It was around this time that Bernadette, a French girl on work experience, turned up the offices of the Westphalia Express. All the staff made her feel at home and treated her very well, and they went to some lengths to show her how a quality local newspaper was produced. Not being a native English speaker meant Bernadette only understood about 60% of what was said to her, but even so she managed to share a few jokes with the staff. However, it was working with the photographers that was most appealing - looking at photos instead of always having to try to understand what people were saying meant she could relax a little. The photos she looked at mostly featured two men. The first was quite a chilling image of a man with a thick grey moustache. The girl thought he looked rather menacing, rather like an east European dictator who would have no qualms about attaching electrodes to the genitals of any member of the local civic society who dared to try and stop his programme of building development, but the picture editor assured her that he was just a cuddly pussycat. The second man featured in hundreds of photos was a completely different kettle of fish. He wore glasses and had a big grin in most of the pictures, but on closer inspection she saw that the same man had two other kinds of facial expression. Sometimes he looked very serious, staring off into the distance, and at other times he wore a sort of glum expression, but it was the over-exaggerated face of an unhappy clown, so everyone knew he wasn't really sad. "Ee eez an 'ow you say clown?" she asked in her broken English. "Well, yes and no," said the picture editor. "We do say clown, but he is not a clown. He is the mayor. He is a very important man in this town. He does lots of good things for the people. You can ask anyone in these offices, and they will all tell you that they love him. We are all proud to live here, and proud that he is our mayor."
"I see," said the girl. "Ee eez a beet like the queen?"
"Well, I suppose, in a manner of, well, as a figurehead kind of thing then yes, perhaps he could be described in that way," stuttered the picture editor, strangely lost for words. "After all, he did give us the balloon."
"Ahh, zee balloon," said the girl. "I 'ave seen eet - eet is wonderful, n'est-ce pas? So you say it is of the mayor, or by the mayor?"
"Well, both really," replied the photo editor. "I mean he created it, he made it happen, and it defines him. To all intents and purposes the balloon is the mayor and the the mayor is the balloon."
The French girl wasn't entirely sure what the photo editor was driving at but she nodded politely, pretending to understand exactly what he meant.
That evening on her way home the girl passed the balloon, and remembered the words of the photo editor. Staring up at the large grey sphere she thought she began to understand what he had meant. As it rose into the sky it seemed as if it was looking down on the inhabitants of the town and looking after them. As the sun glinted in the sky she thought she saw the face of the mayor on the balloon. Perhaps it was the fact that she had spent the morning looking at photos of the mayor, or maybe it was the way the picture editor had waxed lyrically about the high esteem in which the mayor was held by the local populace, but in that one instant the girl really believed that the mayor had appeared to her, albeit in a gigantic rubbery form. She thought to herself how nice it must be, to be an inhabitant of this town, safe in the knowledge that he was always looking down and looking after you. For one fleeting moment it gave her a strange warm sensation all over.
Back at the offices of the Westphalia Express the next day and trying desperately to contribute to the conversation Bernadette mentioned that the mayor had appeared to her in his balloon-like form. Her comment was practically ignored by most present, but one of the more experienced hacks, with a nose for a story, pushed her for more details. What exactly had she seen? "Son visage," replied the girl, lapsing into her mother tongue under questioning. To most people with a rudimentary knowledge of French this would have indicated that she had seen 'his face', but one hack misheard it as 'song Visage', and immediately thought she was referring to the eighties' classic 'Fade to Grey' by Visage, which had lyrics in both English and French. Once he had explained the various prophetic connections (the grey balloon, the mayor fading away after the return of his deputy, the line 'Feel the rain like an English summer', etc.)to his colleagues, they were all in agreement: they had a story on their hands, and it looked like a big one. After all, it wasn't every day that someone in a sleepy seaside town had a vision of this magnitude. The Westphalians usually had to pay consultants to have their visions, and here was one that was completely free - in Westphalia-on-Sea things just don't get any better than that, particularly during a recession. The office quickly turned into a hive of activity as the hacks raced around trying to cobble together a story, when one of them (clearly brighter than the rest) wondered out loud what the commercial possibilities of this occurence might be. "Of course," said the editor. "Let's call Rhubarb & Custard, our tourism consultants, explain what has happened, and ask them how the town might profit from this."
The news from the conference call with the consultants was better than anyone could have hoped. Christine Custard said that the town needed an effing miracle to stop it disappearing down the plughole, and this was probably as close as they would get to one. She was quick to point out that the Virgin Mary had appeared 18 times at Lourdes, so it was best to get the story corroborated by a few other people. Some people were sceptical as to whether this could be done, but Ms Custard reminded them that if old people could be coerced into posing for photos wearing face masks then they could certainly be persuaded that they had seen the mayor's face on a balloon. Once that had happened a few times it would only be a matter of days before the Pope, or at the very least Ant and Dec, turned up. Westphalia-on-Sea would be transformed into a place of pilgrimage. As a mark of respect and dedication people would walk the last five miles from Newton Bumpkin on their knees, and she pointed out that hobbling along on bloodied stumps in this way might, in fact, be quicker than driving along the A380. The tired old gift shops around the harbour would be transformed - they would stock bottles of local 'Blue Flag' seawater in balloon-shaped bottles, with the words 'Mayoral Waters' on the front and the words 'Not to come into contact with the skin or eyes' on the back, above a triangle with a skull and crossbones on it. After the initial excitement about the mayor's face on the balloon had subsided it would be time for a few local 'healing' stories. According to Christine Custard the Roman Catholic Church has officially recognized 67 miraculous healings at Lourdes, so the Westphalians had a bit of catching up to do if they wanted to give those Frogs a run for their money, but Christine was confident that with the right kind of consultancy firm at the helm this figure could easily be bettered, particularly now that we were in the digital age. It would, of course, involve some significant extra outlay by the council at first, but this was only to be expected; after all, we had moved from mere run-of-the-mill consultancy to visions, healings, and some serious rebranding, and no-one in their right mind could expect that to come cheap.
Chapter 70 In which the Cote de Westphalia gears up for the summer and welcomes back the prodigal son
Spring in Westphalia-on-Sea was always a time of mixed emotions for the residents. On the positive side the sun occasionally came out and the days grew longer, but this was always tinged with a feeling of apprehension: would it be a good summer? Would the visitors come back? Would they like what they saw? And would the roads all be dug up in time to make the place look like a building site before the tourists arrived? Of course, this year it wasn't just Westphalia-on-Sea that was in danger of economic meltdown - it was the whole country, and in times of national strife the one thing a country needs is effective leadership. Britain might look very different today were it not for the rousing speeches of Churchill. He talked about fighting on the beaches, and stuck barbed wire and land mines on them just to show everyone he was serious. The council in Westphalia-on-Sea hadn't quite gone that far, and had just stuck up a few 'beach closed' signs and half-heartedly cordoned off a few beaches with what looked like bits of junk someone had found at the back of their shed, but the sense of pride and patriotism that it inspired in the locals was just the same as it was during the dark days of the blitz. Impressed by these bold acts of leadership, the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea rallied around their illustrious mayor, Dr Pangloss, as things began to get tough. However bleak the future looked, the residents never wavered in their belief that Dr Pangloss and his band of merry commissioners would lead them from misery into the promised land. Once things got tight and savings had to be made from the public purse the people were thankful that it was the layabouts who helped in schools and picked up the odd bit of rubbish that bore the brunt of the cutbacks. It seemed only right and proper that the CEO, the mayor, his deputy and those aforementioned commissoners were not penalised in the pocket, because they were the unsung heroes who slogged away at their desks day-in day-out and applied Solomon-like wisdom to everyday problems, and were largely responsible for making Westphalia-on-Sea such a wonderful place. Hot on the heels of all this mayoral euphoria was the wonderful news that that old political warhorse, Ahmad Hatter, was back with a steady hand on the tiller leading the Tories again. Yes, he was truly the missing link, in the sense that he was back in place and part of the 'dream team', along with the mayor and the councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups. Not the missing link in the sense of an ape-like creature who seemed to have jumped off the evolutionary scale a bit too early. It seemed that Ahmad Hatter's problem in the past was that he had not been soft and cuddly enough. This time he promised to be as soft and cuddly as a cardboard box full of abandoned kittens. As you can imagine, dear reader, this news caused most Westphalians to shed tears of joy and hold impromptu street parties, because the one thing they craved more than anything during these dark times was a soft and cuddly deputy mayor.
While the unwanted deputy mayor had been away in the political wilderness the mayor and the councillor FUC-U had been extremely busy. The mayor had hired yet more consultants to grapple with the thorny subject of branding. Apparently what was keeping the tourists away from the Cote de Westphalia was not the crap weather or the lack of facilities, but the name. It might be wrong and might need to be changed, but nobody could be 100% sure until further surveys, meetings and brainstorming sessions had been carried out, but one thing was certain - these consultants would finally, once and for all, get to the bottom of this bloody name business, even if it meant they had to bill the council for an extra six months. At the same time it would finally be decided whether Westphalia-on-Sea wanted old tourists who came by coach, working-class tourists who came by car, or rich tourists who came by boat. And then they would decide whether they wanted more hotels or fewer hotels, and whether they should be cheap hotels or expensive hotels. The mayor had a good feeling about these consultants, and he should know, because he had an ever-growing knowledge of consultants and their hefty fees. He felt this bunch were really on the ball, and would come up with some good findings. While the consultants were busy coming up with revolutionary outside-the-box thinking that would bring the tourists back, a firm of architects was busy sketching a 21st-century landmark for the harbour. Apparently it had been decided by the locals that what they really wanted at the harbour was another hotel/luxury flats complex, but this time one which towered above the tatty Victorian monstrosities below. And at ground level they wanted more shops and another cinema. It was a genius idea, and the residents were supremely lucky that the mayor had appointed a firm which could deliver this combination of building and engineering on a scale that would have filled Brunel or Wren with pride. As the locals looked at the plans in wonderment they could almost hear the tourists on the A38 saying: 'A four-storey hotel and apartment complex with retail outlets and a cinema? I don't believe it can be done! Why let's make a detour and see this wonder for ourselves, and then stroll along the harbour eating caviar and lobster thermidor from pages of Tatler magazine.'
But let us not allow these mighty mayoral achievements to overshadow the dilligent work of the councillor FUC-U. First he had been busy sticking parking meters everywhere, because he said people would be attracted to the town if they knew it was expensive to park. Then he decided to reduce the cost of the car parks, because he said people would be attracted to the town if they knew it was cheap to park. Some people said he must be clinically insane, but others contended that he was a misunderstood genius, and pointed out that even Einstein had never really got to grips with the concept of parking meters. They said that with this system everyone was a winner - the tourists could choose whether they wanted to park where it was expensive or cheap, and the council and the traffic wardens were happy because nobody really understood when the charges applied and they could carry on throwing parking tickets around like confetti. Yes, when Ahmad Hatter looked at the confused mess around him he could see his two colleagues had been very busy, and that he would really have to pull out the stops to make his mark the second time around.
While the unwanted deputy mayor had been away in the political wilderness the mayor and the councillor FUC-U had been extremely busy. The mayor had hired yet more consultants to grapple with the thorny subject of branding. Apparently what was keeping the tourists away from the Cote de Westphalia was not the crap weather or the lack of facilities, but the name. It might be wrong and might need to be changed, but nobody could be 100% sure until further surveys, meetings and brainstorming sessions had been carried out, but one thing was certain - these consultants would finally, once and for all, get to the bottom of this bloody name business, even if it meant they had to bill the council for an extra six months. At the same time it would finally be decided whether Westphalia-on-Sea wanted old tourists who came by coach, working-class tourists who came by car, or rich tourists who came by boat. And then they would decide whether they wanted more hotels or fewer hotels, and whether they should be cheap hotels or expensive hotels. The mayor had a good feeling about these consultants, and he should know, because he had an ever-growing knowledge of consultants and their hefty fees. He felt this bunch were really on the ball, and would come up with some good findings. While the consultants were busy coming up with revolutionary outside-the-box thinking that would bring the tourists back, a firm of architects was busy sketching a 21st-century landmark for the harbour. Apparently it had been decided by the locals that what they really wanted at the harbour was another hotel/luxury flats complex, but this time one which towered above the tatty Victorian monstrosities below. And at ground level they wanted more shops and another cinema. It was a genius idea, and the residents were supremely lucky that the mayor had appointed a firm which could deliver this combination of building and engineering on a scale that would have filled Brunel or Wren with pride. As the locals looked at the plans in wonderment they could almost hear the tourists on the A38 saying: 'A four-storey hotel and apartment complex with retail outlets and a cinema? I don't believe it can be done! Why let's make a detour and see this wonder for ourselves, and then stroll along the harbour eating caviar and lobster thermidor from pages of Tatler magazine.'
But let us not allow these mighty mayoral achievements to overshadow the dilligent work of the councillor FUC-U. First he had been busy sticking parking meters everywhere, because he said people would be attracted to the town if they knew it was expensive to park. Then he decided to reduce the cost of the car parks, because he said people would be attracted to the town if they knew it was cheap to park. Some people said he must be clinically insane, but others contended that he was a misunderstood genius, and pointed out that even Einstein had never really got to grips with the concept of parking meters. They said that with this system everyone was a winner - the tourists could choose whether they wanted to park where it was expensive or cheap, and the council and the traffic wardens were happy because nobody really understood when the charges applied and they could carry on throwing parking tickets around like confetti. Yes, when Ahmad Hatter looked at the confused mess around him he could see his two colleagues had been very busy, and that he would really have to pull out the stops to make his mark the second time around.
Chapter 69 In which new consultants arrive with some new brand ideas
"Come in, come in," said a welcoming Dr Pangloss as he ushered his latest consultant into his office.
"What was it you wanted to see me about?" asked the slightly bemused Christine Custard, head of Rhubarb & Custard, the firm of consultants which had won the contract to draw up the Cote de Westphalia's latest tourism strategy.
"Well, I just wanted a sneak preview of what you are going to say in your tourism briefing at the Conference, Recreation And Performance Centre - what are you going to say to the good people who turn up at the C.R.A.P. Centre to listen to your words of wisdom?"
"Well we'll start by saying that we can turn the Cote de Westphalia's tourism industry around within five years, and that the place has the potential to become Britain's premier resort."
"Blimey, that's optimistic," gasped Pangloss, as a shrill whistle escaped his lips. "Can it really be done?"
"Oh yes, we believe the place could be Britain's premier resort within five to 10 years."
"Hang on," said Pangloss, "you said 'within five years' just now ..."
"Five years? Ten years? What's the difference?" asked Ms Custard.
"Well it's double, isn't it? That's quite an important detail, I'd have thought."
"Details, shmee-tails, who give's a rat's ass? Don't start trying to pin me down on details. I'm here to give a powerpoint presentation, to show people the bigger picture."
"But I thought the Devil was in the detail. I used to say that a lot."
"Not in consultancy, my friend, not in consultancy. The best consultancy is a pure art form. It is not infected with the ugly contaminating force of details. I'll thank you not to mention details again."
"Oh, OK," said a rather chastised Pangloss.
"Early on in the talk I'll throw in the old branding issue and say that needs to be tackled."
"Oh, branding again?" remarked Pangloss. "Our last consultants said that too. They cost us a pretty penny, I can tell you."
"Which firm was that?" asked Custard, suddenly on the defensive.
"Complete Commercial Upgrades and New Town Solutions - heard of them?"
"Yeah, I think we used to call them something else, though. Now what was it? No, it's gone. Anyway, what do they know about branding? They couldn't consult their way out of a paper bag."
"Really?" said Pangloss.
"Amateurs, the lot of them. Bet they told you to change the name of the place, didn't they? Rename the station and pretend it's in the middle of the town? Become a city?"
"Well yes. they did actually. I must say I liked those idea a lot. I even had a special name for them. I called them 'my vision'."
"You what? You're having a fucking laugh, aren't you? Well, vision or not, you'd better start disliking those ideas, because they're shit."
"Blimey, right, well, you're the boss, I suppose. What are you going to do about branding then?"
"I don't know yet, do I? I'll scribble something on the back of a fag packet in a minute. Look, I'm just going to say 'your branding needs some work' for the moment, and leave it at that. No need for details; details are for pussies."
"So you're the resort's new tourism consultant - what else are you going to say to the business people at the special tourism presentation?"
"I'll say 'You have to embrace the importance of this review because changes are happening,' and 'if you don't embrace those changes there are going to be some quite big problems'."
"Doesn't that all sound a bit meaningless?"
"Maybe it does, but we're hired now, so I can say whatever I like. I'll go on to say that we need their support and we greatly value their input. That's coded shorthand for 'actually it's you who will have to get yourselves out of this mess, because we will just give a few presentations and then bugger off when our cheque's cleared'. I might even say that we want to help them and build on what they have achieved so far, and that they should be very proud of what they have achieved so far, but I'm not sure, because it's sounds quite condescending and will have half the audience reaching for the sick bags."
"Hm, I see what you mean. Will you be using any jargon? You know, that 'management-speak'?"
"Oh yes, how about this: 'the strategy will try to identify what is working, and then to refresh the existing with the aim of reversing the decline in numbers and visitor spend which the Bay has suffered'"
"Yes, that's great. But what does it mean?"
"It just means we'll try and find out what's wrong and then try and do something about it."
"Oh. Couldn't we just do that ourselves?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You can't have any Tom Dick or Harry walking around the place deciding what's wrong and then making cheap suggestions about how to put it right."
"Why not?"
"Because it's skilled consultancy work, that's why. You have to be able to follow it up with a powerpoint presentation and accept a big fat cheque for your troubles."
"Well, anyway, what are the solutions?"
"Don't jump the gun. We don't really focus on solutions, especially at this early stage. First we've got to have some findings."
"Findings?"
"Yes, findings. Stuff that we find out. Like the fact that you are perceived currently as having a problem with alcoholism, too many old people, and too many yobs. That will probably all go into our findings."
"But you haven't had to find that out. That's just comon knowledge. Everybody knows those things, and much more besides."
"Well, what everybody knows doesn't interest us. This isn't about what local people know - it's about the findings of a consultant. And when a consultant presents you with their findings, what do you think you have to do?"
"Er,... believe in them?" stammered Pangloss, hesitatingly.
"That's right, you're learning, you have to believe in their findings, you have to live and breathe them, they are not to gather dust on any top shelf."
"But that's where we keep our consultants' findings," protested Pangloss. "Mainly because up til now they've always been shit."
"Well, rest assured we'll come up with some good findings all right. We'll probably find that everybody goes on holiday abroad because it hotter and they can get cheap flights."
"But that's just common knowledge again. You can't charge us for saying stuff like that. It's not fair."
"Look Dr Pangloss," said Ms Custard through gritted teeth. "I'm the consultant here, not you, and I'll decide what my bloody findings are going to be, all right?"
"A-l-l right," stammered Pangloss. "There's no need to be aggressive."
"Another finding will be that between 40 and 50 per cent of shopping in tourist areas is done by visitors."
"Oh, come on, you can't be serious? You're coming to a tourist area, and telling the people who live here that half of the stuff aimed at tourists and sold in gift shops in touristy areas is bought by ... TOURISTS! You can't charge people for telling them the bleeding obvious!"
"We can and we will. In fact, we have - you've already paid the first installment. And I'll tell you something else too - you have some serious gaps in the tourism offer which are holding you back, and if you continue to allow numbers to decline, shops will continue to close."
"You don't say," said Pangloss wearily.
"Oh I do say," replied Ms Custard, "and while tourism is estimated to be worth £400million to the area, we want to research the exact figure because we believe it is higher."
"But what's the point of that? We know tourism is important. What the point of wasting time on that?"
"Because wasting time is money, Dr Pangloss. "Our time, your money. Well, your council taxpayers' money, to be precise. A bit of research is great to refer to during a presentation - always makes it seem that you know what you're talking about. The industry will be receiving a questionnaire ..."
"A questionnaire? Why not just stop any one person in the street and ask them? They'll be able to tell you. I can tell you - right now!"
"Yes, well that's as may be, but I'd rather do a questionnaire, if you don't mind. You see, questionnaires produce findings, and findings are revealed at presentations, and presentations is what consultancy is all about. So if you take away the questionnaires you won't have much left - just a finger buffet and some name badges, really. No, take away the questionnaires and you will make consultants redundant - and that cannot be allowed to happen - we are too important to society."
With that she looked at her watch. "Crikey, I'm going to be late - I really must be going."
"Yes, yes of course" mumbled Pangloss.
As Ms Custard got up to go Dr Pangloss was beginning to get that knotted feeling in his stomach again. He could see this latest hiring of a consultant being a PR disaster. He wondered if what she said would be reported in the Westphalia Express. Who was he trying to kid? - of course it would. There was only one course of action to take - he would have to call the editor and ask him not to report anything that Ms Custard said on the grounds that it would be very silly and cost a ludicrous amount of money.
He picked up the reciever and hit the speed dial button, absent-mindedly noting to himself that he could barely make out the symbol on that particular button, it having been worn away from overuse.
Ms Custard was halfway out the door when she shouted "the daft strategy should be ready by the end of May." At least that's what Pangloss thought she said.
"What was it you wanted to see me about?" asked the slightly bemused Christine Custard, head of Rhubarb & Custard, the firm of consultants which had won the contract to draw up the Cote de Westphalia's latest tourism strategy.
"Well, I just wanted a sneak preview of what you are going to say in your tourism briefing at the Conference, Recreation And Performance Centre - what are you going to say to the good people who turn up at the C.R.A.P. Centre to listen to your words of wisdom?"
"Well we'll start by saying that we can turn the Cote de Westphalia's tourism industry around within five years, and that the place has the potential to become Britain's premier resort."
"Blimey, that's optimistic," gasped Pangloss, as a shrill whistle escaped his lips. "Can it really be done?"
"Oh yes, we believe the place could be Britain's premier resort within five to 10 years."
"Hang on," said Pangloss, "you said 'within five years' just now ..."
"Five years? Ten years? What's the difference?" asked Ms Custard.
"Well it's double, isn't it? That's quite an important detail, I'd have thought."
"Details, shmee-tails, who give's a rat's ass? Don't start trying to pin me down on details. I'm here to give a powerpoint presentation, to show people the bigger picture."
"But I thought the Devil was in the detail. I used to say that a lot."
"Not in consultancy, my friend, not in consultancy. The best consultancy is a pure art form. It is not infected with the ugly contaminating force of details. I'll thank you not to mention details again."
"Oh, OK," said a rather chastised Pangloss.
"Early on in the talk I'll throw in the old branding issue and say that needs to be tackled."
"Oh, branding again?" remarked Pangloss. "Our last consultants said that too. They cost us a pretty penny, I can tell you."
"Which firm was that?" asked Custard, suddenly on the defensive.
"Complete Commercial Upgrades and New Town Solutions - heard of them?"
"Yeah, I think we used to call them something else, though. Now what was it? No, it's gone. Anyway, what do they know about branding? They couldn't consult their way out of a paper bag."
"Really?" said Pangloss.
"Amateurs, the lot of them. Bet they told you to change the name of the place, didn't they? Rename the station and pretend it's in the middle of the town? Become a city?"
"Well yes. they did actually. I must say I liked those idea a lot. I even had a special name for them. I called them 'my vision'."
"You what? You're having a fucking laugh, aren't you? Well, vision or not, you'd better start disliking those ideas, because they're shit."
"Blimey, right, well, you're the boss, I suppose. What are you going to do about branding then?"
"I don't know yet, do I? I'll scribble something on the back of a fag packet in a minute. Look, I'm just going to say 'your branding needs some work' for the moment, and leave it at that. No need for details; details are for pussies."
"So you're the resort's new tourism consultant - what else are you going to say to the business people at the special tourism presentation?"
"I'll say 'You have to embrace the importance of this review because changes are happening,' and 'if you don't embrace those changes there are going to be some quite big problems'."
"Doesn't that all sound a bit meaningless?"
"Maybe it does, but we're hired now, so I can say whatever I like. I'll go on to say that we need their support and we greatly value their input. That's coded shorthand for 'actually it's you who will have to get yourselves out of this mess, because we will just give a few presentations and then bugger off when our cheque's cleared'. I might even say that we want to help them and build on what they have achieved so far, and that they should be very proud of what they have achieved so far, but I'm not sure, because it's sounds quite condescending and will have half the audience reaching for the sick bags."
"Hm, I see what you mean. Will you be using any jargon? You know, that 'management-speak'?"
"Oh yes, how about this: 'the strategy will try to identify what is working, and then to refresh the existing with the aim of reversing the decline in numbers and visitor spend which the Bay has suffered'"
"Yes, that's great. But what does it mean?"
"It just means we'll try and find out what's wrong and then try and do something about it."
"Oh. Couldn't we just do that ourselves?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You can't have any Tom Dick or Harry walking around the place deciding what's wrong and then making cheap suggestions about how to put it right."
"Why not?"
"Because it's skilled consultancy work, that's why. You have to be able to follow it up with a powerpoint presentation and accept a big fat cheque for your troubles."
"Well, anyway, what are the solutions?"
"Don't jump the gun. We don't really focus on solutions, especially at this early stage. First we've got to have some findings."
"Findings?"
"Yes, findings. Stuff that we find out. Like the fact that you are perceived currently as having a problem with alcoholism, too many old people, and too many yobs. That will probably all go into our findings."
"But you haven't had to find that out. That's just comon knowledge. Everybody knows those things, and much more besides."
"Well, what everybody knows doesn't interest us. This isn't about what local people know - it's about the findings of a consultant. And when a consultant presents you with their findings, what do you think you have to do?"
"Er,... believe in them?" stammered Pangloss, hesitatingly.
"That's right, you're learning, you have to believe in their findings, you have to live and breathe them, they are not to gather dust on any top shelf."
"But that's where we keep our consultants' findings," protested Pangloss. "Mainly because up til now they've always been shit."
"Well, rest assured we'll come up with some good findings all right. We'll probably find that everybody goes on holiday abroad because it hotter and they can get cheap flights."
"But that's just common knowledge again. You can't charge us for saying stuff like that. It's not fair."
"Look Dr Pangloss," said Ms Custard through gritted teeth. "I'm the consultant here, not you, and I'll decide what my bloody findings are going to be, all right?"
"A-l-l right," stammered Pangloss. "There's no need to be aggressive."
"Another finding will be that between 40 and 50 per cent of shopping in tourist areas is done by visitors."
"Oh, come on, you can't be serious? You're coming to a tourist area, and telling the people who live here that half of the stuff aimed at tourists and sold in gift shops in touristy areas is bought by ... TOURISTS! You can't charge people for telling them the bleeding obvious!"
"We can and we will. In fact, we have - you've already paid the first installment. And I'll tell you something else too - you have some serious gaps in the tourism offer which are holding you back, and if you continue to allow numbers to decline, shops will continue to close."
"You don't say," said Pangloss wearily.
"Oh I do say," replied Ms Custard, "and while tourism is estimated to be worth £400million to the area, we want to research the exact figure because we believe it is higher."
"But what's the point of that? We know tourism is important. What the point of wasting time on that?"
"Because wasting time is money, Dr Pangloss. "Our time, your money. Well, your council taxpayers' money, to be precise. A bit of research is great to refer to during a presentation - always makes it seem that you know what you're talking about. The industry will be receiving a questionnaire ..."
"A questionnaire? Why not just stop any one person in the street and ask them? They'll be able to tell you. I can tell you - right now!"
"Yes, well that's as may be, but I'd rather do a questionnaire, if you don't mind. You see, questionnaires produce findings, and findings are revealed at presentations, and presentations is what consultancy is all about. So if you take away the questionnaires you won't have much left - just a finger buffet and some name badges, really. No, take away the questionnaires and you will make consultants redundant - and that cannot be allowed to happen - we are too important to society."
With that she looked at her watch. "Crikey, I'm going to be late - I really must be going."
"Yes, yes of course" mumbled Pangloss.
As Ms Custard got up to go Dr Pangloss was beginning to get that knotted feeling in his stomach again. He could see this latest hiring of a consultant being a PR disaster. He wondered if what she said would be reported in the Westphalia Express. Who was he trying to kid? - of course it would. There was only one course of action to take - he would have to call the editor and ask him not to report anything that Ms Custard said on the grounds that it would be very silly and cost a ludicrous amount of money.
He picked up the reciever and hit the speed dial button, absent-mindedly noting to himself that he could barely make out the symbol on that particular button, it having been worn away from overuse.
Ms Custard was halfway out the door when she shouted "the daft strategy should be ready by the end of May." At least that's what Pangloss thought she said.
Chapter 68 In which Dr Pangloss unveils the poster campaign
'OK everyone, let's move on to any other business.'
Dr Pangloss was getting to the end of yet another meeting where not much had been discussed except the Civic Chairman's car and his ceremonial chains.
'If I might start things off, I'd like to update you on a poster initiative which we have invested in to try and kickstart the tourist appeal of the Cote de Westphalia. As you know, we aren't going to sit idly by and watch our beloved town crumble before it's even had a chance to become a city, and with that in mind we've had our graphics department come up with a series of posters which sum up all that is wonderful about the area. We hope to get these on display all around the country as soon as possible, but I thought you privileged people would like to have a sneak preview first.'
Dr Pangloss, with the help of his able deputy Ahmad Hatter, began unrolling four tubes of shiny paper. A collective gasp went around the table as the posters were unveiled.
'OK, now I think I should just say a few words about the thinking behind these images,' continued Dr Pangloss. 'The first one is fairly self-evident. We have the highest teen pregnancy figures for the Westcountry, and this is something we should be celebrating. It's not often we come first in anything, so let's make the most of it, I say - it seems that our youngsters are the most fertile in the country! Now the second poster is a reaction to the call for a gay initiative. You're all aware of the idea for a new fast ferry service across the Bay, and it was going to be called Bay Fast. Well, I say let's take this idea by the scruff of the neck and get the ferry painted pink and call it Gay Fast. Now this proposal is very much at the 'idea stage' at the moment, but I will be in touch with the boss of the company running the ferry very soon to put this to him, and frankly I can't see much resistance to it. In this day and age everyone wants to be 'gay friendly', and I'm sure the pink pound will be very welcome on the ferry, so it should just be a matter of rubber stamping this brilliant idea and finding a nice shade of pink that is waterproof. Poster number three advertises our very successful parking meter programme. As you are all aware, parking meters have encouraged people to shop in our towns and park on our seafronts. At last people know they will be able to find a parking space, and they are flocking back to our town centres to see if any of the shops are still open, happy in the knowledge that their money is being used by the council for the upkeep of our car parks. I think this poster will generate the same kind of interest the length and breadth of the country. I mean, wouldn't you book a holiday somewhere where you could be sure of finding a parking meter? I know I would, if I didn't holiday abroad. And finally poster number four. This one celebrates the diversity of our local weather system. People from up north with nasty pale freckly skin don't want the sun relentlessly beating down on them for days on end, so this one reminds them that a cool refreshing shower is not unheard of on the Cote de Westphalia. And in keeping with the gay-friendly theme, notice how the silhouette is very definitely of a non-specific gender - yes, it's probably a man, but it could also be a big butch lezzer, so we're covering all the bases there, and ticking all the PC boxes. Never let it be said that Dr Panglossor or the Cote de Westphalia is anti-gay. And of course the fixed penalty notice is a gentle reminder to people to read the parking notices very carefully, or we'll be taking all their holiday money off them before they can say 'Hang on, why have all the shops closed down?' or 'That's the last time I'm coming to this shithole'.
With that Dr Pangloss took a sip of water and continued: 'And last but not least, some of you may remember that I wanted to attract a better class of tourist to the area. Well, apparently there were legal problems with my idea to turn all the lower class people back when they got as far as Newton Bumpkin, so instead we've had to compromise - we shall shortly be installing these signs around all the main tourist areas, apart from the bits which are already cordoned off with tarpaulin and makeshift fencing.'
With that Dr Pangloss reached under the desk and pulled out a sign and held it up to the assembled gathering. It said:
He left the posters on the table where the councillors could further examine them, and generally wonder at their artistic brilliance. And if you would like a closer look, dear reader, you have only to left click once on the images. Who knows , you may choose to print one off for your wall, window or office door, just to show that you support this bold tourist initiative. And you could also sign in add your name to the list of readers on the new facility on the left.
Dr Pangloss was getting to the end of yet another meeting where not much had been discussed except the Civic Chairman's car and his ceremonial chains.
'If I might start things off, I'd like to update you on a poster initiative which we have invested in to try and kickstart the tourist appeal of the Cote de Westphalia. As you know, we aren't going to sit idly by and watch our beloved town crumble before it's even had a chance to become a city, and with that in mind we've had our graphics department come up with a series of posters which sum up all that is wonderful about the area. We hope to get these on display all around the country as soon as possible, but I thought you privileged people would like to have a sneak preview first.'
Dr Pangloss, with the help of his able deputy Ahmad Hatter, began unrolling four tubes of shiny paper. A collective gasp went around the table as the posters were unveiled.
'OK, now I think I should just say a few words about the thinking behind these images,' continued Dr Pangloss. 'The first one is fairly self-evident. We have the highest teen pregnancy figures for the Westcountry, and this is something we should be celebrating. It's not often we come first in anything, so let's make the most of it, I say - it seems that our youngsters are the most fertile in the country! Now the second poster is a reaction to the call for a gay initiative. You're all aware of the idea for a new fast ferry service across the Bay, and it was going to be called Bay Fast. Well, I say let's take this idea by the scruff of the neck and get the ferry painted pink and call it Gay Fast. Now this proposal is very much at the 'idea stage' at the moment, but I will be in touch with the boss of the company running the ferry very soon to put this to him, and frankly I can't see much resistance to it. In this day and age everyone wants to be 'gay friendly', and I'm sure the pink pound will be very welcome on the ferry, so it should just be a matter of rubber stamping this brilliant idea and finding a nice shade of pink that is waterproof. Poster number three advertises our very successful parking meter programme. As you are all aware, parking meters have encouraged people to shop in our towns and park on our seafronts. At last people know they will be able to find a parking space, and they are flocking back to our town centres to see if any of the shops are still open, happy in the knowledge that their money is being used by the council for the upkeep of our car parks. I think this poster will generate the same kind of interest the length and breadth of the country. I mean, wouldn't you book a holiday somewhere where you could be sure of finding a parking meter? I know I would, if I didn't holiday abroad. And finally poster number four. This one celebrates the diversity of our local weather system. People from up north with nasty pale freckly skin don't want the sun relentlessly beating down on them for days on end, so this one reminds them that a cool refreshing shower is not unheard of on the Cote de Westphalia. And in keeping with the gay-friendly theme, notice how the silhouette is very definitely of a non-specific gender - yes, it's probably a man, but it could also be a big butch lezzer, so we're covering all the bases there, and ticking all the PC boxes. Never let it be said that Dr Panglossor or the Cote de Westphalia is anti-gay. And of course the fixed penalty notice is a gentle reminder to people to read the parking notices very carefully, or we'll be taking all their holiday money off them before they can say 'Hang on, why have all the shops closed down?' or 'That's the last time I'm coming to this shithole'.
With that Dr Pangloss took a sip of water and continued: 'And last but not least, some of you may remember that I wanted to attract a better class of tourist to the area. Well, apparently there were legal problems with my idea to turn all the lower class people back when they got as far as Newton Bumpkin, so instead we've had to compromise - we shall shortly be installing these signs around all the main tourist areas, apart from the bits which are already cordoned off with tarpaulin and makeshift fencing.'
With that Dr Pangloss reached under the desk and pulled out a sign and held it up to the assembled gathering. It said:
He left the posters on the table where the councillors could further examine them, and generally wonder at their artistic brilliance. And if you would like a closer look, dear reader, you have only to left click once on the images. Who knows , you may choose to print one off for your wall, window or office door, just to show that you support this bold tourist initiative. And you could also sign in add your name to the list of readers on the new facility on the left.
The Postcard Storyline - a quick explanation for a puzzled reader
OK, here's how it started. Back in June John Staedtler called a resident in Westphalia-on-Sea and accused him of being the Piddlebackside blogger. He duly emailed us, and we sent off postcards to Mr Staedtler from various places around the country. He reported this in his Monday column. We then composed a series of other postcards with humorous (we thought) pictures, little poems and a storyline promising to reveal our identities. A whodunit-type story was unfolding, but the deal was Mr Staedtler had to participate by printing some of the clues, because they weren't in the blog. We thought it would be an interesting crossover between the very real Westphalia-on-Sea and the wholly fictional Piddlebackside. We even went to the trouble of sending 'jigsaw' cards to Dr Pangloss and Charlie Windsor which had to be fitted together with John Staedtler's to reveal a message. (we do hope they kept them as souvenirs - might be worth something in the future!) All quite clever, but either Mr Staedtler or the powers that be down at the Westphalia Express weren't having any of it. Well, there was no point us continuing with it if it wasn't going to be printed, so we informed Mr Staedtler that his character would have to be killed off (a common and fairly harmless soap storyline to get rid of actors/characters) as he couldn't have such a prominent role in Westphalia-on-Sea if he wasn't prepared to play ball. He was duly dispatched, and that was when a member of the Westphalia-on-Sea constabulary called the same resident that Mr Staedtler had called back in June to say they had received a complaint about the scene in chapter 63, and could he do something about it! Well, our gast was completely flabbered. We had heard of silly old ladies in the past sending birthday cards to Granada TV addressed to characters on Coronation Street, but this was surreal - on a different level. Anyway, that complaint was a litle premature, because hey presto! up popped Mr Staedtler in chapter 64, right as rain and not a scratch on him. It had all been a dream. Yes, it was a Bobby Ewing/Dirty Den moment, so there was no need to go out to the car park outside the Westphalia Express looking for a corpse after all. Hope that clears it all up.
Anyway, as the whole postcard storyline is dead and buried, here are the first ones that were sent to John Staedtler. It was a bit of shame, but thankfully Dr Pangloss, Charlie Windsor and the rest of the gang show no sign cutting off the supply of good material, so it's business as usual ... don't forget to click the link on the left to read the latest story on the Westphalia Express ...
Anyway, as the whole postcard storyline is dead and buried, here are the first ones that were sent to John Staedtler. It was a bit of shame, but thankfully Dr Pangloss, Charlie Windsor and the rest of the gang show no sign cutting off the supply of good material, so it's business as usual ... don't forget to click the link on the left to read the latest story on the Westphalia Express ...
Chapter 67 In which Pangloss realises he really has landed on his feet
"Hello, Charlie," said Pangloss, as his political ally and campaign manager Charlie Windsor strode into his office in the centre of Westphalia-on-Sea. "What brings you down to the hub of local government then?"
"Inactivity, old man, inactivity. It seems that during a recession there's a lot less demand for the services of a management consultant."
"Really? I'd have thought people would be more than happy to cough up their hard earned cash to get top drawer advice from someone like you. I love getting consultants on board - swear by them, in fact."
"Oh, I know," replied Charlie, but it's not your money you're spending, is it?"
"Hmm," said Pangloss thoughtfully, "no I s'pose it's not really."
Charlie wandered over to the window and surveyed the scene beyond. "Crikey, not many people about, are there? The place looks dead. I'm worried that by the time I finally get elected I won't have a town to represent."
"What do you mean dead? I'll have you know the town centre is actually quite busy, with a still healthy footfall. In fact that's what I told the residents in my newspaper column only the other week."
"Oh, you don't seriously believe that do you?"
"Of course I do. We just need a little bit of investment, and we'll get all those high-end spenders flocking back. Rich people love a bargain, that's how they become rich, by hanging on to their money. Now four of them can come and stay in the Travelodge for £29 a night, that's about £7.50 each, and spend their cash very carefully in our wonderful array of pound and charity shops. It's a winning strategy, and I thought of it all on my own. Well, Mum helped me a bit with the maths, but apart from that it was all my own work. Anyway, how's you blog going?"
"Well, not a lot of traffic, to be honest. In fact even my wife is getting fed up reading my analysis of the latest opinion polls."
"Huh, wives, eh? Who needs 'em? More trouble than they're worth old man. Take a tip from me. Anyway, haven't you heard? The whole town's going gay, so maybe you need to 'gay-up' your blog a bit."
"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary. I think a nice concise explanation of the benefits of a free market economy will draw the punters back. Anyway, what's your political strategy at the moment, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Ah, Charlie, Charlie, that's the beauty of being the mayor at the moment. The country's gone to hell in a handcart. People are going on telly and saying stupid things every day, and making massively stupid decisions which overshadow anything I do. I'm flying under the radar at the moment. I can do absolutely anything, and nobody notices. I'll give you an example: last week I said that loads of people are more likely to visit our town centres because we've got parking meters now."
"You what? You mean you said parking meters are attracting visitors?"
"That's right. And nobody challenged it. I'm even thinking of having a parking meter on the next tourist board poster; had a friend of mine run one up the other week actually - looks pretty good. And in the same article I implied that everything wasn't doom and gloom because a new card shop had opened in Fishhole. I tell you Charlie, this is the time when you want to be on the gravy train. I will soon be coming to the end of my time as mayor, and I'll have had about £300,000 out of the locals, and what will I have given them in return?"
"Er... not much?"
"Precisely. At the beginning I was going out of my way to get consultants in to launch grandiose plans and generally make it look like I could walk and chew gum at the same time, but now I can relax. Nothing in the Mayoral Vision is going to happen, and everybody knows it. People have got used to large bits of the town closing down: Wreck Walk, the Palm Court, the Queens, M & S, QuayWest, Crossways. All we have to do is issue a press release now and again saying 'a number of firms are interested' or 'it could be open by June'. It's as easy as falling off a log. I don't know why I ever thought I'd have to try and achieve anything. All you have to do is have something for the local paper to print. I mean, look at all this fuss about the Civic Chairman and the Jag. We're talking about a very small sum of money, peanuts, in fact. But meanwhile we're up to our old tricks, hiring people on ludicrous salaries and restructuring yet again, but nobody's noticed."
"Well, it makes me sick," said Charlie.
"Why, because we're squandering everyone's hard-earned cash in a cavalier way?"
"No, because I'm not part of it. I don't care what happens here on the Costa del Dole, in God's bloody waiting room. I want to get back to Windsor. I just want my bloody job as an MP. And just when everything seemed to be going well up pops that fucker Vince Cable. It turns out he warned everyone years ago that the credit bubble would burst, and it also turns out he's a Lib-Dem. My arch-enemies. So the only politician making any sense at the moment is a bloody Lib-Dem. Why couldn't he be a Tory? Why couldn't we, just for once, have someone who was in the news for saying something sensible? Why do we always have to have all the ex-public school toffs and people fiddling their expenses?"
"I really don't know," replied Pangloss, "I really don't know. Why don't you try switching parties? It worked for me."
"Inactivity, old man, inactivity. It seems that during a recession there's a lot less demand for the services of a management consultant."
"Really? I'd have thought people would be more than happy to cough up their hard earned cash to get top drawer advice from someone like you. I love getting consultants on board - swear by them, in fact."
"Oh, I know," replied Charlie, but it's not your money you're spending, is it?"
"Hmm," said Pangloss thoughtfully, "no I s'pose it's not really."
Charlie wandered over to the window and surveyed the scene beyond. "Crikey, not many people about, are there? The place looks dead. I'm worried that by the time I finally get elected I won't have a town to represent."
"What do you mean dead? I'll have you know the town centre is actually quite busy, with a still healthy footfall. In fact that's what I told the residents in my newspaper column only the other week."
"Oh, you don't seriously believe that do you?"
"Of course I do. We just need a little bit of investment, and we'll get all those high-end spenders flocking back. Rich people love a bargain, that's how they become rich, by hanging on to their money. Now four of them can come and stay in the Travelodge for £29 a night, that's about £7.50 each, and spend their cash very carefully in our wonderful array of pound and charity shops. It's a winning strategy, and I thought of it all on my own. Well, Mum helped me a bit with the maths, but apart from that it was all my own work. Anyway, how's you blog going?"
"Well, not a lot of traffic, to be honest. In fact even my wife is getting fed up reading my analysis of the latest opinion polls."
"Huh, wives, eh? Who needs 'em? More trouble than they're worth old man. Take a tip from me. Anyway, haven't you heard? The whole town's going gay, so maybe you need to 'gay-up' your blog a bit."
"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary. I think a nice concise explanation of the benefits of a free market economy will draw the punters back. Anyway, what's your political strategy at the moment, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Ah, Charlie, Charlie, that's the beauty of being the mayor at the moment. The country's gone to hell in a handcart. People are going on telly and saying stupid things every day, and making massively stupid decisions which overshadow anything I do. I'm flying under the radar at the moment. I can do absolutely anything, and nobody notices. I'll give you an example: last week I said that loads of people are more likely to visit our town centres because we've got parking meters now."
"You what? You mean you said parking meters are attracting visitors?"
"That's right. And nobody challenged it. I'm even thinking of having a parking meter on the next tourist board poster; had a friend of mine run one up the other week actually - looks pretty good. And in the same article I implied that everything wasn't doom and gloom because a new card shop had opened in Fishhole. I tell you Charlie, this is the time when you want to be on the gravy train. I will soon be coming to the end of my time as mayor, and I'll have had about £300,000 out of the locals, and what will I have given them in return?"
"Er... not much?"
"Precisely. At the beginning I was going out of my way to get consultants in to launch grandiose plans and generally make it look like I could walk and chew gum at the same time, but now I can relax. Nothing in the Mayoral Vision is going to happen, and everybody knows it. People have got used to large bits of the town closing down: Wreck Walk, the Palm Court, the Queens, M & S, QuayWest, Crossways. All we have to do is issue a press release now and again saying 'a number of firms are interested' or 'it could be open by June'. It's as easy as falling off a log. I don't know why I ever thought I'd have to try and achieve anything. All you have to do is have something for the local paper to print. I mean, look at all this fuss about the Civic Chairman and the Jag. We're talking about a very small sum of money, peanuts, in fact. But meanwhile we're up to our old tricks, hiring people on ludicrous salaries and restructuring yet again, but nobody's noticed."
"Well, it makes me sick," said Charlie.
"Why, because we're squandering everyone's hard-earned cash in a cavalier way?"
"No, because I'm not part of it. I don't care what happens here on the Costa del Dole, in God's bloody waiting room. I want to get back to Windsor. I just want my bloody job as an MP. And just when everything seemed to be going well up pops that fucker Vince Cable. It turns out he warned everyone years ago that the credit bubble would burst, and it also turns out he's a Lib-Dem. My arch-enemies. So the only politician making any sense at the moment is a bloody Lib-Dem. Why couldn't he be a Tory? Why couldn't we, just for once, have someone who was in the news for saying something sensible? Why do we always have to have all the ex-public school toffs and people fiddling their expenses?"
"I really don't know," replied Pangloss, "I really don't know. Why don't you try switching parties? It worked for me."
Chapter 66 In which an entrepreneur makes all the right noises
When the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea awoke on Monday 19th January they could hardly believe their eyes and ears. After so much bad news about the credit crunch, the recession and how their town was one flush away from disappearing around the U-bend it seemed unbelievable that there were no less that three supermen on their way to save them. Firstly, and most importantly, their illustrious and supremely popular mayor was back from his holiday in South Africa with his batteries fully recharged. Secondly, the aforementioned mayor had devoted his fortnightly column to an explanation of how wonderful the new president of the USA would be, and how he would probably save Westphalia-on-Sea. And thirdly, there was news that the messiah himself, Pierre De Saveloy, was not only going to re-open the Unsavoury Arms, but was going to be involved in many other projects as well. Given a whistlestop tour of the area, Mr De Saveloy said: 'Everything is fantastic. The Mayoral Vision is fantastic. The balloon is fantastic. The By-Pass will be fantastic. The parking meters are fantastic. Wreck Walk is fantastic, particularly the blue screens. That derelict building called the Palm Court is fantastic, but that Abbey on the seafront just blew me away. I mean, it needs a little jazzing up, to move it out of that fusty old National Trust mentality and give it more of an Alton Towers feel. I think we could have a theme in one of the rooms, you know, this is where Henry the Sixth murdered half of his eight wives, or something like that. And we could put the Turin Shroud in another room - I've got a couple of those in the garage, I think. Round the whole experience off with a cream tea served by topless Polish waitresses, and I think you've got yourself a fun day out for all the family.' Mr De Saveloy went on to praise the councillors who had passed his planning applications (surely 'who had shown him around? - Ed) 'This team of councillors? Well, words fail me. 'Fantastic' doesn't really begin to hint at the high esteem in which I hold them. They're like private sector whizz kids. They've got the get-up-and-go attitude that you rarely see outside the hedge-fund investment arena. I just can't believe that people of this quality are just councillors. The talent you've got here, it just beggars belief.'
The councillors were equally enamoured with Mr De Saveloy:'He's just got so much money,' said one. 'It's amazing. He must be so brilliant. I mean, when you've got that much money, well, everything you say is true isn't it? He's a man that just goes around doing good, and healing the people that he touches and stuff, and he's chosen to come here, and now he says it will all be wonderful. Well, I'm close to tears. First a black man in the White House, and now this. He said he wanted to visit Fishhole and we said we'd drive him over there, but he insisted on walking. And he just stepped out onto the water and started strolling across the Bay. At first we thought he was standing on a lot of thick seaweed and old tampons matted together, but it wasn't a trick - he really can walk on water.'
Of course, all this excellent news was delivered to the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea by the Westphalia Express, which is a by-word for balanced journalism. They did their research as thoroughly as ever and found out everything the possibly could about Mr De Saveloy. Every tenuous link with the area was found, even the fact that his fifth child had been born at the Westphalia-on-Sea Hospital, but for reasons best known to their reporter, Tony Crows-Feet, he had not found out about all the bad stuff. Perhaps he hadn't gone on 'Timesonline' and typed in 'De Saveloy', or perhaps he had read the words 'has been forced to admit his empire collapsed with debts of more than £700m' and 'shortfall to creditors of £186m' and thought they would rather spoil the general feel-good aspect of the story. Who knows? There were probably sound journalistic reasons for not mentioning it.
The councillors were equally enamoured with Mr De Saveloy:'He's just got so much money,' said one. 'It's amazing. He must be so brilliant. I mean, when you've got that much money, well, everything you say is true isn't it? He's a man that just goes around doing good, and healing the people that he touches and stuff, and he's chosen to come here, and now he says it will all be wonderful. Well, I'm close to tears. First a black man in the White House, and now this. He said he wanted to visit Fishhole and we said we'd drive him over there, but he insisted on walking. And he just stepped out onto the water and started strolling across the Bay. At first we thought he was standing on a lot of thick seaweed and old tampons matted together, but it wasn't a trick - he really can walk on water.'
Of course, all this excellent news was delivered to the residents of Westphalia-on-Sea by the Westphalia Express, which is a by-word for balanced journalism. They did their research as thoroughly as ever and found out everything the possibly could about Mr De Saveloy. Every tenuous link with the area was found, even the fact that his fifth child had been born at the Westphalia-on-Sea Hospital, but for reasons best known to their reporter, Tony Crows-Feet, he had not found out about all the bad stuff. Perhaps he hadn't gone on 'Timesonline' and typed in 'De Saveloy', or perhaps he had read the words 'has been forced to admit his empire collapsed with debts of more than £700m' and 'shortfall to creditors of £186m' and thought they would rather spoil the general feel-good aspect of the story. Who knows? There were probably sound journalistic reasons for not mentioning it.
Chapter 65 In which the mayor sends an email to deal with the emergency
Dear residents of the Cote de Westphalia and loyal Panglossian subjects
Out here in my little holiday hideaway I have been following the news at home via that wonderful invention the internet, so decided I should email you all to put your minds at rest and reassure you that the crisis caused by the recession is in good hands.
First of all we need to stop being so negative. Everyone knows that if you say that bad things are going to happen they will. We all need to look on the bright side, like I did when I predicted that the Cote de Westphalia wouldn't be affected as badly as the rest of the country. Obviously I was talking a load of utter twaddle, but it was upbeat, look-on-the-bright-side twaddle. And anyway, I think I was right in a way - let me use myself as an example: I'm a working man, just like everybody else, and I haven't been made redundant. I can still afford holidays in South Africa, so I'd say from that little snapshot of life down here we aren't doing too badly.
There does seem to be rather too much focus on shops closing down at the moment. I don't know why this is, because this town is definitely not dying on its arse, but I have decided to take some action here. With this is mind we are sending the bosses of M & S a copy of the Mayoral Vision. I'm sure once Sir Stuart Rose flicks through that he'll be straight on the blower to me saying it was all a huge mistake. This is a win-win situation, becase in the unlikely event that this strategy is unsuccessful Sir Stuart will have a lovely coffee table book to remember us by. No doubt he'll be feeling the pinch a little, so when he comes to book his summer holiday he's bound to choose us. He'll probably be keen to come somewhere that doesn't have an M & S so he can feel he's really getting away from work.
On to tourism. Now there do seem to be a few people out there who think we are all incompetent, and that we need some kind of new strategy. Well, I'm always up for a big idea, as you all know, so I have no problem rubber-stamping any decision to bring in some consultants to get us on the right track. And of course we'd be creating some jobs, and damn good jobs at that, because these consultants don't come cheap - I've seen some of the bills, and it makes your eyes water, it really does.
Now the next item is the museum in Fishhole. When I first heard about all this I said:'A museum? In Fishhole? You're having a laugh, aren't you? Who'd want to go there?'. Well, nobody, apparently, so we're closing it down. We can't afford to spend £11,000 on something like that. Money is tight. You people have got to learn this lesson. It's like my mother always used to say: 'Sometimes you can't have both museums and consultants - you have to choose'. And of course mumsy was right, and given the choice, and I think I speak for everyone, we'd all rather have consultants.
Now I couldn't end this message without mentioning parking. Traders are claiming that they have noticed a fall in customer numbers since the parking charges were introduced. This is not a proper survey carried out by consultants and therefore has absolutely no validity whatsoever. If you want reliable statistics you have to hire a firm of consultants who know what they're doing. You can't rely on anecdotal evidence provided by a load of traders who are standing around idly in their shops staring into their empty tills. That's just barmy. In fact the sooner these miseries go out of business and close their shops down the better. Then we can maybe put in some new state-of-the-art office pods where people can do real business with desks and phones and computers and stuff, and I can have my photo taken outside and we can stick it in the paper with a caption saying 'progress' or something.
Lastly, of course, there are all my conservative colleagues arguing about the role of civic chairman and who's going to the ball, and all the rest of it. Well, all I can say is this: if you elect a load of doddery old wannabe politicians who are still living in the 70s, what do you expect?
I hope this message has allayed all your fears, and that you now feel secure knowing that Pangloss is watching over his flock, even from afar.
With all best wishes
Dr Pangloss
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
"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."
"Eh, what?" he grumbled as he regained consciousness. "Where ..?, what ..?"
"Mr Staedtler, have you been here all night?"
John rubbed his face and glanced at his watch. Christ, seven o'clock! How had that happened? Then the events of the previous night came racing through his mind. Obviously they must have been a dream, but they seemed so real. He ran his hand over his chest, then felt stupid for having done so. Then he remembered the email from French. Maybe there was a clue in that. He fired up the computer that sat on his desk and opened his email. The one from French warned him not to go outside. Had that triggered his imagination and been the seed for that most vivid of nightmares? But according to the computer the email hadn't been opened. Staedtler suddenly felt very uneasy; he wasn't prone to panic attacks, but he had been going for it of late, working like a Trojan. Suddenly he called out to one of the cleaners who was emptying a bin at a nearby desk: "Maureen, this may sound like a daft question, but this is Westphalia-on-Sea, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, Mr Staedtler, course it is. Why ever do you ask?"
"Oh, it would take too long to explain. Have you ever been to Piddlebackside Maureen?"
"Piddlebackside? I've never even heard of it. Is there such a place?"
"Yes, it's, er ..., not far from here."
"Well I'm sure I've never been there, and I wouldn't fancy going there neither, judging by the name. Are you sure you haven't been dreaming Mr Staedtler?"
"Funny you should say that actually. I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, but the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had ..."
"Well, it is a mad world sometimes Mr Staedtler. Can I get you a coffee or something? You look rather pale."
"N-no, I'm fine, but thanks anyway."
Staedtler kept thinking of previous conversations he had had with French - the postcards, the warnings. Rather than helping him unmask the Piddlebackside blogger Staedtler now had the feeling that French was actually involved in all this, and not in a good way. If that was the case he'd better stop all contact with him. No, he could do better than that - he would call the local constabulary and tell them all he knew and let them investigate. He picked up the phone and dialled - after a couple of automated messages he was talking to the desk sergeant at the local police station.
"So let me get this straight," said the bemused voice at the end of the line, "you want to make a complaint about a blog, is that correct?"
"Yes, exactly," confirmed Staedtler.
"And what exactly is a blog, sir?"
"Well, it's like an on-line diary, but this one is a kind of story."
"So you want to complain about a story?"
"Yes, well it's more than a story because all the characters are real people."
"Oh, real are they? So who's in it then?"
"Well lots of people, including me. And I've just been murdered."
"Murdered you say? And when did this happen sir, if you don't mind me inquiring?"
"Last night, outside my office."
"Hmm, I may be pointing out the bleeding obvious here sir, but you do sound quite perky for someone who's just been murdered. And this happened in Westphalia-on-Sea, did it?"
"Yes. No. Well, in Piddlebackside. But Piddlebackside is Westphalia-on-Sea."
"Ah, now you're starting to confuse me even more sir. Are we talking about murder in Westphalia-on-Sea or murder in Piddlebackside? You see, I can't have my crime figures contaminated by rogue data from this Piddlewhatsit place."
"Look, I know it sounds a bit far-fetched the way I've explained it but ..."
"With all due respect sir, I think someone has lost the plot. If there had been a murder we would need a victim, and hopefully a murder weapon and some suspects."
"Yes, I've just told you, I'm the victim."
"But you're still alive sir. You have to be dead to be a murder victim. That's the law I'm afraid sir. I don't make the rules, I just enforce them. And what about a weapon and suspects?"
"It was Mrs Brolly. She stabbed me with her umbrella."
"And what does this Mrs Brolly look like?"
"Short, with grey hair. In her early sixties I'd guess."
"So a little old lady called Brolly stabbed you with a brolly? That's a strange coincidence, isn't it, sir? Tell me, is there a carer or other health professional with you at the moment sir?"
"Of course not. What are you implying?"
"Well, it just sounds a little bit Cluedo-ish to me sir."
"Look sergeant," began Staedtler, beginning to get a little irate, "I don't care how it sounds to you, I'd like you to do something about it."
"What like? Arrest Mrs Brolly? Can't the boys in blue in Piddlewhatsit do it?"
"No, don't be ridiculous. Piddlebackside doesn't really exist, and neither does Mrs Brolly. It's French, Paul French. He's your man. I want you to call him and tell him that you know he's involved and that they've gone too far."
"Right you are sir. And this Mr French, would he be in the Westphalia-on-Sea phone book or the Piddlewhatsit phone book?"
"I can give you his number."
"That would be very helpful sir. Save a lot of valuable police time that will, sir. I shall call him immediately and tell him how disturbed you are."
"No, don't tell him it's me. I don't want to look foolish."
"No, of course not sir. I can see that you wouldn't want to be murdered and look foolish - that would be a bit traumatic."
Staedtler gave the sergeant French's number and put the phone down. Back at the police station the sergeant hung up the phone and turned to his colleague.
"I think I've heard it all now," he said. "Just had someone asking me to investigate a fictional murder - what a flamin' nutjob! Who does he think I am - 'Ercule bloody Poirot?"
"Or Sherlock bleedin' 'Olmes," agreed his colleague. "I knew that 'care in community' was a flawed policy. We should've kept all the nutters locked up so we could keep an eye on them - would make our life a lot bloomin' easier."
"Yeah, sometimes I think this whole town has gone mad. Right, load those boxes in the car and let's get down the harbour - those flip-flops are going to get handed out by magic you know."
Chapter 63 In which Pangloss is on the lookout for Xmas decorations, and Staedtler comes unstuck ...
It was the worst of times and it was the best of times in Westphalia-on-Sea. The worst because the country was in the grip of the worst global recession ever, but the best of times because Dr Pangloss had assured everyone on the Cote de Westphalia that the recession would by-pass the area. Of course, some of the locals scratched their heads and took the straw out of their mouth for a moment and said: 'So this 'ere recession, it's a bit loike a tor-nay-do, is it? If we all gets inside and shuts the door us'll be safe, will us? And 'ow will it by-pass us? The bleddy by-pass ain't bin built yet!'
'God,' Pangloss had thought, 'these locals are as thick as pigshit. I bet most of them think the credit crunch is a kind of breakfast cereal.'
Back in his office later the same day, Dr Pangloss was relaxing with his deputy.
'I think we need a few more decorations round here,' said Pangloss, 'make it feel a bit more seasonal.' (He was careful not to use the word Christmassy, because the Daily Mail said it had been banned by the moaning minnies and the Muslims).
'Well you can't have any, because there's nowt left in the budget,' replied Hatter. 'It's all gone on consultants and Wreck Walk.'
'Oh, don't be a spoilsport. Let's look in the paper - there are always bargains in the Westphalia Express classifieds.'
After a few minutes scanning the newspaper Pangloss squealed with delight. 'Listen,' he said,
'Xmas santa and xmas fairy, outdoor exhibit, surplus to requirements, free to collector. Phone two-oh-seven-double one-three.' Phone it now for me, but disguise your voice; we don't want people to know the council has fallen on hard times.'
Ahmad Hatter sighed and took out his phone. Just after he'd finished dialling, the mayor's phone rang. As Pangloss moved to answer it Hatter signalled that he would continue his call outside
the office.
'Yes, I'm calling about the Xmas Santa, and the fairy,' said Hatter, doing his best not to sound too northern and straight-talking.
'Really?' said the voice at the other end. 'What a coincidence.'
'Is it a big fairy? Would it look good in an office?' persisted Hatter.
'Oh, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick,' said the voice. 'There are no fairies here. I'm looking for a fairy ...'
'What do tha mean there's no fairies there?' asked Hatter, unknowingly slipping into his northern accent.
'Ahmad Hatter, is that you?' came the voice.
'Wait a fookin' minute,' said Hatter, opening the office door.
The mayor and his deputy stared open-mouthed across the room at each other as the penny dropped. 'Either that's a printing error, or some bugger's taking the fookin' piss,' said Hatter, slamming his phone shut.
Over at the Westphalia Express office it was unusual to find John Staedtler still at his desk after everyone else had left, but these were particularly strange times in Westphalia-on-Sea; the mayor had confidently predicted that the town was recession-proof, but Staedtler felt he couldn't afford to be complacent. He had already earned a few brownie points with the editor for shooting Mrs Brolly down in flames in his column, and he had made a point of letting the editor know he was staying late. Yes, thought Staedtler to himself, if there was any brown-nosing or arse-kissing to be done, John Staedtler was definitely your man. He checked his watch - it was exactly eleven o'clock. Christ, his wife would be wondering where he was. As he started closing his email he noticed a new message in his inbox. When he saw it was from Paul French he decided to leave it until the following day. It was marked 'urgent', but Staedtler figured it could wait. 'Probably just another cranky warning about all that Piddlebackside bollocks,' he thought.
Walking across the car park he suddenly remembered the recent story about councillors being worried about walking back to their cars after dark. Just then a voice called out from the shadows 'Hey, Parker! Not still working for that rag, are you? the Daily Bugle?' A chill ran up Staedtler's back. He looked around. There was no-one else about; the comment was obviously directed at him.
'I think you've made a mistake,' he shouted back. 'I'm Staedtler, and this is the Westphalia Express. I think you're mixing me up with Spiderman, you know, Peter Parker.'
'Whatever', came the reply. Staedtler could see someone dressed in white, wearing a bowler hat. As the figure approached Staedtler could see strange make-up around the eyes. It reminded Staedtler of that dreadful film A Clockwork Journalist. 'It's rather late to be walking the streets of Piddlebackside, you know, especially in this part of town,' the character said. Staedtler was unsure if the person was male or female, but he was sure the voice sounded familiar. 'This isn't Piddlebackside, it's Westphalia-on-Sea,' replied Staedtler hesitantly, 'and technically we're not on the streets, we're in the car park,' he added, somewhat more defiantly.
'Oh, is that right?' said the voice. 'Well, I think you've just crossed the invisible line into Piddlebackside.'
'Don't be ridiculous. And what are you wearing that eye make-up for? You remind me of a character in a book by Anthony Burgess ...'
'And you remind me of a character in a book by Bram Stoker,' came the reply. 'Someone that lived by sucking the blood of others ...'
'Whoa! Steady on!' said Staedtler, 'I'm only a bloody journo, just doing my job.'
'Yes, but it's always take, take, take, with you isn't it? And things have a nasty habit of catching up with you in Piddlebackside.'
'I keep telling you this isn't Piddlebackside,' protested Staedtler.
'Don't fuck with me,' the voice suddenly snarled. Staedtler let out an involuntary whimper at the sudden change in tone of voice, and broke wind audibly. He turned to run towards his car but tripped over his briefcase and went sprawling on the floor. He was unable to move. He didn't know whether he was paralysed by fear or being pinned to the ground by some imaginary force field. 'Look what's all this about? Surely we can work something out?' he mumbled.
The figure looked down at Staedtler, lying on his back, and said: 'Where shall we start? The postcards? the articles? Putting words in my mouth? You were sloppy, and you know it. But it's too late now.' Now up close, Staedtler realised it was a woman who was addressing him. From behind her back she produced something long and pointed, and placed the metal tip on Staedtler's chest, hovering just above his heart.
'What's that?' A bloody stake? asked Staedtler, almost crying.
'No,' said the voice. 'Can't you see? It's just a brolly.' With that she brought a mallet down on the handle wilth all her might. She felt the metal tip of the brolly pierce Staedtler's chest, and heard it make a satisfying squelchy noise as it locked on to its target. Staedtler saw his life flash before him, which was disappointing even by his standards - it was mainly cricket and being passed over for the editor's job.
As Staedtler stopped twitching the woman took the bowler hat off and wiped her brow. Addressing the prone body leaking at her feet she asked under her breath: 'Who's fucking heartless now?'
IS STAEDTLER REALLY DEAD? WHAT WAS ON THOSE POSTCARDS? WHY DON'T YOU CALL HIM TO FIND OUT? ARE THE XMAS SANTA AND THE XMAS FAIRY STILL AVAILABLE? WHY NOT CALL TO FIND OUT? HOW DID THE ADVERT GET PRINTED? WILL HEADS ROLL? DON'T MISS NEXT WEEK'S THRILLING EPISODE ...
'God,' Pangloss had thought, 'these locals are as thick as pigshit. I bet most of them think the credit crunch is a kind of breakfast cereal.'
Back in his office later the same day, Dr Pangloss was relaxing with his deputy.
'I think we need a few more decorations round here,' said Pangloss, 'make it feel a bit more seasonal.' (He was careful not to use the word Christmassy, because the Daily Mail said it had been banned by the moaning minnies and the Muslims).
'Well you can't have any, because there's nowt left in the budget,' replied Hatter. 'It's all gone on consultants and Wreck Walk.'
'Oh, don't be a spoilsport. Let's look in the paper - there are always bargains in the Westphalia Express classifieds.'
After a few minutes scanning the newspaper Pangloss squealed with delight. 'Listen,' he said,
'Xmas santa and xmas fairy, outdoor exhibit, surplus to requirements, free to collector. Phone two-oh-seven-double one-three.' Phone it now for me, but disguise your voice; we don't want people to know the council has fallen on hard times.'
Ahmad Hatter sighed and took out his phone. Just after he'd finished dialling, the mayor's phone rang. As Pangloss moved to answer it Hatter signalled that he would continue his call outside
the office.
'Yes, I'm calling about the Xmas Santa, and the fairy,' said Hatter, doing his best not to sound too northern and straight-talking.
'Really?' said the voice at the other end. 'What a coincidence.'
'Is it a big fairy? Would it look good in an office?' persisted Hatter.
'Oh, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick,' said the voice. 'There are no fairies here. I'm looking for a fairy ...'
'What do tha mean there's no fairies there?' asked Hatter, unknowingly slipping into his northern accent.
'Ahmad Hatter, is that you?' came the voice.
'Wait a fookin' minute,' said Hatter, opening the office door.
The mayor and his deputy stared open-mouthed across the room at each other as the penny dropped. 'Either that's a printing error, or some bugger's taking the fookin' piss,' said Hatter, slamming his phone shut.
Over at the Westphalia Express office it was unusual to find John Staedtler still at his desk after everyone else had left, but these were particularly strange times in Westphalia-on-Sea; the mayor had confidently predicted that the town was recession-proof, but Staedtler felt he couldn't afford to be complacent. He had already earned a few brownie points with the editor for shooting Mrs Brolly down in flames in his column, and he had made a point of letting the editor know he was staying late. Yes, thought Staedtler to himself, if there was any brown-nosing or arse-kissing to be done, John Staedtler was definitely your man. He checked his watch - it was exactly eleven o'clock. Christ, his wife would be wondering where he was. As he started closing his email he noticed a new message in his inbox. When he saw it was from Paul French he decided to leave it until the following day. It was marked 'urgent', but Staedtler figured it could wait. 'Probably just another cranky warning about all that Piddlebackside bollocks,' he thought.
Walking across the car park he suddenly remembered the recent story about councillors being worried about walking back to their cars after dark. Just then a voice called out from the shadows 'Hey, Parker! Not still working for that rag, are you? the Daily Bugle?' A chill ran up Staedtler's back. He looked around. There was no-one else about; the comment was obviously directed at him.
'I think you've made a mistake,' he shouted back. 'I'm Staedtler, and this is the Westphalia Express. I think you're mixing me up with Spiderman, you know, Peter Parker.'
'Whatever', came the reply. Staedtler could see someone dressed in white, wearing a bowler hat. As the figure approached Staedtler could see strange make-up around the eyes. It reminded Staedtler of that dreadful film A Clockwork Journalist. 'It's rather late to be walking the streets of Piddlebackside, you know, especially in this part of town,' the character said. Staedtler was unsure if the person was male or female, but he was sure the voice sounded familiar. 'This isn't Piddlebackside, it's Westphalia-on-Sea,' replied Staedtler hesitantly, 'and technically we're not on the streets, we're in the car park,' he added, somewhat more defiantly.
'Oh, is that right?' said the voice. 'Well, I think you've just crossed the invisible line into Piddlebackside.'
'Don't be ridiculous. And what are you wearing that eye make-up for? You remind me of a character in a book by Anthony Burgess ...'
'And you remind me of a character in a book by Bram Stoker,' came the reply. 'Someone that lived by sucking the blood of others ...'
'Whoa! Steady on!' said Staedtler, 'I'm only a bloody journo, just doing my job.'
'Yes, but it's always take, take, take, with you isn't it? And things have a nasty habit of catching up with you in Piddlebackside.'
'I keep telling you this isn't Piddlebackside,' protested Staedtler.
'Don't fuck with me,' the voice suddenly snarled. Staedtler let out an involuntary whimper at the sudden change in tone of voice, and broke wind audibly. He turned to run towards his car but tripped over his briefcase and went sprawling on the floor. He was unable to move. He didn't know whether he was paralysed by fear or being pinned to the ground by some imaginary force field. 'Look what's all this about? Surely we can work something out?' he mumbled.
The figure looked down at Staedtler, lying on his back, and said: 'Where shall we start? The postcards? the articles? Putting words in my mouth? You were sloppy, and you know it. But it's too late now.' Now up close, Staedtler realised it was a woman who was addressing him. From behind her back she produced something long and pointed, and placed the metal tip on Staedtler's chest, hovering just above his heart.
'What's that?' A bloody stake? asked Staedtler, almost crying.
'No,' said the voice. 'Can't you see? It's just a brolly.' With that she brought a mallet down on the handle wilth all her might. She felt the metal tip of the brolly pierce Staedtler's chest, and heard it make a satisfying squelchy noise as it locked on to its target. Staedtler saw his life flash before him, which was disappointing even by his standards - it was mainly cricket and being passed over for the editor's job.
As Staedtler stopped twitching the woman took the bowler hat off and wiped her brow. Addressing the prone body leaking at her feet she asked under her breath: 'Who's fucking heartless now?'
IS STAEDTLER REALLY DEAD? WHAT WAS ON THOSE POSTCARDS? WHY DON'T YOU CALL HIM TO FIND OUT? ARE THE XMAS SANTA AND THE XMAS FAIRY STILL AVAILABLE? WHY NOT CALL TO FIND OUT? HOW DID THE ADVERT GET PRINTED? WILL HEADS ROLL? DON'T MISS NEXT WEEK'S THRILLING EPISODE ...
Chapter 62 In which the Facebook generation appraises Dr Pangloss's achievements
By the time French got down to the Westphalia Express office Staedtler had already retrieved the missing postcards from Charlie Windsor and Dr Pangloss, and had pieced them together on his desk so the message could be read in full.
"Hmm, intriguing," said French, after scanning the text. "Well, I think it's time to do as they say and print something. I mean, these postcards are beginning to mount up, and it looks like you could have a big story on your hands."
"No can do, I'm afraid," replied Satedtler. "I've spoken to Pangloss and Charlie Windsor and they're both dead against it. And the editor's none too keen either."
"Oh, I see," said French. "We don't do deals with terrorists, that kind of attitude, is it?"
"Something like that. Their official line is that it's all a bit of harmless fun and they find it mildly amusing, but off the record they're worried about this breaking nationally and they don't want the Westphalia Express involved. After all, we are supposed to be supporting them."
"So you're going to keep a lid on this story, and let some other journo run with?"
"Looks like I'll have to, sighed Staedtler.
"Well, they won't be able to keep a lid on this stuff for ever, said French. "There's more trouble for Pangloss out there."
With that he reached over to Staedtler's computer and tapped away at the keys. After a few moments a Facebook page appeared with Dr Pangloss's face at the top of it. Next to his picture were the words 'I fucking hate Dr Pangloss'.
"Bloody hell," said Staedtler. "Another website?"
"Yep," said French. "Not quite as subtle as the Piddlebackside blog. This one tells it like it is."
"Shit. I'm going to call Pangloss and see if he knows about this. If they won't let me run with the postcard mystery they've got to let me do a piece on this."
After a brief phone call to the Mayor's office Staedtler turned to French and said: "The guy's unbelievable. What do you think he said? He said it's the biggest compliment you can have — people know who their leader is. And then he said it is an 'enormous compliment' that people read and respond to his column in the Westphalia Express — whether they are for or against his views."
"And what did you say?"
"I said: but everyone thinks you're doing a crap job and earning too much money."
"How did he answer that?"
He said: "I have had to make sure things are happening. Things are happening which are controversial but they are happening. You are not going to make progress without upsetting some people."
"Progress?" Spluttered French. "The towns are dying on their arses. Christ, if Eastphalia was a person it would be halfway to Switzerland by now, asking to be put out of its misery."
"Yes," added Staedtler, putting on a tannoy announcer's voice, "Will the last person to leave please switch off the lights."
"Oh well," sighed French, "I guess you'd better commit our great leader's words of wisdom to print."
"Hmm, intriguing," said French, after scanning the text. "Well, I think it's time to do as they say and print something. I mean, these postcards are beginning to mount up, and it looks like you could have a big story on your hands."
"No can do, I'm afraid," replied Satedtler. "I've spoken to Pangloss and Charlie Windsor and they're both dead against it. And the editor's none too keen either."
"Oh, I see," said French. "We don't do deals with terrorists, that kind of attitude, is it?"
"Something like that. Their official line is that it's all a bit of harmless fun and they find it mildly amusing, but off the record they're worried about this breaking nationally and they don't want the Westphalia Express involved. After all, we are supposed to be supporting them."
"So you're going to keep a lid on this story, and let some other journo run with?"
"Looks like I'll have to, sighed Staedtler.
"Well, they won't be able to keep a lid on this stuff for ever, said French. "There's more trouble for Pangloss out there."
With that he reached over to Staedtler's computer and tapped away at the keys. After a few moments a Facebook page appeared with Dr Pangloss's face at the top of it. Next to his picture were the words 'I fucking hate Dr Pangloss'.
"Bloody hell," said Staedtler. "Another website?"
"Yep," said French. "Not quite as subtle as the Piddlebackside blog. This one tells it like it is."
"Shit. I'm going to call Pangloss and see if he knows about this. If they won't let me run with the postcard mystery they've got to let me do a piece on this."
After a brief phone call to the Mayor's office Staedtler turned to French and said: "The guy's unbelievable. What do you think he said? He said it's the biggest compliment you can have — people know who their leader is. And then he said it is an 'enormous compliment' that people read and respond to his column in the Westphalia Express — whether they are for or against his views."
"And what did you say?"
"I said: but everyone thinks you're doing a crap job and earning too much money."
"How did he answer that?"
He said: "I have had to make sure things are happening. Things are happening which are controversial but they are happening. You are not going to make progress without upsetting some people."
"Progress?" Spluttered French. "The towns are dying on their arses. Christ, if Eastphalia was a person it would be halfway to Switzerland by now, asking to be put out of its misery."
"Yes," added Staedtler, putting on a tannoy announcer's voice, "Will the last person to leave please switch off the lights."
"Oh well," sighed French, "I guess you'd better commit our great leader's words of wisdom to print."
Chapter 61 In which we realise that nobody trusts anything the Mayor says
Some Westphalians who have not yet succumbed to the onset of Alzheimer's may remember that some months ago the Westphalia Express ran a story about a local councillor who was such a good councillor that he became a sort of 'super-councillor', who would go around the country giving other councils the benefit of his long experience, presumably telling them how to deal with and best serve the people they represent, and how to generally create a harmonious working environment at the town hall. This 'super-councillor' happened to be none other than the straight-talking, shoot-from-the-hip Deputy Mayor, otherwise known as his esteemed deputy worshipfulness Ahmad Hatter. Apparently none of the sharp journos down at the Westphalia Express saw any irony when a number of weeks later this recently annointed super-councillor was unceremoniously given the heave-ho by his own party as soon as he went on holiday. Their message seemed to be simple: he was obviously an excellent councillor and a wonderful human being, but they would prefer it if he spent more of his time dispensing wisdom in the town halls up and down the country and much less time being their leader in the one in Westphalia-on-Sea.
Seeing that the Westphalia Express had either not picked up on the irony of the situation, or had chosen to overlook it (perhaps to avoid further embarrassment to someone who had for so long been their favourite page 3 pin-up), it will come as no surprise to readers to learn that they have done it again. The source of the irony this time comes in the shape of the war memorial. For those people unfortunate enough not to live on the Cote De Westphalia and who don't know this touching story where human sacrifice becomes secondary to the value of prime real estate we provide below a brief synopsis of the saga:
Step 1: Dr Pangloss hires at great expense a firm of consultants who tell him he should start an ambitious building project down at the waterfront.
Step 2: Dr Pangloss announces that a casino complex will be central to this waterside redevelopment.
Step 3: The Westphalians tell Dr Pangloss that steps 1 & 2 are a load of crap.
Step 4: Dr Pangloss realises that the War Memorial is right in the middle of the land earmarked for the development.
Step 5: An amazing coincidence! At the same time that Dr Pangloss realises the War Memorial is right in the middle of the development site, he also realises that the War Memorial doesn't have the right vista. Yes, that's right. The silly sods who erected it had put it where the vista was all wrong. It must have been around this time that Dr Pangloss thought of the old saying about killing two birds with one stone. If he could point out this vista deficiency and suggest an alternative site with a much better vista to which the memorial could be moved all his problems would be solved.
Step 6: Dr Pangloss suggests moving the memorial to a corner of the harbour.
Step 7: The silly old Westphalians didn't really understand the vista problem, and told Dr Pangloss that step 6 was a load of crap as well.
Step 8: Dr Pangloss says 'OK, I wasn't really going to move he memorial, let's just forget all about it.'
Step 9: People begin to think that Dr Pangloss can't be trusted. It seems that the people who mostly hold this view are the councillors in Dr Pangloss's own party. They are so worried that Cllr Twist and and Cllr Nitrate bring a motion to retain the memorial in its current position. Dr Pangloss insists he was just 'trying to open a debate', but clearly the Tories don't trust him any further than they can spit - they wanted these assurances in writing.
So there you have it. The Tories want to protect the War Memorial from the excesses of the Tory Council led by the Tory Mayor-cum-Estate-Agent, and they want it in writing, rather like, we might assume, some kind of covenant. One wonders if anyone has pointed to Cllr Twist that some of the current administration tend to think that covenants are made to be broken.
So on the evidence of the events described above, it would seem that Dr Pangloss and Ahmad Hatter are not very popular down at the town hall, least of all with members of their own party. However, Dr Pangloss should not lose heart because there is still at least one Tory prepared to nail his colours to the mast and stand beside Pangloss. Yes, prospective Tory candidate Charlie Windsor has publicly stated on his blog on 22nd September: 'And as for the mayor? You can't see it, nor would I expect you to (presumably because we have not yet reached the state of grace and enlightenment that our Charlie has achieved - Ed) but I assure you that he is an asset to my campaign; people like him and think he is doing his best for the bay.'
Of course, to regular readers of Charlie Windsor's blog (latest figures available put the readership somewhere between 1 and 10) this kind of nonsense will come as no surprise. Who can forget his robust defence of the wild speculations of the banking industry and his downplaying of the resulting financial catastrophe, or his blaming the Labour government for the Ross/Brand affair at the BBC? Anyway let's not upset ourselves by dwelling of the mental powers of the man from Windsor. Over at the offices of the Westphalia Express John Staedtler was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had ignored the advice of Paul French and not revealed to the public that he had received further postcards from the bloggers, and nothing had happened. All that tosh that French came out with about him being part of Piddlebackside; well, it was just nonsense. He'd been reading too many detective novels, for sure. Just then the door opened and a colleague left some post on the corner of Staedtler's desk. Among the brown business envelopes a red dragon caught Staedtler's eye. On closer inspection he saw it was a postcard from South Wales. He turned it over. The message began 'Dear John', but it was incomplete. He picked up another postcard, this time from Liverpool. Another incomplete message was on the reverse. A third postcard was from Stoke-on-Trent, and a fourth from Nantwich. Turning all the postcards over he realised that they fitted together like a puzzle, and that by arranging them he could read part of the message. Not all of it though, because there were two postcards still missing. This would have been a problem, but when Staedtler put two of his postcards together the last line of the message was revealed. It said: 'P.S. If you're wondering where the missing pieces are, call Pangloss and Charlie.'
Staedtler was just about to hit the speed dial button on his phone that would connect him directly to the mayor's office when his phone rang. He picked it up before it could ring a second time and said: 'Staedtler".
"John, it's French. any news?"
"You could say that," replied Staedtler. "I think you'd better come over."
Seeing that the Westphalia Express had either not picked up on the irony of the situation, or had chosen to overlook it (perhaps to avoid further embarrassment to someone who had for so long been their favourite page 3 pin-up), it will come as no surprise to readers to learn that they have done it again. The source of the irony this time comes in the shape of the war memorial. For those people unfortunate enough not to live on the Cote De Westphalia and who don't know this touching story where human sacrifice becomes secondary to the value of prime real estate we provide below a brief synopsis of the saga:
Step 1: Dr Pangloss hires at great expense a firm of consultants who tell him he should start an ambitious building project down at the waterfront.
Step 2: Dr Pangloss announces that a casino complex will be central to this waterside redevelopment.
Step 3: The Westphalians tell Dr Pangloss that steps 1 & 2 are a load of crap.
Step 4: Dr Pangloss realises that the War Memorial is right in the middle of the land earmarked for the development.
Step 5: An amazing coincidence! At the same time that Dr Pangloss realises the War Memorial is right in the middle of the development site, he also realises that the War Memorial doesn't have the right vista. Yes, that's right. The silly sods who erected it had put it where the vista was all wrong. It must have been around this time that Dr Pangloss thought of the old saying about killing two birds with one stone. If he could point out this vista deficiency and suggest an alternative site with a much better vista to which the memorial could be moved all his problems would be solved.
Step 6: Dr Pangloss suggests moving the memorial to a corner of the harbour.
Step 7: The silly old Westphalians didn't really understand the vista problem, and told Dr Pangloss that step 6 was a load of crap as well.
Step 8: Dr Pangloss says 'OK, I wasn't really going to move he memorial, let's just forget all about it.'
Step 9: People begin to think that Dr Pangloss can't be trusted. It seems that the people who mostly hold this view are the councillors in Dr Pangloss's own party. They are so worried that Cllr Twist and and Cllr Nitrate bring a motion to retain the memorial in its current position. Dr Pangloss insists he was just 'trying to open a debate', but clearly the Tories don't trust him any further than they can spit - they wanted these assurances in writing.
So there you have it. The Tories want to protect the War Memorial from the excesses of the Tory Council led by the Tory Mayor-cum-Estate-Agent, and they want it in writing, rather like, we might assume, some kind of covenant. One wonders if anyone has pointed to Cllr Twist that some of the current administration tend to think that covenants are made to be broken.
So on the evidence of the events described above, it would seem that Dr Pangloss and Ahmad Hatter are not very popular down at the town hall, least of all with members of their own party. However, Dr Pangloss should not lose heart because there is still at least one Tory prepared to nail his colours to the mast and stand beside Pangloss. Yes, prospective Tory candidate Charlie Windsor has publicly stated on his blog on 22nd September: 'And as for the mayor? You can't see it, nor would I expect you to (presumably because we have not yet reached the state of grace and enlightenment that our Charlie has achieved - Ed) but I assure you that he is an asset to my campaign; people like him and think he is doing his best for the bay.'
Of course, to regular readers of Charlie Windsor's blog (latest figures available put the readership somewhere between 1 and 10) this kind of nonsense will come as no surprise. Who can forget his robust defence of the wild speculations of the banking industry and his downplaying of the resulting financial catastrophe, or his blaming the Labour government for the Ross/Brand affair at the BBC? Anyway let's not upset ourselves by dwelling of the mental powers of the man from Windsor. Over at the offices of the Westphalia Express John Staedtler was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had ignored the advice of Paul French and not revealed to the public that he had received further postcards from the bloggers, and nothing had happened. All that tosh that French came out with about him being part of Piddlebackside; well, it was just nonsense. He'd been reading too many detective novels, for sure. Just then the door opened and a colleague left some post on the corner of Staedtler's desk. Among the brown business envelopes a red dragon caught Staedtler's eye. On closer inspection he saw it was a postcard from South Wales. He turned it over. The message began 'Dear John', but it was incomplete. He picked up another postcard, this time from Liverpool. Another incomplete message was on the reverse. A third postcard was from Stoke-on-Trent, and a fourth from Nantwich. Turning all the postcards over he realised that they fitted together like a puzzle, and that by arranging them he could read part of the message. Not all of it though, because there were two postcards still missing. This would have been a problem, but when Staedtler put two of his postcards together the last line of the message was revealed. It said: 'P.S. If you're wondering where the missing pieces are, call Pangloss and Charlie.'
Staedtler was just about to hit the speed dial button on his phone that would connect him directly to the mayor's office when his phone rang. He picked it up before it could ring a second time and said: 'Staedtler".
"John, it's French. any news?"
"You could say that," replied Staedtler. "I think you'd better come over."
Chapter 60 In which moving the war memorial was definitely not suggested
October 2008 was an exciting time in Westphalia-on-Sea. First of all, the sixteenth was Piddlebackside Day, the one-year anniversary of the Piddlebackside blog. Piddlebackside Day was, of course, a very low key affair, since the Westphalia Express was reluctant to give it any publicity, but due to the technological wonder of the Internet readers continued to pop up all over the globe, regardless of any 'official' recognition. It was also pinned up by the coffee machine from time to time by a mischievous councillor in the Westphalia Town Hall.
October was also an exciting time for Dr Pangloss, because it meant he had managed draw his salary for another 12 months without any sign of armed revolution on the streets of Westphalia-on-Sea. Quite how he'd managed this feat he didn't really know. Admittedly he had had to pay a hefty price to the consultants for showing him how to pull the wool over the eyes of the Westphalians, but now he felt he was up and running on his own. He had got the Westphalia Express back on side, and they were, for the moment, happy to print his outlandish tales of 'jam tomorrow'. He said things like 'if someone like John Lewis and Waitrose were to show interest we would certainly welcome them'. Of course, what he omitted to say was: 'but they won't.' No, it was a sad fact that if John Lewis or Waitrose were to open stores in Westphalia-on-Sea during a recession then their shareholders would seriously question the sanity of the board of directors running those companies. But that didn't matter, because Pangloss was on a mission to talk up these wild ideas. Luckily for him he didn't have to live in the real world, because he led a charmed life. If he needed any more evidence of this he had only to look at the plight of the estate agents. Down to an average of one sale a week they were shutting up shop and laying people off at a fair old rate. Pangloss, on the other hand, the Mother of All Estate Agents, was totally recession-proof with his mayoral salary. It was just too good to be true. And whenever he had to revert to being an estate agent again in the future much of the competition would have gone to the wall. Happy days!
Safe in the knowledge that however bad he was at his job he could not be ousted, his stories became even wilder. He explained in his column why the Westphalians lived in the best of all possible worlds, and how they wouldn't be hit too badly by the recession while he was in charge. He talked about the Hilton Hotel coming to town. He explained how life would be better if we could shoot across the Bay ten minutes quicker in all weathers and at all times of the day, and he had had his photo taken with the man from the bus company with the very firm handshake who had promised to make it happen. He explained how parking meters represented progress. And then he got carried away and mentioned creating a 'cafe culture' in Westphalia Road in Eastphalia by closing the road to traffic. In December. After the clocks have gone back. When it gets dark at 4 o'clock. Yes, it seemed that Pangloss believed that the only thing stopping the good people of Eastphalia having an espresso out on the pavement on a cold dark December afternoon after a stroll around the boarded-up shops was the traffic. To be fair, Dr Pangloss probably knew in his heart of hearts that this was a mad idea, because he sent Ahmad Hatter out to do the photoshoot and talk to the press. For his part, Ahmad Hatter was just glad to see his face back in the paper without the words 'stabbed in the back by his own party' under the photo, so he wasn't complaining. Of course, during the announcement of all these glad tidings there were grumbles from some of the more half-witted locals. They said things like: 'but the new ferry will wreck the business of those who have been here for years and it uses loads of fuel', and 'we don't want to pay to park and the parking meters spoil the seafront' and 'the number of shopper in town has fallen'. Luckily for Dr Pangloss these were just a small minority of old duffers who hadn't fully grasped what progress meant, so they could be easily ignored. Hot on the heels of the cafe culture story was an even crazier notion: a £50,000 p. a. salary for a Town Centre Chief Executive. Yes, dear readers, a salary close to that of the mayor's to someone whose job, it seems, is to go around local traders and ask them for more money, because the council 'can't afford to clean the streets more often, put in more flowers and put more bins out.' So in the crazy world of Westphalia-on-Sea you can't get money for street cleaning, but you can get a grant to set up a company to employ someone to go around and ask local shopkeepers for money for, er, street cleaning.
So while the residents all along the Cote de Westphalia were in for a tough financial time Dr Pangloss was rather pleased with how things were going. He did, however, still have some unfinished business down at the seafront. There was a piece of prime real estate with glorious sea views opposite Wreck Walk, but stuck slap bang in the middle of it was an old war memorial, precisely where Pangloss wanted to build his now legendary 'second casino', one of the cornerstones of his plan to turn the tired old seaside resort into something to rival Monte Carlo. Of course, it had completely pissed down for the last two summers, but Pangloss was still confident that fit-looking French, Russian and Lebanese beauties would soon be beating a path to the beach to sit among the seaweed and wait for the rain to turn to a light drizzle if only he could get the go-ahead for that casino. Having spent a little time reminding the locals of the pseudo-mediterranean sophistication that awaited them he slipped the idea of moving the war memorial into the conversation. Well, talk about overreaction. The usual bunch of coffin-dodgers went barmy. 'It's a disgrace!' 'You can't move that - it's a grave!' they screamed.
Pangloss reverted to estate agent-mode. 'Look the memorial's lost its vista,' he said.
'What the fuck are you talking about?' asked the locals.
'It needs to be in a more prominent position,' he said. 'Let's stick it over there, in the corner of the harbour, that would be great. There's a much better vista over there. I've seen it. Inanimate objects need a good vista or they get depressed - it's a well-known fact.'
'Are you sure you don't just want to move it so you can build a casino?' asked the locals.
'No, honestly, I give you my word as an estate agent,' promised Pangloss. 'I just want it to have the vista it deserves.' Eventually Dr Pangloss realised that the locals were probably far too thick to understand the concept of vistas for war memorials, so he adopted a more simplistic approach which he felt even the average Westphalian would understand. 'Look,' he said, 'let's pretend I never said anything about moving the memorial. Let's just say everyone misunderstood me when I started talking about moving the war memorial. And let's not forget that many people have laid down their lives for the right to freedom of speech, particularly when it comes to speeches about moving war memorials. So in a way we would be honouring the dead by discussing moving the war memorial, but of course we're not, because I never ever suggested moving it.'
And when the mayor had finished explaining himself all the Westphalians agreed that if they did want their war memorial moved any time in the future they would certainly make sure Dr Pangloss was the first to know.
October was also an exciting time for Dr Pangloss, because it meant he had managed draw his salary for another 12 months without any sign of armed revolution on the streets of Westphalia-on-Sea. Quite how he'd managed this feat he didn't really know. Admittedly he had had to pay a hefty price to the consultants for showing him how to pull the wool over the eyes of the Westphalians, but now he felt he was up and running on his own. He had got the Westphalia Express back on side, and they were, for the moment, happy to print his outlandish tales of 'jam tomorrow'. He said things like 'if someone like John Lewis and Waitrose were to show interest we would certainly welcome them'. Of course, what he omitted to say was: 'but they won't.' No, it was a sad fact that if John Lewis or Waitrose were to open stores in Westphalia-on-Sea during a recession then their shareholders would seriously question the sanity of the board of directors running those companies. But that didn't matter, because Pangloss was on a mission to talk up these wild ideas. Luckily for him he didn't have to live in the real world, because he led a charmed life. If he needed any more evidence of this he had only to look at the plight of the estate agents. Down to an average of one sale a week they were shutting up shop and laying people off at a fair old rate. Pangloss, on the other hand, the Mother of All Estate Agents, was totally recession-proof with his mayoral salary. It was just too good to be true. And whenever he had to revert to being an estate agent again in the future much of the competition would have gone to the wall. Happy days!
Safe in the knowledge that however bad he was at his job he could not be ousted, his stories became even wilder. He explained in his column why the Westphalians lived in the best of all possible worlds, and how they wouldn't be hit too badly by the recession while he was in charge. He talked about the Hilton Hotel coming to town. He explained how life would be better if we could shoot across the Bay ten minutes quicker in all weathers and at all times of the day, and he had had his photo taken with the man from the bus company with the very firm handshake who had promised to make it happen. He explained how parking meters represented progress. And then he got carried away and mentioned creating a 'cafe culture' in Westphalia Road in Eastphalia by closing the road to traffic. In December. After the clocks have gone back. When it gets dark at 4 o'clock. Yes, it seemed that Pangloss believed that the only thing stopping the good people of Eastphalia having an espresso out on the pavement on a cold dark December afternoon after a stroll around the boarded-up shops was the traffic. To be fair, Dr Pangloss probably knew in his heart of hearts that this was a mad idea, because he sent Ahmad Hatter out to do the photoshoot and talk to the press. For his part, Ahmad Hatter was just glad to see his face back in the paper without the words 'stabbed in the back by his own party' under the photo, so he wasn't complaining. Of course, during the announcement of all these glad tidings there were grumbles from some of the more half-witted locals. They said things like: 'but the new ferry will wreck the business of those who have been here for years and it uses loads of fuel', and 'we don't want to pay to park and the parking meters spoil the seafront' and 'the number of shopper in town has fallen'. Luckily for Dr Pangloss these were just a small minority of old duffers who hadn't fully grasped what progress meant, so they could be easily ignored. Hot on the heels of the cafe culture story was an even crazier notion: a £50,000 p. a. salary for a Town Centre Chief Executive. Yes, dear readers, a salary close to that of the mayor's to someone whose job, it seems, is to go around local traders and ask them for more money, because the council 'can't afford to clean the streets more often, put in more flowers and put more bins out.' So in the crazy world of Westphalia-on-Sea you can't get money for street cleaning, but you can get a grant to set up a company to employ someone to go around and ask local shopkeepers for money for, er, street cleaning.
So while the residents all along the Cote de Westphalia were in for a tough financial time Dr Pangloss was rather pleased with how things were going. He did, however, still have some unfinished business down at the seafront. There was a piece of prime real estate with glorious sea views opposite Wreck Walk, but stuck slap bang in the middle of it was an old war memorial, precisely where Pangloss wanted to build his now legendary 'second casino', one of the cornerstones of his plan to turn the tired old seaside resort into something to rival Monte Carlo. Of course, it had completely pissed down for the last two summers, but Pangloss was still confident that fit-looking French, Russian and Lebanese beauties would soon be beating a path to the beach to sit among the seaweed and wait for the rain to turn to a light drizzle if only he could get the go-ahead for that casino. Having spent a little time reminding the locals of the pseudo-mediterranean sophistication that awaited them he slipped the idea of moving the war memorial into the conversation. Well, talk about overreaction. The usual bunch of coffin-dodgers went barmy. 'It's a disgrace!' 'You can't move that - it's a grave!' they screamed.
Pangloss reverted to estate agent-mode. 'Look the memorial's lost its vista,' he said.
'What the fuck are you talking about?' asked the locals.
'It needs to be in a more prominent position,' he said. 'Let's stick it over there, in the corner of the harbour, that would be great. There's a much better vista over there. I've seen it. Inanimate objects need a good vista or they get depressed - it's a well-known fact.'
'Are you sure you don't just want to move it so you can build a casino?' asked the locals.
'No, honestly, I give you my word as an estate agent,' promised Pangloss. 'I just want it to have the vista it deserves.' Eventually Dr Pangloss realised that the locals were probably far too thick to understand the concept of vistas for war memorials, so he adopted a more simplistic approach which he felt even the average Westphalian would understand. 'Look,' he said, 'let's pretend I never said anything about moving the memorial. Let's just say everyone misunderstood me when I started talking about moving the war memorial. And let's not forget that many people have laid down their lives for the right to freedom of speech, particularly when it comes to speeches about moving war memorials. So in a way we would be honouring the dead by discussing moving the war memorial, but of course we're not, because I never ever suggested moving it.'
And when the mayor had finished explaining himself all the Westphalians agreed that if they did want their war memorial moved any time in the future they would certainly make sure Dr Pangloss was the first to know.
Chapter 59 In which the parking issue descends into farce
"There really is no pleasing some people, is there?" sighed a very frustrated and close-to-the-end-of-his-tether Dr Pangloss as he screwed the copy of the Westphalia Express he had just been reading into a loose ball and sent it skidding across the polished parquet floor of his office. "You try and do something positive that will bring a few quid into the council's coffers, something that will really invigorate the town centres at a crucial time, something that will greatly increase the number of shoppers, and do you get any thanks? Of course you don't. All you get is a procession of fossils from the last century saying 'we can't afford it', 'I used to shop there but I won't anymore', and 'this is the last nail in the coffin for Eastphalia'. Talk about negative. What's a couple of quid? Christ on a bike! If I dropped a couple of quid I wouldn't risk putting my back out to pick it up. It's small change in this day and age. Fair enough if you want to sit in your car drinking lukewarm tea while staring out at the English Channel, but you've got to expect to pay for it. There are no free lunches anymore. Especially not in the 21st century. You've got to pay for everything. In fact paying for things can actually enhance your enjoyment. It adds value. Any consultant worth his salt will tell you that. Things you pay for must ipso facto have some inherent value, and are therefore much more fun than things which are free. This measure is actually increasing everyone's pleasure, but where's the support? Where are the letters saying 'hats off to Dr Pangloss - this time he's got it absolutely right!' or 'Three cheers for Dr Pangloss - I'd much rather pay to park!' Nowhere. Abso-bloody-lutely nowhere. It makes me ruddy sick ..."
"Are tha' talking to me lad?" asked Ahmad Hatter, as he stirred in the chair opposite. "What's tha' wittering on abat?"
"Parking meters, the bloody parking meters, of course. Nobody seems to appreciate them, or the fantastic opportunity they represent," replied Pangloss.
"Oh, don't get me started on them ungrateful bloody locals," replied Hatter. "They were just t' bloody same when I told them where they could stick their bloody covenants. Not a ruddy word of thanks I got for that."
Just then the councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Good news Your Worshipfulness!" he beamed. "We're going to reduce car parking charges in the run-up to Christmas."
"What's the point of that? Only a little while ago you told us that putting up parking charges was good for business."
"Oh you didn't believe that old tosh, did you?" asked the cllr FUC-U. "Don't be silly - we all know people hate parking charges. No, now you have to go on record saying that lower charges are a good thing."
"Well what shall I say?"
"Oh, I don't know; what about something like this: 'It will hopefully lead to an upturn in trade and encourage more people to come into the Cote de Westphalia to do their shopping'."
"Why yes," said Pangloss, "I rather like that. Wait a minute, won't they spot that we've completed changed our stance on parking charges?"
"No," smirked the cllr FUC-U, "because I've got this - ", and with a little flurry he rolled in a giant 50p piece made of lightweight plastic and said 'Ta - Da'."
"What's that?" aske the Mayor.
"50 pence" replied the cllr FUC-U. "We have our photo taken with it. It will distract the readers and they will never actually realise that this measure actually proves that we are completely and utterly wrong about the net result of parking charges, i.e. that they will ultimately adversely affect local businesses."
"Splendid idea!" said Pangloss, almost shouting. "Let's get down to the ticket machine - I love a good photoshoot!"
"Are tha' talking to me lad?" asked Ahmad Hatter, as he stirred in the chair opposite. "What's tha' wittering on abat?"
"Parking meters, the bloody parking meters, of course. Nobody seems to appreciate them, or the fantastic opportunity they represent," replied Pangloss.
"Oh, don't get me started on them ungrateful bloody locals," replied Hatter. "They were just t' bloody same when I told them where they could stick their bloody covenants. Not a ruddy word of thanks I got for that."
Just then the councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Good news Your Worshipfulness!" he beamed. "We're going to reduce car parking charges in the run-up to Christmas."
"What's the point of that? Only a little while ago you told us that putting up parking charges was good for business."
"Oh you didn't believe that old tosh, did you?" asked the cllr FUC-U. "Don't be silly - we all know people hate parking charges. No, now you have to go on record saying that lower charges are a good thing."
"Well what shall I say?"
"Oh, I don't know; what about something like this: 'It will hopefully lead to an upturn in trade and encourage more people to come into the Cote de Westphalia to do their shopping'."
"Why yes," said Pangloss, "I rather like that. Wait a minute, won't they spot that we've completed changed our stance on parking charges?"
"No," smirked the cllr FUC-U, "because I've got this - ", and with a little flurry he rolled in a giant 50p piece made of lightweight plastic and said 'Ta - Da'."
"What's that?" aske the Mayor.
"50 pence" replied the cllr FUC-U. "We have our photo taken with it. It will distract the readers and they will never actually realise that this measure actually proves that we are completely and utterly wrong about the net result of parking charges, i.e. that they will ultimately adversely affect local businesses."
"Splendid idea!" said Pangloss, almost shouting. "Let's get down to the ticket machine - I love a good photoshoot!"
Chapter 58 In which a planning application goes 'tits up'
September in Westphalia-on-Sea was shaping up to be a pretty normal affair: the few tourists that had bothered to visit had all gone home, and right on cue the rain had dried up and the sun had come out. Sitting across the desk from Dr Pangloss in his spacious office at the Town Hall was John Staedtler, who had come down to see exactly how much blood was on the carpet after the Tory group had collectively axed their leader.
"OK, let's get this straight right from the outset," began the Mayor, "Ahmad Hatter will definitely stay on as deputy mayor. There is nobody in the group who has asked me or suggested to me that he should not be in that role." He added: "His contribution in the past few years has been absolutely outstanding. It is a great shame that people are judged by one or two things that go wrong or one or two comments rather than the huge amount of good things that he has done."
"Can you give me an example?" asked Staedtler.
"Well, he's going to be remembered for things like Wreck Walk and covenant-breaking, isn't he, whereas what we should be celebrating is his no-nonsense, straight-talking and iron-fist approach."
"Some people might call it an arrogant, rude and bullying approach?" suggested Staedtler.
" Oh, without a doubt, it's that style which has partly led to his downfall," said the Mayor quickly, "but all that 'ee-by-'eck-well-I'll-go-t' foot-of-our-stairs-where-there's-muck-there's-brass-and-I speak-as-I-find-type thing gave life in the Town Hall a certain rustic charm. Goodness me, I hardly knew what he was on about half the time. They certainly didn't talk like that at my prep school, I can tell you. They didn't really do 'blunt northerners' at the schools I went to."
"I see. So why are you keeping him on as Deputy Mayor if more than half of his own party don't seem to like him much and don't want him as their leader?"
"Now look, let's not get bogged down in the semantics of this business - probably best just to gloss over that question, if you don't mind. Politics is a funny old business, and I'm sure it can all seem rather strange for an outsider looking in, but the truth of the matter is this: it is entirely possible for someone to be doing an excellent job and enjoy the full support of their cabinet colleagues, and still be asked to stand down when they get back from holiday. It's a bit like a surprise retirement party thrown by all your friends."
"Hmm, I'm not entirely sure I follow you," said Staedtler, scratching his head. So you're saying they've all done him a big favour, and he's very happy about it?"
"Happy? Happy? Ecstatic, I'd say. Over the moon. Pleased as punch. A chance to spend more time with the family, a spot of gardening, put the old CD collection in alphabetical order, all that sort of thing. It's a real opportunity for him. Once the votes had been counted he very quickly grabbed the opportunity not to be leader anymore - it was that simple."
"And he doesn't bear any grudges?"
"Grudges? No, nooo. Under that gruff exterior he's just a big old pussycat. A cuddly teddy bear. A sleepy koala bear. A little tiny dormouse ..."
"Yes, I get the picture ..." said Staedtler, looking up from his notepad.
Just then the Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Oh, sorry, am I interrupting? It's just that I've come across a small problem with the planning application for Wreck Walk."
"Can't this wait?" asked Pangloss, trying to indicate that he was with a journalist.
"Well, not really. It''s all turning into a bit of a mess."
"Ooh, it's not connected with parking fines, is it?" interjected Staedtler. "Just thinking 'Another fine mess' would make a good headline."
"No it's nothing to do with parking fines," said the Cllr FUC-U. "It's section 16 on the planning application. It says 'Are there any trees or hedges on the proposed development site? And then it says 'Are there trees or hedges on land adjacent to the proposed development site that could influence the development or might be important as part of the local landscape character?'"
"Hmm, that might pose a small problem ...," mused Pangloss.
"Wait, there's more. It says 'if yes to either or both of the above, you will need to provide a full Tree Survey, with accompanying plan before your application can be determined. Your Local Planning Authority should make clear on its website what the survey should contain, etc., etc."
"OK," said Pangloss, "let me see if I've got this right. We've already cut down every tree on Wreck Walk, permanently closed half the road and made the cliff unstable and now we think we shouldn't have because we didn't follow the necessary planning procedures?"
"That's it in a nutshell, boss. Imagine if it was a member of the public wanting to do something on their land which involved cutting down trees. Well, it would be like them chopping all the trees down first, and then coming to us and putting in a planning application, wouldn't it? We wouldn't be very happy, would we?"
"No, but there again, a member of the public probably wouldn't be stupid enough to go round chopping trees down willy-nilly without permission, would they?"
"No, I suppose not. Anyway, what are we going to do?"
"What are we going to do? What are you going to do, more like. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to have you face, with a suitably glum expression on it, superimposed on a picture of Wreck Walk for the front page of the Westphalia Express. My face will appear in the relative safety of page five, doing my usual amateur dramatics or certificate presentation, or judging a novelty cake competition, or some such. I can't get involved in all that rocks and trees stuff. By the way, whatever became of my 'Grot-Busting' initiative aimed at preventing eyesores around the Bay? Did that bloke in Fishhole ever get round to repainting his house? It was an absolute disgrace, it really was."
"OK, let's get this straight right from the outset," began the Mayor, "Ahmad Hatter will definitely stay on as deputy mayor. There is nobody in the group who has asked me or suggested to me that he should not be in that role." He added: "His contribution in the past few years has been absolutely outstanding. It is a great shame that people are judged by one or two things that go wrong or one or two comments rather than the huge amount of good things that he has done."
"Can you give me an example?" asked Staedtler.
"Well, he's going to be remembered for things like Wreck Walk and covenant-breaking, isn't he, whereas what we should be celebrating is his no-nonsense, straight-talking and iron-fist approach."
"Some people might call it an arrogant, rude and bullying approach?" suggested Staedtler.
" Oh, without a doubt, it's that style which has partly led to his downfall," said the Mayor quickly, "but all that 'ee-by-'eck-well-I'll-go-t' foot-of-our-stairs-where-there's-muck-there's-brass-and-I speak-as-I-find-type thing gave life in the Town Hall a certain rustic charm. Goodness me, I hardly knew what he was on about half the time. They certainly didn't talk like that at my prep school, I can tell you. They didn't really do 'blunt northerners' at the schools I went to."
"I see. So why are you keeping him on as Deputy Mayor if more than half of his own party don't seem to like him much and don't want him as their leader?"
"Now look, let's not get bogged down in the semantics of this business - probably best just to gloss over that question, if you don't mind. Politics is a funny old business, and I'm sure it can all seem rather strange for an outsider looking in, but the truth of the matter is this: it is entirely possible for someone to be doing an excellent job and enjoy the full support of their cabinet colleagues, and still be asked to stand down when they get back from holiday. It's a bit like a surprise retirement party thrown by all your friends."
"Hmm, I'm not entirely sure I follow you," said Staedtler, scratching his head. So you're saying they've all done him a big favour, and he's very happy about it?"
"Happy? Happy? Ecstatic, I'd say. Over the moon. Pleased as punch. A chance to spend more time with the family, a spot of gardening, put the old CD collection in alphabetical order, all that sort of thing. It's a real opportunity for him. Once the votes had been counted he very quickly grabbed the opportunity not to be leader anymore - it was that simple."
"And he doesn't bear any grudges?"
"Grudges? No, nooo. Under that gruff exterior he's just a big old pussycat. A cuddly teddy bear. A sleepy koala bear. A little tiny dormouse ..."
"Yes, I get the picture ..." said Staedtler, looking up from his notepad.
Just then the Councillor For Unbelievable Cock-Ups burst in. "Oh, sorry, am I interrupting? It's just that I've come across a small problem with the planning application for Wreck Walk."
"Can't this wait?" asked Pangloss, trying to indicate that he was with a journalist.
"Well, not really. It''s all turning into a bit of a mess."
"Ooh, it's not connected with parking fines, is it?" interjected Staedtler. "Just thinking 'Another fine mess' would make a good headline."
"No it's nothing to do with parking fines," said the Cllr FUC-U. "It's section 16 on the planning application. It says 'Are there any trees or hedges on the proposed development site? And then it says 'Are there trees or hedges on land adjacent to the proposed development site that could influence the development or might be important as part of the local landscape character?'"
"Hmm, that might pose a small problem ...," mused Pangloss.
"Wait, there's more. It says 'if yes to either or both of the above, you will need to provide a full Tree Survey, with accompanying plan before your application can be determined. Your Local Planning Authority should make clear on its website what the survey should contain, etc., etc."
"OK," said Pangloss, "let me see if I've got this right. We've already cut down every tree on Wreck Walk, permanently closed half the road and made the cliff unstable and now we think we shouldn't have because we didn't follow the necessary planning procedures?"
"That's it in a nutshell, boss. Imagine if it was a member of the public wanting to do something on their land which involved cutting down trees. Well, it would be like them chopping all the trees down first, and then coming to us and putting in a planning application, wouldn't it? We wouldn't be very happy, would we?"
"No, but there again, a member of the public probably wouldn't be stupid enough to go round chopping trees down willy-nilly without permission, would they?"
"No, I suppose not. Anyway, what are we going to do?"
"What are we going to do? What are you going to do, more like. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to have you face, with a suitably glum expression on it, superimposed on a picture of Wreck Walk for the front page of the Westphalia Express. My face will appear in the relative safety of page five, doing my usual amateur dramatics or certificate presentation, or judging a novelty cake competition, or some such. I can't get involved in all that rocks and trees stuff. By the way, whatever became of my 'Grot-Busting' initiative aimed at preventing eyesores around the Bay? Did that bloke in Fishhole ever get round to repainting his house? It was an absolute disgrace, it really was."
Chapter 57 In which Staedtler is given a tip about the Queer Affair in Fishhole
John Staedtler grabbed the phone on his desk before it had chance to ring twice and barked his name into the mouthpiece by way of a greeting.
"French, here," came the voice at the other end. "Your private dick - remember?"
"Oh, hello," said Staedtler. "What do you want?"
"Oh, just following up the case, and wondering why you didn't tell me you'd received more postcards from the Piddlebackside blogger. What's the story John?"
"Er ... it slipped my mind?"
"Not very convincing John. I warned you that you might get in above your head. Having second thoughts about getting into this business?"
"No just sitting on the postcards for the moment. Ball's in my court, and all that. Considering my options."
"I see. So have you had any calls yet? Anyone phoning you to find out what the clue was on that sixth card?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, you might get some soon. Or emails. Readers will want to know what was on it. To them the goings-on in Piddlebackside are more important than what's happening here on the Cote De Westphalia."
"Don't be ridiculous! People phoning me up for information about a fictitious place? You're having a laugh."
"Am I? Twenty-five thousand hits? Readers in Canada and on the west coast of America? And in Australia and Europe? Piddlebackside has become something of a phenomenon. I wouldn't bet against the odd phone call or two - especially when people read this."
"What do you mean, when people read this?"
"Haven't you even figured that out, John? We're all involved. We're part of Piddlebackside. People are reading this is in real time - have you seen the film The Truman Show?" Staedtler nodded. "Well, it's a bit like that."
"No ... no," Staedler said, shaking his head as thoughts raced through it. "You might be in it, but I'm not. I'm just a regular journo in Westphalia-on-Sea, doing my job."
"John, John," said French, with mock reassurance. Staedtler knew from his tone that a sting in the tail was coming. "You went after the author, you printed postcards in your column. You're in deeper than me, deeper than lots of people."
"So what shall I do now?"
"Like I said before John, it's your call. But wouldn't you just like to get a few more postcards? See where the clues begin to point? A couple of pictures and few lines - it won't take more than half a column, maybe less."
"I'll think about it."
"I think it would be wise - in my 'umble opinion. Now what about this queer business over in Fishhole?"
"Queer business? I don't know what you're talking about."
"The Fast-cat ferry. Doesn't it smell fishy to you?"
"No ... a whiff of diesel maybe. Are you thinking of the trawlers?"
"I mean fishy as in suspicious."
"How do you mean? I don't know of any strange goings-on. I read that the launch went well - just a small hitch while they had to wait for one of the existing ferries to go out of business."
"Don't you mean get out of the way?"
"Yes, yes, of course I do. Freudian slip. Anyway, I think our official line is 'competition is healthy'."
"Even if it puts locals out of business?"
"Well, look, I can't really comment." Staedtler looked towards the door which was about ten centimetres ajar -he did not want to be overheard.
"OK, point taken," said French. "Well this guy who's running the show - maybe you should check him out - I can't repeat it all here, I'll email you a link. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/612409.stm It's kosha - from the BBC, no less. OK, got to go."
"OK ... bye," said Staedtler, replacing the reciever slowly. There's more to this Piddlebackside stuff than meets the eye, he thought to himself.
"French, here," came the voice at the other end. "Your private dick - remember?"
"Oh, hello," said Staedtler. "What do you want?"
"Oh, just following up the case, and wondering why you didn't tell me you'd received more postcards from the Piddlebackside blogger. What's the story John?"
"Er ... it slipped my mind?"
"Not very convincing John. I warned you that you might get in above your head. Having second thoughts about getting into this business?"
"No just sitting on the postcards for the moment. Ball's in my court, and all that. Considering my options."
"I see. So have you had any calls yet? Anyone phoning you to find out what the clue was on that sixth card?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, you might get some soon. Or emails. Readers will want to know what was on it. To them the goings-on in Piddlebackside are more important than what's happening here on the Cote De Westphalia."
"Don't be ridiculous! People phoning me up for information about a fictitious place? You're having a laugh."
"Am I? Twenty-five thousand hits? Readers in Canada and on the west coast of America? And in Australia and Europe? Piddlebackside has become something of a phenomenon. I wouldn't bet against the odd phone call or two - especially when people read this."
"What do you mean, when people read this?"
"Haven't you even figured that out, John? We're all involved. We're part of Piddlebackside. People are reading this is in real time - have you seen the film The Truman Show?" Staedtler nodded. "Well, it's a bit like that."
"No ... no," Staedler said, shaking his head as thoughts raced through it. "You might be in it, but I'm not. I'm just a regular journo in Westphalia-on-Sea, doing my job."
"John, John," said French, with mock reassurance. Staedtler knew from his tone that a sting in the tail was coming. "You went after the author, you printed postcards in your column. You're in deeper than me, deeper than lots of people."
"So what shall I do now?"
"Like I said before John, it's your call. But wouldn't you just like to get a few more postcards? See where the clues begin to point? A couple of pictures and few lines - it won't take more than half a column, maybe less."
"I'll think about it."
"I think it would be wise - in my 'umble opinion. Now what about this queer business over in Fishhole?"
"Queer business? I don't know what you're talking about."
"The Fast-cat ferry. Doesn't it smell fishy to you?"
"No ... a whiff of diesel maybe. Are you thinking of the trawlers?"
"I mean fishy as in suspicious."
"How do you mean? I don't know of any strange goings-on. I read that the launch went well - just a small hitch while they had to wait for one of the existing ferries to go out of business."
"Don't you mean get out of the way?"
"Yes, yes, of course I do. Freudian slip. Anyway, I think our official line is 'competition is healthy'."
"Even if it puts locals out of business?"
"Well, look, I can't really comment." Staedtler looked towards the door which was about ten centimetres ajar -he did not want to be overheard.
"OK, point taken," said French. "Well this guy who's running the show - maybe you should check him out - I can't repeat it all here, I'll email you a link. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/612409.stm It's kosha - from the BBC, no less. OK, got to go."
"OK ... bye," said Staedtler, replacing the reciever slowly. There's more to this Piddlebackside stuff than meets the eye, he thought to himself.
Chapter 56 In which we get a bird's eyeview of the goings on in Westphalia-on-Sea
Kenneth Livingston Seagull woke with surprise one late August morning. The surprise was due to the sun, which was suddenly shining in his eyes, something which hadn't happened, since, well, Kenneth couldn't really remember, but he knew it had been a while. He stood up and stretched his wings, and then hopped off the chimney where he had spent the night onto the top of the pitched roof a couple of feet below. Having only just woken up, and having webbed feet, he was a little unsteady on the slippery slates (at least they weren't wet - they were a nightmare then) so he flapped his wings a little for balance as he toddled along the top of the roof which he called home. It was nothing fancy, a three-bedroom terrace in an average part of town, but Kenneth was perfectly happy with it, and it had a little flat roof on an extension at the back, which was great for the kids when they were small and couldn't fly. Of course, he had no financial worries - he didn't have a mortgage, or even a bank account come to that. In fact he made a point of never carrying cash on him, ever since he heard that was what the Queen did. Or didn't. He had friends who lived on big detached houses with sea views, and they were always squawking on about the fresh fish heads you could get down on the coast if you had a mind to get up early, but that didn't interest Kenneth. If fact Kenneth was rather conservative by nature. His wife had recently told him about a swanky new development that was opening up on the seafront and tried to persuade him to move, but Kenneth was cautious. Sure, it was a great location, handy for the harbourside takeaways, and it had all been sealed off with large swathes of blue tarpaulin so the Providers couldn't go there anymore, and it seemed like they would never return. However, some of the Providers were still insisting they would be back, and Kenneth would not be persuaded to move from the roof where he had seen so many of his kids emerge from their eggs. His wife even pointed out that it would be good to get some more fish in their diet instead of living on convenience food, but Kenneth wasn't convinced. In fact he thought all this stuff about seafood and healthy eating was rather unnatural. If they were meant to go out catching fish, why did the Providers leave enormous bags of food out in the street for him? It just didn't make sense.
Kenneth was shaken out of his reverie by the noise of the first few Providers who were starting to appear from their houses below, and he began thinking about some of the crazy theories he had heard about them. Craziest by far was the idea that the Providers were actually the dominant species on the planet. Kenneth didn't believe this for one simple reason: it was the fact that he often saw the Providers out picking up fresh dog's mess, and in his small seagull-sized brain he figured that before any species could really be classed as truly dominant it would have to stop going around picking up the warm excrement of other species and casually slipping it in their pocket. True, the Providers seemed to have invented quite a lot of useful stuff, but they were a weird disorganised bunch and Kenneth should know - he had spent plenty of time observing their antics. Why, only the other day he had watched many of them sitting in their little metal boxes on a the road in Eastphalia. They moved very slowly up towards the traffic lights, but the queue seemed to stretch all the way back to the beach - it was a very strange state of affairs, and Kenneth was very glad that he didn't have to sit about in a queue like that on a warm day. No, he was pretty certain that the species which had organised this was not running the planet. If any of the species down on the ground was running the planet Kenneth thought it was probably the cats. He had seen them lying around doing nothing all day, and they didn't even have to look for food - everything was laid on for them. Each of them seemed to have trained their own personal Provider to handle the catering arrangements, and any time a Provider went away for a few days a neighbouring Provider took care of their feeding duties. It seemed like a very efficient system, and Kenneth was quite jealous of the way these furry layabouts had organised everything exactly to suit them. Yes, the more he thought about it the more logical it seemed - the cats were in charge.
Another idea concerning the Providers was Darwinism. Kenneth had heard about it, of course; what seagull hadn't? This was the mad notion that they were some kind of distant relationship between the Providers and other species, but Kenneth was very sceptical. He just couldn't see the likeness. The only behaviour that was vaguely similar was the way the Providers regurgitated their food late at night around the harbourside, but they didn't do it when their young were around, so Kenneth couldn't see the benefit in that. Some of the more radical gulls said there were far too many Providers around, and that there should be some kind of cull, but Kenneth thought this was a bit drastic. He preferred the other option, which was to let the stupid ones eat too much and die off earlier. Some gulls said this was 'natural selection', and that it was connected to Darwinism, but whenever the discussion began to get more serious Kenneth found he was usually distracted by a bundle of chip papers or the remains of Sainsbury's lasagne, so he lost the thread of the argument and never really got to fully understand what was going on around him.
Oh well, thought Kenneth, as he started lazily running for take-off, I suppose some
day everything will become clear and I'll finally understand what's going on around here. He flapped his wings a few time to get airborne, and continued to flap to get a bit more height. He was soon gliding effortlessly towards the town centre, keeing his eye out for the black binliner that would provide breakfast. Just as he was approaching the Town Hall Kenneth felt a rumbling in his lower intestine. Hmm, I don't think the spicy contents of those foil trays that I ate last night have agreed with me, he thought. With a small movement of the muscles at the rear end of his body he evacuated the problem. Ooh, that feels better, he thought. Once the offending remains had left Kenneth's body he didn't give them a second thought. This was unfortunate, because Kenneth, a thoughtful and rather philosophical seagull, would probably have appreciated the irony of what followed. A man on the ground had just parked his car, and hearing the Kenneth's squawk of relief, looked up. Splat!! The brown mess covered the man's glasses. If Kenneth had looked down at that moment he would have seen a rather angry man standing next to a small car in a parking bay where the word 'MAYOR' was just about visible on the wall.
Kenneth was shaken out of his reverie by the noise of the first few Providers who were starting to appear from their houses below, and he began thinking about some of the crazy theories he had heard about them. Craziest by far was the idea that the Providers were actually the dominant species on the planet. Kenneth didn't believe this for one simple reason: it was the fact that he often saw the Providers out picking up fresh dog's mess, and in his small seagull-sized brain he figured that before any species could really be classed as truly dominant it would have to stop going around picking up the warm excrement of other species and casually slipping it in their pocket. True, the Providers seemed to have invented quite a lot of useful stuff, but they were a weird disorganised bunch and Kenneth should know - he had spent plenty of time observing their antics. Why, only the other day he had watched many of them sitting in their little metal boxes on a the road in Eastphalia. They moved very slowly up towards the traffic lights, but the queue seemed to stretch all the way back to the beach - it was a very strange state of affairs, and Kenneth was very glad that he didn't have to sit about in a queue like that on a warm day. No, he was pretty certain that the species which had organised this was not running the planet. If any of the species down on the ground was running the planet Kenneth thought it was probably the cats. He had seen them lying around doing nothing all day, and they didn't even have to look for food - everything was laid on for them. Each of them seemed to have trained their own personal Provider to handle the catering arrangements, and any time a Provider went away for a few days a neighbouring Provider took care of their feeding duties. It seemed like a very efficient system, and Kenneth was quite jealous of the way these furry layabouts had organised everything exactly to suit them. Yes, the more he thought about it the more logical it seemed - the cats were in charge.
Another idea concerning the Providers was Darwinism. Kenneth had heard about it, of course; what seagull hadn't? This was the mad notion that they were some kind of distant relationship between the Providers and other species, but Kenneth was very sceptical. He just couldn't see the likeness. The only behaviour that was vaguely similar was the way the Providers regurgitated their food late at night around the harbourside, but they didn't do it when their young were around, so Kenneth couldn't see the benefit in that. Some of the more radical gulls said there were far too many Providers around, and that there should be some kind of cull, but Kenneth thought this was a bit drastic. He preferred the other option, which was to let the stupid ones eat too much and die off earlier. Some gulls said this was 'natural selection', and that it was connected to Darwinism, but whenever the discussion began to get more serious Kenneth found he was usually distracted by a bundle of chip papers or the remains of Sainsbury's lasagne, so he lost the thread of the argument and never really got to fully understand what was going on around him.
Oh well, thought Kenneth, as he started lazily running for take-off, I suppose some
day everything will become clear and I'll finally understand what's going on around here. He flapped his wings a few time to get airborne, and continued to flap to get a bit more height. He was soon gliding effortlessly towards the town centre, keeing his eye out for the black binliner that would provide breakfast. Just as he was approaching the Town Hall Kenneth felt a rumbling in his lower intestine. Hmm, I don't think the spicy contents of those foil trays that I ate last night have agreed with me, he thought. With a small movement of the muscles at the rear end of his body he evacuated the problem. Ooh, that feels better, he thought. Once the offending remains had left Kenneth's body he didn't give them a second thought. This was unfortunate, because Kenneth, a thoughtful and rather philosophical seagull, would probably have appreciated the irony of what followed. A man on the ground had just parked his car, and hearing the Kenneth's squawk of relief, looked up. Splat!! The brown mess covered the man's glasses. If Kenneth had looked down at that moment he would have seen a rather angry man standing next to a small car in a parking bay where the word 'MAYOR' was just about visible on the wall.
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