are very happy to change their opinions at the drop of hat if they think it will benefit them. Why, I've known people start out as Liberals, change to Conservative and then bang on about being an Independent when it suits them.' They're a right bloomin' shower, an' no mistake (Toby often slipped into a faux cockney accent when the mood took him). Anyway, changing your mind about the by-pass is a long time in the future, so don't you lose any sleep over it. Goodbye Dr Pangloss.'

Chapter 10 In which Pangloss gets the consultants' first bill

2007-10-22T22:55:00.000+01:00

At the end of the meeting when the councillors and business leaders had all gone Pangloss went up to Derek Poundsign.
'I can't believe we just got away with that, said Pangloss.
'Then I'm afraid you have a lot to learn about presentations by consultants, replied Poundsign. Oh, by the way, when we checked into that hotel by the station I didn't have a sea view, so I went down to reception to complain. I was remonstrating with the manager for a good two minutes before I realised that I didn't have my glasses and I was talking to a life-size cardboard cut-out. What's that all about?'
'Hmm, yes, I've seen that, but I'm not really sure as to its purpose,' replied Pangloss.
'Well, I think you need to have a word in the guy's shell-like, and get him to remove it, otherwise the town is going to get a reputation for eccentric hotel managers. Once your town's got a reputation like that it's very difficult to get rid of.'
'OK, I'll bring it up when I next see him. Now what's your next presentation going to be on?'
'Oh, that'll be on the computer, said Derek. On Powerpoint.'
'No, I mean what will next idea be - what subject will it be on?' added Pangloss.
'Oh you don't need to worry about that. We'll dot the i's and cross the t's later. All you need to know is that the presentation will be flash. We might use a laser pointer. Do you know what that is? It's a great bit of kit. Say something stupid and people will laugh in your face. Write the same thing down , transfer it to a screen and point at it with a laser beam and people will believe it's one of the Ten Commandments. That's what I love about new technology - it has made our job so much easier. Making bullshit believable is so much easier with new technology.'
'Oh well, if you say so.'
'Oh, I do say so, Dr Pangloss, I do say so. By the way, here's the first installment of our bill.' said Derek, handing Pangloss an envelope.
Pangloss wasn't entirely sure what a heart attack felt like, but he was fairly sure he was in the early stages of one when he unfolded the bill from Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. It said £10,000.
'My God, what did they actually do for that?' thought Pangloss. He suspected the answer was very little, so he tried not to think about it too much. Oh well, he thought, there must be about 100, 000 people in Westpahlia-on-Sea, so spending ten grand of their money is just the same as asking everybody for 10p. Hmm, when you thought about it like that it wasn't much at all. Pangloss quickly resolved to consider all his future spending (particularly that going on consultants) in these terms, for the sake of his heart, if nothing else.

Chapter 9 In which the consultants present the name change idea

2007-10-22T20:04:00.000+01:00

Derek Poundsign and his team were slightly late for their meeting at the Town Hall of Westphalia-on-Sea, and Dr Pangloss was getting more than a little anxious as the minutes ticked by. Ever since he had hired the services of Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions he had not bothered to think of any new big ideas himself (what a relief!), and now he was dreading having to face a large audience with nothing to say, so when Derek and the rest of them walked through the door he greeted them like long-lost friends.
'Welcome one and all! Pleasant trip down I trust? said Pangloss, as he began shaking hands and ushering them into his office, all the time trying to exude an air of calm. OK, he said, as soon as the door was closed, we need to get started very soon, so I thought you could just outline some of your ideas to me before we start, just so it looks like I know what's going on.'

'Sure thing, said Phil Muggins. It's very simple: the focus for today is all on the name, and how it needs to be changed.'
'Change the name? asked Pangloss. What, you mean change the name of Westphalia-on-Sea?'
'Oh, God, no, said Phil. That would be crazy. In fact I'd go so far as to say that kind of thinking would be the work of an out and out mentalist. That's care-in-the-community-without-taking-your-medication kind of thinking. No, we're talking about Cote de Westphalia. That's your problem.'
'Cote de Westphalia? What's wrong with that?'
'Far too long, far too French, far too last millennium, added Raza. I could go on, but you said we haven't got long.'
'So what do you propose changing it to?'
'Phalia,' said Raza.
'Hang on, let me get this straight, said Pangloss. I've got a wide cross-section of the community including councillors and business leaders assembled in the room next door ready to hear your ideas, and the first one is just changing the name 'Cote de Westphalia' to 'Phalia'. Is that correct?'
'No,' said Phil.
'Oh, thank God for that, said Pangloss. I knew I must have got the wrong end of the stick. For a moment there I thought ...'
'No, I meant it's not the first idea, said Phil. It's the only idea.'
'Whaaat!? exclaimed Pangloss. I've got reporters in their from the Westphalia Express, and I've
promised them a story, and now you're telling me we're going to present a pointless name change to all those assembled?'
'Present and discuss, added Derek. Look, you're obviously new to consultancy. We'll do most of the talking. Phil's got some pretty convincing arguments on branding, and Raza's brought some charts and some facts and figures. It was always going to be a high-risk strategy trying to make crap ideas look good initially, but we're confident we can string this drivel out for an hour or two. Just follow our lead, and say something like 'it seems a contradiction to put Cote de West in front of Phalia, because everyone knows it's on the coast and knows it's in the West. Say that we need to concentrate on what makes the place different or special, and then say that we need a strong brand to promote Phalia and not just tourism. Trust me - Phalia will be a success. Now let's get in there and kick some ass.'

Chapter 8 In which we eavesdrop on a consultancy meeting

2007-10-19T20:18:00.000+01:00

Derek Poundsign called his team of consultants into the meeting room of Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions to brief them on their new client and his requirements.

'OK, we've got a potentially very lucrative client on the line, so I want one of you to give this at least an hour of your time next week.'
A collective groan went around the room. 'Before you all start, I should say that there's an all expenses-paid weekend jolly down on the Cote de Westphalia in it for us. Now who wants to take it on?'
Raza Sharp broke the silence. 'What exactly do they want?'
'It's more a 'he' than they. As I understand it the Mayor down there is playing personality politics but his flow of dynamic initiatives for the press is in danger of drying up. He needs us to come up with a few headline-grabbing turkeys just to take the heat off him. We need to kick start things for him at a meeting with the council.'
'Why don't we start with the old rebranding trick? - that's always a pretty safe bet, suggested Raza.
'That's OK for most firms, but a town? Changing a logo's one thing, but we can't exactly suggest a change of name, can we?
'Why not? said Toby Throgmorton. It worked for Casterbridge, didn't it? That's Dorchester now.'
'No. It never was Casterbridge. That was just in a book. It was a fictitious town based on Dorchester - The Mayor of Bloody Casterbridge,' said Raza.
'Oh yeah, Oliver Hardy. I remember now.'
'Whatever. Anyway we're getting off the point, said Derek. But look, it might just work; this guy sounded pretty desperate.'
'Where's he the mayor of, then?'
'Westphalia-on-Sea. You know, on the Cote de Westphalia.'
'Well, that's it then, said Raza. Cote de Westphalia, that's five syllables - we tell them that's too much of a mouthful. Needs to be shortened to Phalia. 'Cote de' is much too French, and 'West' is superfluous - we all know it's in the West. Phalia is snappy, two syllables, streamlined, much more 21st century. Think of some words to combine it with. Off the top of my head, the town centre could be renamed 'Heart Phalia', the trading estate could be 'Business Phalia' and they could have a new wind farm called 'Power Phalia'. Who'd book a holiday to somewhere with 5 syllables in the name? Toby, make up some stats showing people are more likely to go to places with two syllables in the name. Let's have pie charts and bar charts, but I want them in pastel shades - no primary colours - we're not bloody amateurs.'
'Right you are.'
'Hold on, hold on, said Phil Muggins, who up to now had been silent. You're all going way too fast. This project has got 'slowburn' written all over it. We don't want to go in all bells and whistles right at the first meeting - we'll just create more work for ourselves in the long run. I say we go with Raza's name change idea, but do it very low tech. Let's start with a brainstorming session, get a bit touchy-feely with them and ask them for their opinions. Then we feed in the the new name, give them the old line about the danger of a weak brand, how you're percieved in the market, a few more supporting arguments, etc. and leave the mayor to sell it to the rest of the council. We give him our first invoice for something reasonable, say 10K, and head off for happy hour at the hotel bar, and leave him to deal with with the shitstorm over the daft name change idea.'
'I like the way you're thinking, Phil, said Derek. You've got your finger on the pulse as usual. That gives us at least four weeks before we have to come up with something more substantial. That's agreed then; rebranding bullshit for the first meeting, and then the next time we're down there we'll up the ante and put together some kind of powerpoint presentation.'

Chapter 7 In which a firm of consultants is hired

2007-10-19T16:59:00.000+01:00

Dr Pangloss liked the word 'consultation' so much he couldn't get it out of his head. He liked it because it sounded important and professional. When he looked it up in the dictionary he liked it even more: 'A discussion between people or groups before they make a decision' it said, and 'a meeting with an expert to get advice'. 'Yes, thought Pangloss, consultation is exactly what is needed in my line of work. Lots of discussions with experts before any decisions can be made, and certainly before any idea can be put into practice. He thought how he might slip it into a conversation: 'What's happening with the casino idea Dr Pangloss? - oh, it's still at the consultation stage.' 'Any news on the high speed ferry, Dr Pangloss? - Yes, we've got a consultation session scheduled for Friday.' What a marvellously ambiguous word! Just then the word 'consultant' caught his eye - 'an expert or a professional person whose job is to give help and advice on a particular subject.' A wry smile began to play on Pangloss's lips, as another idea began to take shape in his brain. He thought about the stress he had felt before old whatsisname came up with the ferry idea. Why should he, Pangloss, shoulder all the responsibility for coming up with the big ideas? He had already come up with lots, but he really needed to have a good idea about once a fortnight. Jesus Christ on a bike! That was twenty-six a year. It was an impossible task. What he needed was a consultant. No, what he needed was a team of consultants. A group of people he could pay to come up with the good ideas. Hmm, that was a point - he'd have to pay them out of the council tax money that the residents of Westphalia had paid for essential services. Oh well, this was an essential service - he simply had to have that supply of big ideas - the office of mayor depended on it. Thinking of it like that eased his conscience. Still, probably best to keep quiet about it for the moment though - let's get the consultants in, get a few good ideas kicking around and then worry about who's doing what and how much they're being paid later. And anyway, it probably wouldn't cost much anyway - how much could ideas be? It's not as if ideas are made of precious metal, or have to be hand-made by skilled craftsmen, or have to be imported from the other side of the world. No, he was sure they wouldn't cost much. Loose change. Probably pay them out of the petty cash.

He flicked through the yellow pages and stopped at consultants. They all had fairly dull names, and he wondered if they would understand his rather special situation. It wasn't as if being a mayor was a very common job, so it was unlikely there would be lots of consultants out there with expertise in the area of improving business prospects and running a town. Then his eye was drawn to a firm called Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. Well, you could have knocked Pangloss down with a feather. These were probably just the people he was looking for. He got on the phone at once. A young lady answered so quickly that Pangloss momentarily forgot why he was calling.
'Oh hello, is that the firm of complete c...'
'Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions. The voice at the other end of the line finished his sentence. It is indeed. How can I help?'
'Well, I'd like to speak to a consultant.'
'Let me see, Ms Sharp is with a client, but I think Mr Poundsign is free. I'll put you through.'
Pangloss explained his situation, and asked Mr Poundsign if he thought he'd be able to help.
'Of course we can help,' said Mr Poundsign.
'But do you fully understand the brief? The nature of the ideas I need is very specific; they must be essentially bad ideas that won't work, but presented in such a way to look fantastically exciting, dare I say, cutting edge. Eye catching. Something that could, ... er ..., produce a snappy headline or two.'
'Don't worry Mr Paintbrush, we'll sort you out.'
'It's Pangloss, actually. Dr Pangloss.'
'I do apologize, sir. It's a bad line. Where are you calling from?'
'Westphalia-on-Sea, actually.'
'Ah, the Cote de Westphalia, as I believe it's known. I've spent a few holidays down that way myself. Have they unlocked the toilets yet?'
'Er... yes ... no ... well, some of them. Look do we need to have a meeting or something?'
'Oh I don't think that'll be necessary. I know what you want - some crap ideas dressed up as good ideas.'
'Exactly. Do you think you'll be able to do it?' asked Pangloss.
'We're consultants, Dr Pangloss. It's what we do - our name alone should tell you the kind of people we are. Business and towns - it's our thing. We'll have a bit of a brainstorm, then come down at the end of next week, run a few ideas up your flagpole and see if anyone salutes them. How does that sound?'
'Fine. Shall I book a hotel room?'
'RoomS. Yes. Four doubles, I'll be bringing my team. Always looks better, especially at the beginning. Trust me, you don't want to start cutting corners and looking cheap. Five star, and sea views of course. Make the booking under Complete Commercial Upgrading & New Town Solutions, but ask them not to abbreviate; we've had that problem before. I'll be in touch. Bye.'

Chapter 6 In which a high-speed ferry service comes to the rescue

2007-10-18T19:35:00.000+01:00

Dr Pangloss could hardly sleep after his chance meeting with the mystery man from Westphalia United, such was his excitement about the philosophy of cause and effect. 'I must quickly think of another big idea, he thought, otherwise everyone will be expecting me to have a casino built, or create some new jobs somewhere.' His mind was racing. He thought about cutting unnecessary spending at the Town Hall, or making fast food outlets stop handing out polystyrene cartons which filled up the litter bins and ended up in the harbour, but he couldn't see those ideas making much of an impact in the Westphalia Express. When he arrived at work the next morning he was more than a little anxious as he had still not come up with a new big idea, but as it turned out he needn't have worried - help was on its way, albeit from a very unlikely source. The boss of the biggest bus company in the country was on his way to see him, to discuss (can you believe it readers?) a very big idea of his own. However, before I divulge the nature of this idea a little background information is necessary.

Westphalia-on-Sea was one of three towns situated on a bay. Eastphalia was next to Westphalia-on-Sea, and at the further end of the bay was the picturesque town of Fishhole, which, as the name suggested, relied on fishing for much of its income. Ever since Victorian times the area had been known as the Cote de Westphalia, because it looked a bit like a place in France called the Cote d'Azur. It was only about nine miles to drive around the coast to Fishhole from Westphalia-on-Sea, but in summer many tourists preferred to make the journey by ferry boat - it only took half an hour across the bay, and gave everyone the chance to appreciate this beautiful stretch of coastline from the sea. Once in Fishhole they could stroll around the harbour, have a crab sandwich and then take the ferry boat back again. Over the years fashions and governments came and went, but the leisurely ferry boat service had remained largely unchanged, apparently stubbornly resistant to progress. That was, of course, until now. Apparently the aforementioned boss of the bus company planned to install a high-speed ferry service from Westphalia-on-Sea to Fishhole. The words 'high-speed' leapt off the page at Pangloss. This was it. Manna from heaven. If this didn't have 'the-next-big-idea-that-was-never-going-to-happen' written all over it then he was a Dutchman. He could see the front page now: the sleek lines of a large top-of-the-range modern white ferry with his face in a little inset in the top right corner, just below the words HIGH SPEED FERRY. Maybe it could be juxtaposed with a photo of the sad old tub that took the visitors to Fishhole at the moment. He would discuss it with the editor. God, he was good at this. Was it his imagination, or were his bowels loosening ever so slightly at the excitement of it all? Pangloss got on the phone and set up the meeting with old bigwig whatsisname from the bus company. After barely 30 minutes he was saying goodbye and heading back to his desk to formulate a press release. 'Hmm, mustn't give the impression that this is actually going to happen,' he thought. He jotted down a few key phrases he thought he could use: '... proposed some interesting ideas ... must stress ... everything in early stages ... all subject to extensive consultation.' Then he read them back to himself. Great, he thought. I particularly like that word 'consultation', and the text says it all: not - going - to - happen.

As soon as the story appeared in the paper a few Westphalians were suckered into think the plan was a real one, and began pointing out its glaringly obvious flaws. The main one, of course, was that no-one really wanted to travel at high speed to or from Fishhole, because the enjoyment was in the leisurely trip across the bay, not in reaching the destination at top speed. Someone also pointed out that travelling at high speed would mean the only thing you were likely to see was spray. There were also questions about running such a service in bad weather, and last but not least, the people who ran the existing ferry service pointed out that it would put them out of business. Frankly it had all worked like a dream. Dr Pangloss closed and folded the newspaper, took his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. His cat, Chairman Miaow, was stretched out on his lap, and stirred slightly as Pangloss tickled him under the chin. 'Do you know, Chairman Miaow, he said, I've a good mind to send that fellow from the bus company a box of chocolates or something by way of a thank you for that wonderfully useless idea. Now what was his name?'

Chapter 5 In which Pangloss learns about cause and effect from the new owner of Westphalia United

2007-10-17T23:54:00.000+01:00

By the time Dr Pangloss had been in office for two years he had had so many brilliant ideas that many of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea had taken to wearing sunglasses, so bright was the future which Pangloss had promised them. Around this time some Westphalians began to suspect that Pangloss was following the now famous philosophy of cause and effect, which had been used so effectively by the previous owner of the local football team, Westphalia United.

Westphalia-on-Sea had always had a football team which from time to time enjoyed a little success. Westphalia United had a little ground which comfortably held six thousand fans, although even when they were playing other teams off the park no more than three and a half thousand Westphalians turned up to watch. One day a mysterious man arrived in town and announced that he had bought the team. Apparently he didn't have any money, but he had borrowed a little bit and he would use that money to buy a little bit of the football club. After he had bought that little bit of the club he would be allowed to take all the money out of the club and use it to buy the rest of the club, and anything else he fancied. Most of the fans of the club thought this probably wouldn't work, for the simple reason that if you want to buy something expensive you need the money to pay for it. But before anyone could think too much about this upside down logic the mystery man announced his second idea: he would build a brand new football stadium next to the sea. It would hold about 20,000 people and could be used for all sorts of things, like the Olympics. At this point most people realised the mystery man was either clinically insane or a con artist, but Pangloss was truly inspired by the man who could buy things and build things without any money. So when the mystery man turned up at the Town Hall, instead of telling him to piss off and stop wasting everybody's time, Pangloss asked him to explain again (this time very slowly and in very simple language) how the buying-things-with-no-money-system worked. At this the mystery man had to come clean with Pangloss. He told him there was no system. All he was doing, was employing the philosophy of cause and effect.

'Cause and effect is rather like what magicians call 'misdirection', he explained to Pangloss. When a magician wants to make a coin appear in something like a hanky he simply directs the gaze of the audience away from the hanky with one hand, and uses the other hand to place the coin where he wants it to appear. The effect? Magic.'

'Do you mean to tell me that magicians do not really perform magic?' exclaimed Pangloss.
He was rather depressed at learning the truth about magicians, because he was a big fan of the dramatic arts, but he was quick to see the benefits of wholeheartedly adopting the philosophy of cause and effect. He realised that rather than have just one or two ideas which could be implemented and would actually work, it was much better to have a constant stream of daring (or as some Westphalians would describe them 'barking mad') ideas which would never work and would never see the light of day. It certainly was an audacious plan, but the mystery man pointed out that it had worked for him so far.

'Does this mean you won't be building a new stadium with no money, then?' asked Pangloss.
'Of course not, laughed the mystery man. You and I will have a little walk down around the proposed site at the seafront and have our photo taken for the Westphalia Express. Then in a couple of days' time I will move on to my next big plan, which will be to bring lots excellent players from the Czech Republic to the club.'
'And you won't actually do that either?'
'Now you're getting the idea, said the mystery man. All you have to do is make sure your big new initiative is so bold that it fills up a few pages of the Westphalia Express for at least a couple of days. Once people are engrossed in the new big idea the previous big idea will be conveniently forgotten.'

It was so simple it was genius. Pangloss realised that he really was living in the best of all possible worlds. He thanked the mystery man and showed him out, then sat back in his chair, smiled to himself, and in direct contravention of council directive 4, subsection 2 paragraph 5.3, leaned back and put his feet on the desk.

Chapter 4 In which Pangloss decides that buildings and beaches should be sold for the good of all

2007-10-17T07:18:00.000+01:00

As is often the case with things you read in newspapers, after a while people began to lose interest in the idea of a second casino. There seemed to be some dispute over who would build it, and whether the government would even allow one to be built at all. This was a shame, because it was Pangloss's heartfelt belief that whoever built the casino would also rebuild the whole of the harbour, which was falling down. Anyway, the whole debate had been a terrific experience for the people of Westphalia-on-Sea , because it had proved that Pangloss was a man of action who had big ideas, so the people didn't mind that considerable amounts of their money had been spent on the project. At the offices of the Westphalia Express the photo editor was finally told to stop superimposing Pangloss's picture onto a roulette wheel.

Pangloss's next brilliant idea was to sell off an old building which belonged to the local council. Some people still said it was part of their heritage, but Pangloss said it was falling down and selling it was the best option. At this point some of residents remembered that Pangloss was an estate agent, and that if anyone knew a thing or two about selling buildings, it was him. While the debate over the old building rumbled on, Pangloss had yet another brilliant idea.

Being built around a rocky headland, Westphalia-on-Sea did not have one great big sandy beach, but several coves at the bottom of quite steep cliffs. All these coves had a picturesque charm, but one was particularly favoured by visitors and locals alike because of the quaint pub near the little rocky beach. Sitting outside that pub on a warm summer evening and watching the fishermen on the beach that Queen Victoria had once visited was one of life's great pleasures for the ordinary folk of Westphalia-on-Sea, so it was only natural that Pangloss would bring in a rich property developer to knock everything down and build an exclusive hotel complex in its place. Some of the residents aired their concerns: the little cove would lose its quaint charm forever, locals might not have access to the area, and even if they did they wouldn't be able to afford a drink there. Pangloss was beginning to think that the ungrateful plebs of Westphalia-on-Sea didn't deserve him as mayor. 'Every time I have a brilliant idea somebody from the local awkward squad raises some piffling objection, he thought to himself. Can't these jokers see that boatloads of rich people will come to Westphalia-on-Sea because of this, and masses of menial jobs will be created?' Luckily the Westphalia Express knew that Pangloss was absolutely right, and told its readers to look to the future and stop bellyaching about a silly old pub on a crappy little beach being knocked down.

Chapter 3 In which Dr Pangloss decides a second casino is urgently needed in Westphalia-on-Sea

2007-10-16T21:34:00.000+01:00

As soon as Dr Pangloss was installed as the new mayor he quickly began pouring oil on the troubled waters of the past. He said everyone on the council needed to work together, and had his photo in the Westphalia Express everyday with a caption underneath saying 'we must all work together'. Everyone agreed with this sentiment, but an unfortunate side-effect of this new unity was that the mayor and the councillors kept falling out and were constantly saying they couldn't possibly work together. Some of the 93% of Westphalia-on-Sea who hadn't supported Dr Pangloss began to think that his appointment was a very expensive waste of time, and that everything was just the same as before. But that was with hindsight, which is a wonderful thing - even Pangloss and the councillors were agreed on that. In order to silence his critics, Dr Pangloss began writing a fortnightly column in the Westphalia Express entitled 'The Best Of All Possible Worlds', in which he explained why everything was already fairly brilliant now he was in charge of Westphalia-on-Sea, and how it would be unbelievably fantastic in the future if only people would stop being negative and focus on his brilliant ideas.

Pangloss's first brilliant idea was a second casino. Westphalia-on-Sea already had a well-established fully-functioning casino, but it wasn't attracting any upmarket visitors. Maybe it was too small and not close enough to the sea. Pangloss thought a bigger casino very close to the sea would do the trick. Apparently when upmarket rich people book a holiday one of the first things they look for is a big casino near the sea. Lots of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea couldn't follow Dr Pangloss's logic on this one, and thought encouraging more gambling in an area with a lot of social deprivation might in fact be a bad idea, but they were simple folk who didn't earn fifty grand a year, so they couldn't be expected to grasp such a tricky concept, and really had no business writing to the Westphalia Express to air their simplistic and narrow-minded views.

Chapter 2 In which the people of Westphalia-on-Sea realise that superheroes are in short supply.

2007-10-16T19:47:00.000+01:00

And so there was great excitement in Westphalia-on-Sea when the idea of an elected mayor was proposed. First of all a referendum was held to see if the people really wanted a superhero-type mayor. Yes, they all cried. Well, 18,074 cried 'yes', 14,682 cried 'no' and approximately 67,000 of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea didn't bother crying anything, but let us not dwell on unseemly facts that may bring the whole democratic process into question - Westphalia-on-Sea would jolly well get its mayor.

With 14 candidates the people were spoilt for choice. There was a soldier and a sailor, but predictably no candlestick maker, as that profession had been badly hit by the invention of electricity. Some people said 'where are the superhero-type people you promised us? These are just ordinary people; there's a journalist, a nurse, a pub landlord and the bloke from the launderette.' But those people were ignored, because they were just spoiling the fun for everybody else. With so many independent candidates one of them was bound to win, and he or she would soon sort the town out, even if they weren't a self-made super-businessperson, and the story filled up lots of space in the Westphalia Express, so everybody was happy.

On the day of the election a massive 24% of the population of Westphalia-on-Sea rushed to the polls and cast their vote. When the winner was announced, it became clear that things hadn't quite gone to plan. Instead of welcoming an independent superhero into office, the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea were faced with the grin of the Conservative candidate, an estate agent named Dr Pangloss. It turned out that Pangloss had the support of only 7% of the electorate, but rules are rules, and he was still entitled to the superhero salary. 'Never mind, said the Westphalia Express. We've got a wonderful new mayor, and you, the good people of Westphalia-on-Sea should support him, and forget that you're now paying an estate agent fifty grand a year.'

Chapter 1 In which we learn how Westphalia-on-Sea went into terminal decline.

2007-10-16T10:01:00.000+01:00

Westphalia-on-Sea was once the most popular and prosperous seaside town in England. Hordes of visitors from the Midlands, the North and even Scotland would fill its hotels and guest houses every summer. By day the families would crowd onto the beach and gradually sit closer and closer together as the tide came in, not really minding that it was overcast, and ignoring the children when they said they felt little drops of rain. By night the younger revellers would crowd into the town's nightclubs and drink sensible amounts of Bacardi and Coke or Watney's Red Barrel. These were happy times, when locals and holidaymakers would bond with each other outside late-night kebab shops, and the odd dispute over a taxi or a girl was easily settled by throwing someone in the harbour. The only problem the hoteliers and pub landlords had was clearing up the occasional splash of vomit and hiding a large chunk of their profits from the taxman. It seemed as if this idyllic lifestyle would go on forever, but alas, it was not to be.

Progress and prospersity eventually brought cheap flights to those people in the North, and many decided to see whether it was possible to enjoy themselves on a sunny sandy beach abroad. To their suprise, most of them were able to adapt, and they didn't seem to miss the shingle beaches, the smell of seaweed or the occasional drizzle of Westphalia-on-Sea. Soon the only people that came to the town were the old people who weren't up to flying and liked to go everywhere by coach, and the foreign students who came to learn phrases such as 'don't you know what a queue is?' and 'give us your mobile phone or I'll smash your face in'. Everyone agreed that the situation was getting desperate, and that something needed to be done, so some of the good people of Westphalia-on-Sea took it upon themselves to find a suitable scapegoat.

It wasn't long before they settled on the local councillors. It wasn't the councillors' fault that the visitors had stopped coming, but they often argued amongst themselves and claimed an allowance for the time they spent arguing on behalf of the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea, and this seemed like a good enough reason to blame them. A small group of people said that what was needed was a kind of 'super-councillor' to make all the other councillors do the right thing and sort out all the town's problems and not ask for too much money. Luckily the local newspaper (Westphalia Express) agreed with this small group of people, so the plan went ahead. Everyone was filled with optimism - the 'super-councillor' would be called the Mayor, and he would be an independent self-made man with an impressive record in business. Because he would be a kind of super-hero, the people of Westphalia-on-Sea would have to pay him a super-hero's salary, but this would be money well spent, because he would solve all the town's problems, and you can't put a price on that.